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Zagreus rushes into the Elysium arena expecting to hear the crowd's clamor ringing in the air, and a hushed silence greets him instead. Which is decidedly odd. And what's even odder: Theseus and Asterius aren't waiting in the center of the chamber, or indeed anywhere within sight.
The quiet sharpens around him, prickling his skin like the cold point of a blade. He summons Varatha, and prepares for trouble.
Of course, he thinks to himself, there might be a perfectly good reason for the Champion's apparent absence. He could just be taking a break from the arena—assuming the great Exalted of Elysium are allowed breaks from their eternal glory, which Zagreus isn't sure they do. But if they did, Theseus and Asterius may simply be enjoying a moment's rest in some private glade, or a relaxing bath in each other's company. They could be sharing a drink of Ambrosia, indulging in their so-called warriors' bond.
As the idea occurs, Zagreus shakes his head to dislodge it. In the back of his mind, he hears Aphrodite giggle as he yanks his train of thought out of her grasp. His face feels hot, but he forces himself to focus. The issue at hand here, he reminds himself, is that it's unlikely that the gate to the Temple of Styx is really as unguarded as it seems at the moment. That would make his job far too easy. And Achilles has taught him better than to presume a lucky turn when less favorable explanations are possible.
Your enemies would dare ambush us, my kin, whispers Ares inside his head. The suspicion belongs to Zagreus; the thrill in his blood does not. Let us show them the folly of that notion.
The stands are full to bursting, as always, and the tension in the air is so thick Asterius' axe could cut through it. Something is holding the shades' attention; the question is what. Zagreus walks further in, with careful steps and his weapon at the ready.
He's barely made it to the mosaic in the center when Theseus' strident tones resonate in the arena, startling him half out of his skin. He swears under his breath and slowly approaches the source of that offending sound, somewhere in the vicinity of the Good Shade.
"Again and again I shall make my request, just as often as I must!" One of the circular galleries in the arena blocks Zagreus' view, but he can picture Theseus' self-important pose from his voice alone. His ridiculously muscular shoulders squared up to make him appear taller than he is. Ugh. "You are returned to your rightful place in Elysium, where many are the tales of your mortal victories, yet still you refuse to fight to preserve that glory in the afterlife?!"
At once Zagreus realizes who Theseus must be talking to, and his heart soars. He throws aside all caution and dashes forward and around the gallery to confirm his suspicions. There, in the front row of the stands, he sees his two favorite souls in Elysium: Achilles and Patroclus, together side by side. They are gorgeous, as welcome a sight as ever.
Oh, dearest, how precious you are, Aphrodite croons in his ear.
"You've many who would be eager to challenge you here, Champion," Achilles is saying. He appears, at most, mildly inconvenienced; not in the least roused by Theseus' needling. Zagreus can't help grinning. "I feel no need to join their numbers."
In the arena below, Theseus reels from that response as if from a slap to the face. His back is turned to Zagreus, but when he looks to Asterius beside him for support, Zagreus gets a glimpse of the indignation on his features. Again he bellows up at the stands, his feet planted wide on the tile.
"Surely you jest! Have you truly lost your warrior's pride and taste for battle, O Great Achilles," Theseus asks, and pauses dramatically, "or are you so afraid to have the legends of your invincibility disproved before this gracious audience?"
A collective gasp ripples through the stands. Yet, judging from Achilles' expression, the taunt has missed its mark entirely. Before he can reply, Patroclus rests his forearms on the edge of the balcony and says, in a very handsome tone of barbed curiosity, "Disproved by who? Your friend over there? That axe of his does look rather imposing, it's true, but my Achilles is faster than—"
"Disproved by me!" Theseus cries petulantly. He slams the butt of his spear on the floor of the arena. "And I don't recall addressing you , for you barely had any warrior's pride to begin with!"
My, my, what a horrible thing to say, whispers Aphrodite in Zagreus' ear, and a protective fury stirs in him. I think we'll make him regret insulting one so dear to you, won't we, little godling?
