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The first time Zagreus died was the only time his father showed fear.
Zagreus was a restless and eager prince, rather short for his godly stature but filling into his muscular form. Today- or night, they could never tell the time in the Underworld- he was going to have a final spar with his mentor, Achilles. Achilles was a powerful, regal warrior when he was alive- just the same in his death.
The two stood in the courtyard of the House of Hades, neatly cleaned and decorated unlike the rest of the Underworld. The Infernal Arms stood silently, chained away. Their power thrummed quietly. Zagreus’ skin prickled. It felt as if they had a thousand eyes, judging silently. Determining whether or not Zagreus was worthy.
Zagreus dismissed that thought; weapons weren’t sentient. He focused on Achilles, lifting up his sword.
Achilles inclined his head in a respectful manner, brandishing his spear. His screwed green eyes studied his pupil’s form, seeking out weaknesses. The two stood by, ready. Waiting. Achilles took a step to the side, adjusting his stance. The air was thick with anticipation.
For their spar, Hypnos and Thanatos decided to watch. Sleep Incarnate was floating off the ground, his eyes half closed and surrounded by clouds. Death Incarnate’s eyes watched carefully, feeling uneasy.
Zagreus was stripped of his armor, opting to spar without. He was wearing his red and black chiton, white belt adorned with skulls that was wrapped around his waist. His spiky black hair was contained by his flaming laurel wreath. Zagreus’ eyes- one a brilliant emerald green, and the other of a ruby red- glittered with anticipation.
Achilles, however, felt off. Something in the air was stagnant, like today was going to mark something significant. Something that would change his young prince’s life— forever. Behind Thanatos stoic mask, a cold tendril of fear was wrapped around his heart, infiltrating his mind. Death incarnate could feel the Fates weaving a new thread, painting a tapestry that wouldn’t have a good outcome.
Someone was going to die very soon, and Thanatos didn’t know who.
Zagreus lifted his broadsword, unaware of Achilles’ or Thanatos’ worry. He grinned.
The spar began.
Achilles was a brilliant warrior, having years of experience beyond Zagreus. Zagreus was a god, quick footed and strong. He was always careful, never getting struck in their battles.
No one expected what would happen next.
Zagreus’ form slipped, his sword lowering and stance broken. He was distracted by something, what exactly was unknown. Perhaps it was the flutter of a butterfly in the background, the odd whisper of something of pure chaos, but it was enough. Achilles’ spearhead pierced straight into his chest.
Pain burned through his body, igniting like an infernal fire of the river Phlegethon, a primal feeling alike in both god and mortal. His grip on his sword weakened, slipping to the ground. There was a clatter. Achilles yanked it out. Blood red spurted from it, a stain against snow white skin. He felt heavy. The world was spinning, his head light. Why was his blood red? It was supposed to be…
His vision started to blur, the corners of his vision receding into black, creeping forward before whisking him away in a cold grip. The last thing he thought was, “Is there something wrong with me?”
When Achilles saw Zagreus’ blood, he froze. How could he, a mere shade, fell a god?
When Hypnos saw his friend’s body fall to the ground, crimson blood pooling under his body, the god of sleep froze, his breath catching in his throat and the sleepy god was suddenly aware of how the ichor coursing through his veins wasn’t the same as Zagreus’s.
When Thanatos saw Zagreus fall, Death’s solemn composure slipped. His gold eyes widened, a stunned gasp leaving his parted lips. Impossible! He couldn’t bleed red, like a mortal. Zagreus was a god… how was this possible?
After a moment, Hypnos said quietly, “I will get the Lord.”
Zagreus awoke, cradled by the red of the Styx. He drifted for the surface, his flaming feet hitting the marble stairs. He dragged himself out of the Pool of Styx. Crismon pooled from his hair, trailing down his back. He looked down at himself. There was no sign of his injury, skin unblemished over sculpted muscle. There was no pain, but he knew he died. Zagreus’ throat tightened. His eyes stung, what was wrong with him…? Was he cursed? He faintly recalled bleeding once, but… but father always told him that he bled gold, that his eyes just saw it wrong.
They lied, and now he was broken. He had to be broken. He was the son of Nyx and Hades, he should have ichor. Ichor like Hypnos, like Thanatos, like Megaera. Why was he different—? Did they lie?
Shades roaming the halls of the House of Hades stopped, their ghost-like forms wobbling with wide green eyes. Why was everyone so scared? Achilles had darted down the hallway, his eyes wide and terrified.
Zagreus bolted to his room, collapsing by the mirror from Nyx. He curled in on himself, wrapping his arms around his waist as hot tears fell down his face. He felt someone kneel beside him, gently taking him into their arms but he couldn’t breathe.
His chest was tightening, his eyes burning with tears and throat closed up as he sobbed. What was wrong with him? Why was he always the different one?