His blood boils in assent. He's about to announce himself when Achilles replies, dangerously calm, "You are free to challenge me as often as you like, King of Athens... but do not presume to insult my companion here again, lest I decide to grant you the battle you seek."
Again the crowd inhales sharply, just as Patroclus scoffs. "Warrior's pride, indeed? Those are big words for a man who, if I recall, died from falling off a cliff."
Just like that, Zagreus' quickened temper subsides again, choked out by a surge of affection. Laughter spills out of him. He desperately wants to climb up to the stands and kiss Patroclus, once for that retort and then again just because he can. His heart stutters as Patroclus notices him in the arena, and smiles.
"Ah, look there, Achilles," he says, ignoring the Champion's indignant sputtering below. "It appears we're finally joined by someone worthy of our attention."
Achilles' gaze finds Zagreus, and his expression softens. "So we are, Pat," he agrees. "Good to see you, lad."
"Hello, sirs." Zagreus waves up at them. It's a greeting far less desirable than the kiss he was just imagining, but it will have to suffice for now. "Hope I didn't keep you waiting long."
Patroclus lets out a pointed sigh, not without humor. "Longer than I might have hoped, but I trust the spectacle shall make up for it shortly." Zagreus laughs, and he finds himself eager to exceed those expectations. The influence of his Olympian relatives stokes that excitement, and sharpens his senses.
Blood, war and love, united in singular purpose, says Ares in the back of his mind. What greater spectacle can there be?
Zagreus' heart pounds in his ears as he turns his attention to his opponents, who are now certainly aware of his presence. Anticipation makes his palms itch where they grip the shaft of his spear. He feels a thrill run through him, knowing he has Achilles and Patroclus' eyes on him and relishing the chance to impress them. He twirls Varatha, and then holds it at his side, hoping to cut a striking figure for his personal audience.
"Gentlemen." He nods at his opponents, as calmly as he can manage, though he can't wait to begin.
"Short one. You've arrived." Asterius nods back. The motion draws Zagreus' attention to his horns, rose-tipped and sharp enough to gore him if he isn't fast enough. He resolves to be, this time. "King, let us deal with our opponent. We can continue this conversation after the fight."
The Champion swivels to face Zagreus, and clucks his tongue with great affront. "Foul daemon, your timing is as atrocious as the rest of you! Asterius and I are speaking to the great Achilles, discussing with him important matters of honor and glory—of which you know nothing, worthless worm that you are."
Zagreus clenches his jaw. He wants to bask in the pleasant buzz of his partners' attention, but his anger is stirring once more. His mood is a flame fanned by the whims of his relatives, and Theseus' attitude makes it no easier to remain in control. "Right, then. No need to elaborate on those important matters on my account, Theseus. I think we're all quite tired of hearing you prattle on, the great Achilles included."
Theseus' boisterous laugh grates in Zagreus' ears like a blade dragged across a whetstone.
"How little you understand, hellspawn! Clearly, my brilliance is lost on the likes of you." He puffs out his chest and attempts to look at Zagreus down his nose—an unimpressive gesture, as they are of a height, but it conveys his condescension even so. "No matter! As Champions of Elysium, Asterius and I will prove our unmatched skill before this crowd, and especially before the hero Achilles, since he so graciously comes to witness my bouts time and time again!"
"He's here to see me, not you," Zagreus grits out.
From the stands, Achilles' soft voice says, "Don't let his words get to you, lad," just as Patroclus, rather less diplomatic, adds, "Well said, stranger."
Theseus looks from Zagreus to Achilles in the stands and back to Zagreus, as if expecting that rapport between them to be declared some sort of jest. When that doesn't happen, he cries, "Preposterous! Why would he come to see you?"
Aphrodite's sweetly barbed voice whispers in Zagreus' ear, and he is all too happy to yield to her influence. "My apologies, Theseus, I forgot to mention that part," he says, feeling a vindictive pleasure as he speaks. "You see, Achilles is my mentor. He taught me everything I know, and I'm about to use it all against you and make him proud."
"Your mentor?!"
"That's what I said," Zagreus confirms, unable to keep a smirk off his face. "Ask him yourself, if you'd like."
The Bull of Minos steps forward. Zagreus braces for an attack, thinking he's going to cut their argument short with a swing of his axe. Instead, he places a gigantic hand on Theseus' shoulder and says simply, "King."
The word rings like a gentle caution. Theseus looks up at him and briefly places a hand on his, which Zagreus would find sweet if not for the next words out of Theseus' mouth. "He lies, my dear Asterius! He lies! Just as he previously claimed to be born of Queen Persephone, once more he simply grasps at stolen significance! He is but a daemon of the lowest depths, unworthy of the connections he claims and certainly the pride of his betters!"
Which is just another one of Theseus' jabs, and Zagreus knows he shouldn't pay it any mind. But it hits a little too close to home. He winces, and sees Theseus' eyes narrow in turn.
"It's not all that hard to believe someone could be proud of me, is it?" Zagreus glances up at the stands, reminding himself of Achilles' advice. Don't let his words get to you. "Look, I don't care if you believe me or not. Get your spear and shut your mouth and let's get this over with."
He turns his back and starts walking to the center of the arena, but before he's taken more than a few steps, a wave of excited murmurs surges through the crowd. He assumes it to be anticipation of the coming fight, but then—
"Unfortunately for you, King Theseus, I've decided to grant your wish."
Achilles' voice carries effortlessly throughout the chamber. He speaks with the tone and pitch of a born leader, someone who does not need to yell in order to command respect. Zagreus whips around at the sound of it, incredulous. Up on the stands, Achilles is unclasping his cloak and handing it to Patroclus, who has an unpleasant smile on his lips and a hard set to his eyes.
"I must have justice for your insult to Lord Zagreus, Prince of the Underworld and my honorable ward." Achilles hefts his spear, and his posture is confident and grand, more reminiscent of his depiction in the wall scroll in Zagreus' room than the shade he knows. "I accept your challenge."
Theseus stares, slack-jawed. It's a reaction Zagreus can empathize with.
"Oh, now he's quiet," Patroclus says.
The world feels tilted at an odd angle. Zagreus chuckles weakly, mostly out of nervous disbelief. He isn't used to others avenging insults thrown his way, much less through single combat. Part of him whispers that he doesn't deserve such a public display; another, louder part of him wants nothing more than to see Achilles tear Theseus apart. To see his mentor's famous battle rage, long since smothered by his regrets, rekindled briefly for Zagreus' sake.
In the back of his mind he hears his relatives upon Olympus laugh, and wonders, dazed, if the Champion knows how utterly doomed he is.
If he does, he hides it well. He knocks on his own shield, a vain show of bravado. "Very well, then, let us fight! Come, we shall do battle here and now, before I deal with this blackguard."
"I'm afraid you shall have no such chance," Achilles replies. He speaks so self-assuredly that it feels as though the Fates themselves should yield to his will. The arena is silent, enraptured by this development.
Achilles whispers something to Patroclus beside him, and Patroclus nods. Then, rather than employ his sigil to travel down, he vaults swiftly over the side of the balcony to three-point land on the arena floor. Zagreus forgets to breathe. He feels sorry for Theseus, but it passes quickly.
"Ah, here you are! Good!" Theseus' voice wavers ever so slightly. He clears his throat and snaps at Zagreus, "Leave us, then, daemon, to await your turn elsewhere!"
Achilles does not even glance in the Champion's direction. He addresses Asterius instead. "Will you be participating in this bout as well, Bull of Minos?"
"No. The King has longed to face you alone."
"Then you step aside as well." His tone is pleasant enough, but brooks no argument.
Asterius touches Theseus' shoulder once more, and they share a look. Zagreus can't remember seeing joy on Asterius' face before, except glimpsed in the moments before his deaths by giant double-bladed axe. But he thinks he recognizes it now, as Asterius turns away to allow Theseus the fight he has yearned for.
From the stands, Patroclus calls, "You've really done it now, Theseus, you consummate fool." He sounds like he's enjoying the current situation. Zagreus feels like he might be as well, if only he could make himself believe it's really happening. "Achilles, my friend, don't kill him right away. The audience came to see a show... It would be terribly crass of you to end the fight with a single blow."
The crowd is abuzz in the wake of those words, but their excited murmurs fade to background noise when Achilles approaches Zagreus.
There is a fierce determination in Achilles' manner that Zagreus isn't used to seeing, and yet it fits him like a second skin. Like his first skin, perhaps; that of a mortal hero. Where his usual quiet dignity resembles a low-burning ember, this proud bearing is akin to a bonfire, a commanding aura that compels the attention of all. Zagreus is no exception to that; he never has been.
"Sir," he says, feeling that his mouth has gone dry, "did you want to take Varatha for this?"
Achilles reaches out, but rather than grasp the Eternal Spear, he places his hand on top of Zagreus' head and threads calloused fingers through his hair. A familiar gesture of affection in the unfamiliarity of his demeanor. A golden leaf sparks off of Zagreus' laurels and grazes Achilles' knuckles as he withdraws his touch.
"No, lad. I think my own weapon will be more than adequate for the task." Achilles gives him a cocksure smile that makes Zagreus' knees go a little weak, and he barely registers the following words. "I apologize for interfering with your work here. I'm afraid you'll need to wait until your next escape attempt to fight the Champion, as I shall be the one to dispatch him this time."
"That's not a problem at all, sir," Zagreus stammers, mesmerized.
Achilles chuckles, and at that beautiful sound Zagreus finds that he has to lean his weight on Varatha. His heart beats faster, by Aphrodite's grace.
"Good to hear," Achilles says, with a note of approval in his voice, and Zagreus suppresses a shiver. "Would you keep Pat company while I take care of this?"
"Of course. It'll be my pleasure."
Distantly, he thinks he can hear Patroclus snort, but Achilles holds his full attention, and he can't bring himself to look away. Though he knows he must step aside, he remains rooted to the spot, held by the desire to invent some silly excuse to lean up on tiptoes and kiss him. A kiss for luck, says Aphrodite in his mind, and Zagreus licks his lips, and steps closer.
Then Theseus, as usual, ruins everything.
"Enough, blackguard!" the Champion cries. "Cease your wanton behavior, and let us two great warriors attend to our bout!"
And just like that, that pleasant bubble of having Achilles' attention to himself is popped. Zagreus' temper flares under the Olympians' influence. He projects his voice just enough to ensure it carries throughout the arena when he tells Achilles, "Please crush him, sir."
In the cacophony of the crowd, Patroclus' huff of laughter stands out. Achilles smiles as well, and there's a sharp edge tucked into that familiar gesture. He makes his answer heard in turn. "It will be my pleasure, my Prince."
He bows from the waist, formal, the way he always does back at the House, and heads to the center of the arena, where Theseus stands ready.
Patroclus calls, "Come watch him with me, stranger."
Zagreus is happy to obey. He dashes to the edge of the arena, feeling his blood sing. The balcony is a little further up than he might easily jump, and he's considering the practicality of shifting up to the stands with a well-calculated throw of Varatha when a familiar set of heavy footsteps comes to a stop behind him. A large shadow falls over him.
"Short one," Asterius says, "do you require assistance?"
Zagreus turns around with his heart in his throat—inevitable, when he's so used to Asterius looming over him with a raised great-axe—and briefly forgets his words.
He has rarely seen the Bull of Minos so close without immediate peril to his life. Asterius is easily twice his height, even discounting the horns. Impossibly broad in the shoulders, with muscles that seem sculpted out of bronze, and arms as thick as Zagreus' torso. Of course, dearest, purrs Aphrodite in his mind, we've both seen how easily he swings that axe of his, hm?
Zagreus swallows, feeling color rise to his cheeks.
"If you don't mind, Asterius," Patroclus answers in his stead. "He's going to miss the start."
Little chance of it starting anytime soon, Zagreus thinks, for Theseus has just dived into one of his grandiloquent speeches before the crowd. Asterius looks expectantly down at him, and Zagreus isn't quite sure what he meant by assistance, but he stammers out, "Oh, well, if it's no trouble."
"It's not."
He barely has time to dismiss Varatha before Asterius' hands close around his waist, almost fully encircling it. They lift him up with ease, as if he weighed no more than a pomegranate. From the stands, Patroclus reaches for him, and helps him haul himself the rest of the way over the low wall of the gallery. It takes Zagreus a moment to compose himself, and he covers for it by straightening his chiton, but he doesn't miss the knowing, amused glint in Patroclus' eyes.
"Cheers," he says, at length, to Asterius. The Bull of Minos barely has to tilt his head up to look at him. Zagreus clears his throat and asks, politely, "Would you like to join us? There's plenty of room for everyone."
Asterius shakes his head. "No need. I can watch from here." He crosses his massive arms and leans back against the wall, and that is that.
In the center of the arena, Theseus finishes his speech and raises his shield. The audience holds its breath.
"Come, Prince," Patroclus murmurs, and places a hand on the small of Zagreus' waist. That touch grounds him, a refuge from the whirlwind of emotions he's going through. "Let's see how the Champion fares against our Achilles."
The fight begins, and Zagreus is immediately captivated.
Achilles in combat is an intimately familiar sight, burned into Zagreus' memory over the course of countless spars in the courtyard. He knows the rhythm of Achilles' blows, the grace of his footwork. And yet, this fight is unlike any other he's seen before. Zagreus quickly realizes that he has only ever seen Achilles fight as a teacher would; now, he is fighting as a warrior.
He is relentless, unforgiving of even the slightest mistake. When Theseus falls for a feint, there is no gentle admonishment (careful, there) such as Zagreus remembers from his lessons. Here, Achilles sees his chance, and strikes. The Champion's blood spurts across the floor in an arc and, before he can return the blow, Achilles steps away. He fights like he's dancing, stepping into Theseus' reach only long enough to attack and then flowing gracefully away from the riposte. Always in motion, for a moving target is hardest to hit.
Beautiful as a bared blade, Ares observes inside Zagreus' mind. A perfect instrument of death.
In Zagreus' eyes, there is more to him than that. Yet he's still filled with awe at that martial efficiency and the fierce beauty of his form. As Achilles brandishes his spear, the muscles of his arms shift with poised strength underneath his bronze skin. His curls catch the light of Elysium and form a golden halo around his head. Zagreus finds himself leaning forward to watch, gripping the edge of the gallery. The stone digs into his palms, but he hardly notices.
Beside him, Patroclus chuckles, and startles him from his thoughts.
"Alright, stranger? You seem liable to jump into the fray," Patroclus teases. His voice is pitched for Zagreus' ears only. "Trust me, the view is better from up here."
Zagreus' mind reels. He imagines himself and Achilles fighting back to back on some nameless mortal battlefield, or in the depths of Tartarus, dispatching his father's wretches in perfect coordination. They're ludicrous fantasies, and he's not even sure if they come from his own heart or from Ares' hold on him. But they make his blood quicken, and somehow they feel more plausible than this reality of Achilles fighting in the arena for him.
"You're thinking too hard about something, I can tell," Patroclus observes. "Out with it."
Zagreus forces himself to release his grip on the edge of the wall and lean into Patroclus' side. Patroclus' hand slides easily around his waist. It's comforting, in spite of Aphrodite's gifts which make Zagreus' skin tingle at the proximity.
"You're burning up," Patroclus says. It's true; Zagreus can feel the gods' gifts simmering inside him, trapped without an outlet.
He shakes his head, not wanting to worry his partner. "It's a little hard to be still right now, but I'll manage." Patroclus hums in a way that doesn't sound entirely convinced, but he doesn't press the issue, so Zagreus continues, answering his earlier question. "Truth be told, I'm still wrapping my head around this, sir. Achilles didn't have to fight for my sake. I'm used to Theseus spewing insults at me. He didn't need to step in and defend me like this."
Patroclus' fingers slip under the drape of Zagreus' chiton, and Zagreus sucks in a breath at that unexpected contact on his skin. Then, just as unexpectedly, Patroclus pinches him, and makes him yelp. A few nearby shades glance in their direction, but quickly return their gazes to the arena.
"Nonsense, stranger." Patroclus' tone is pleasant, in that way of his that seems to dare anyone to contradict him. "If that sort of talk is such a common occurrence, then that's all the more reason to defend you, is it not? Or would you not have done the same, in our place?"
He remembers the visceral anger that rose in him when Theseus insulted Patroclus earlier, and chuckles, forced to concede the point. "When you put it like that, I can't argue with you, sir."
"Then don't," Patroclus says. "The question is not whether Achilles needed to stand up for you. He wanted to do it. And, for that matter, so did I. The moments we're given to knock that blowhard around when you call upon us here are altogether too brief."
Zagreus grins, and forces himself to relax further against Patroclus. "Just as long as we're all enjoying ourselves here," he quips, a weak attempt at humor as the reality of the situation finally sinks in. It's a headying sensation, to feel so strongly how much they care for him. And it's amplified by Aphrodite's boons, which make him yearn to prove he feels the same.
In the arena, Achilles continues to dance around Theseus, and the sounds of their weapons clashing make Zagreus' heart beat faster. There's also the matter of Patroclus' hand, which hasn't withdrawn from underneath the folds of his chiton, and rests maddeningly at his waist. Zagreus' focus is split, drawn to both of his partners at once.
"I guess I did ask for a show, didn't I," Patroclus murmurs, chuckling. He speaks close to Zagreus' ear, and the low rumble of his voice sends a shiver down his spine. "Look now. Achilles is holding back... Do you see?"
Zagreus wrests his concentration back to the fight, and soon catches Patroclus' meaning. "Yes. He's goading Theseus."
There are minute gaps in Achilles' defenses that, were he any average warrior, may be an accidental consequence of his assault. Zagreus knows that, in Achilles' case, they are a tool to gauge the measure of his opponent. He presented Zagreus with such artificial vulnerabilities a myriad times in their training, as a means of teaching him to take advantage of enemy mistakes, but in front of Theseus each of those openings is a trap.
Still, the Champion has not been faring well so far, and even a fabricated opening must seem better than no opening at all. Theseus takes the bait more than once, in a bid to steal back the momentum—and now, rather than punish those mistakes, Achilles sidesteps his blows entirely, far more agile on his feet than the Champion can be while holding a shield. There's something playful about the way Achilles moves now. He's trying to frustrate Theseus, and succeeding.
"He looks like he's enjoying himself," Zagreus says.
"Oh, I imagine he is. We all enjoy doing what we're good at, and Achilles is very good at fighting."
"That's an understatement," Zagreus replies. Patroclus acknowledges that with a chuckle that he can't quite decipher, and a difficult question occurs to him, far too late to do any good. He asks it anyway, quietly, so that only Patroclus can hear it. "You said to me before that you don't think you'd have fallen in love with him if you'd met him during the war. Seeing him take up arms now... is it bringing back any bad memories for you?"
Patroclus doesn't answer at once. But after a moment he chuckles again, and his tone is pensive as he says, "You would think so, wouldn't you? But... it's strange. All of our life's sorrows feel so distant now... Perhaps I became numb to them, in contemplating them for so long."
Zagreus turns his head to look at him, and finds Patroclus watching him as well. The warmth in his expression is disarming. Zagreus feels his breath come a bit shorter, and sees Patroclus smile knowingly.
"Besides... I should think there is a marked difference between fighting in the vain pursuit of glory and fighting for those you care about," he adds. His words are gentle, but he must know the effect they have on Zagreus. "Would you not say so, love?"
"I suppose I would, at that," Zagreus manages, dazed.
Achilles' spear strikes Theseus' shield like the toll of a bell, and Zagreus' eyes are drawn to the arena once more. All around him, the audience cheers their Champion's parry, but though Theseus stands proud, it's clear to see that he's faltering. He's bleeding steadily from his wounds, some of them quite deep, and breathing hard with exertion.
If he were fighting Zagreus, he would be calling for the aid of Olympus. Zagreus expects divine smite to split the air at any moment and, from the renewed caution in Achilles' movements, he can tell that his mentor is of the same mind. But Theseus, desperate though he must be, does not cry out to the gods.
He continues to weather Achilles' assault on his own strength, and even though the outcome of the battle is all but settled, he holds his head high and fights with all the ferocity he can muster. For once, he barely acknowledges the roaring of his beloved crowd. That determination shakes Zagreus, and fleetingly he feels an emotion he's never experienced in relation to Theseus before, except in the brief few seconds before the Champion first spoke to him: something eerily akin to respect.
Achilles, too, seems taken aback by that grim focus. He circles Theseus, alert, as if seeing his enemy for the first time. Then he nods in silent acknowledgment, and redoubles his assault.
"He really was holding back," Zagreus says. Achilles is no longer toying with Theseus; now he descends upon the Champion in a blur of motion, quick and sharp and merciless. Zagreus catches a glimpse of his face through a whirlwind of golden curls, and sees that he is grinning. Having fun.
"That fool," Patroclus murmurs, disparaging and fond at once. "This is why I said he'd make a fine Champion. We spent so much of our lives on the battlefield... I think he misses the thrill of it sometimes, though he's too ashamed to admit it."
"He has nothing to be ashamed of," Zagreus protests, though he recognizes the insight of Patroclus' words. As he watches the fight, he thinks of Achilles' reluctance to speak of the war, the guilt in his voice saying I'm just an old killer. "Whatever he did in life... it's all been paid for in full. You've both suffered enough."
His heart stutters in his chest as Patroclus' arm around his waist tightens. He places a kiss on Zagreus' temple, and his beard prickles Zagreus' skin and makes his nerves feel alight with sensation. If he turned his head, he could bury his face in the crook of Patroclus' neck and breathe in his familiar scent, incense and ash and the fresh air of the surface. He could kiss his way down.
But Achilles is fighting for him in the arena, and he can't look away, can only tighten his grip on the edge of the gallery and remain as he is, held between that low wall and the enveloping warmth of Patroclus' body behind him.
Patroclus chuckles in his ear. "You sweet creature. Who wouldn't fight for you?" His voice is infinitely tender, and under Aphrodite's influence it reminds Zagreus of similar compliments whispered in more passionate moments. He shivers, and Patroclus' hand pats his side as if to soothe him. "I've no desire to relinquish our Achilles to this crowd, mind you... but maybe once in a while we ought to stop by and remind Theseus to watch his manners around our Prince."
A most exquisite reminder it would be, agrees Ares, but that bloodlust is dulled by Aphrodite's giggling in his ears, which echoes, our Prince, hmm?
"That sounds good to me, Patroclus, sir," Zagreus says, weak-kneed.
"Then, good." He nods toward the arena. Zagreus feels the motion as a whisper of Patroclus' locks tickling the curve of his ear. "But don't let me distract you, stranger. He's showing off for you, and it's nearly over now, I think."
As if on cue, anticipation ripples through the sea of featureless shades. They lean forward as one when Achilles sidesteps a desperate thrust, twisting away from the threat and turning the movement into his own assault. In the blink of an eye, his spear stabs the air and pierces the back of Theseus' knee, spraying blood on the tile.
The Champion muffles a grunt of pain that echoes throughout the chamber, and stumbles. The blade of Achilles' spear glints red in the light of Ixion, wet with Theseus' blood. Achilles draws the weapon back again and, when Theseus tries to raise his shield, he kicks it out of the way. The Champion looks up at him, but his expression is hidden from Zagreus' perspective. The arena holds its breath.
"Well fought," Achilles says, and runs him through.
Butterflies burst forth from the wound, a storm of fluttering wings that whip Achilles' hair back from his face. Theseus is vanquished.
In the back of Zagreus' mind, his relatives upon Olympus rejoice at the victory, and their invasive glee courses through him in turn. He shakes his head, trying to push them down. But all around him, in the stands, shock has given way to thunderous uproar. Achilles does not move, but every shade in the arena cheers for him, chanting his name. Achilles, Achilles, Achilles.
Achilles doesn't acknowledge the adoration of the crowd except to wince at their clamor. His eyes find Zagreus and Patroclus watching him, and he looks faintly embarrassed as he turns to them, covered in sweat and streaks of Theseus' blood.
"Well fought, my love," Patroclus calls to him. He doesn't raise his voice, and yet somehow it cuts through the din. Down in the arena, Achilles chuckles, and some unnamed tension bleeds out of his shoulders. He glances at Zagreus and bows, formal but not without humor.
Your champion prevails, Ares comments, but Zagreus isn't listening.
He turns and kisses Patroclus, not caring who sees, then plants a foot on the wall of the gallery. Seeing the momentary alarm on his partner's face, he hurries to say, "Don't worry, Patroclus. The courtyard window back home is higher," and vaults over to land on the arena floor. As always, the way back down is easier than up.
"Well, off you go then," Patroclus says.
Zagreus grins up at him and perfunctorily dusts himself off before turning to Achilles. The very image of a hero, he holds his spear at his side and looks far more graceful and imposing than Zagreus felt when he assumed the same stance earlier. His skin is glowing, whether from sweat or the glimmer of divinity within him struggling to seep back into his ethereal form. But the wry slant of his smile is familiar, a glimpse of the Achilles he knows.
Before Zagreus can speak, the Bull of Minos snorts and hefts his axe. "Short one. The Champion will return before long. If you wish to leave Elysium, you'll have to wait, and challenge us for the right."
Such a formidable battle is worth the wait, my kin, Ares says.
And Aphrodite, Why be the one to wait, dearest, when you could be the one waited on?
"You know, Asterius, I've changed my mind about escaping this time." He thinks back to his most recent jaunt through Elysium and recalls the Pool of Purging a few chambers back. He's not sure if the path will rearrange itself in the other direction, but he might as well find out. "But never fear, I'm sure you'll get a chance to skewer me before long."
"I have no duty to stop you from leaving the way you came." Asterius sounds distinctly regretful about it, but there's some grim humor in it when he snorts and adds, "I shall look forward to skewering you next time, then."
Achilles approaches and rests his hand on Zagreus' arm. "You made it this far already. It was not my intention to derail—" He stops talking as Zagreus launches himself into his arms. Achilles circles his waist with the hand that isn't occupied with his spear and chuckles, surprised but warm.
"I'll do it again, like I've done before." Zagreus tucks his head under Achilles' jaw and breathes in before pulling back to look in his eyes. "I wouldn't want to disappoint my mentor."
"I can't imagine that you could, lad."
He is still faintly glowing, unruly curls falling around his face, and his smile makes dimples at the corners of his mouth. Of his own accord, unprompted by Aphrodite's sweet voice in his ear, Zagreus wonders if he's allowed to kiss him here in the middle of the arena, and his musings are cut short by Achilles' mouth on his. His upper lip is damp with sweat, and his embrace is tight, as though afraid that Zagreus might slip away.
"Thank you for fighting for me." Zagreus smiles when they part, and forces himself to relax, one by one, his fingers that have dug into the grooves in Achilles' cuirass. "It felt... really good, that you stood up for me. Even if it was just Theseus' usual nonsense. And seeing you in action is always breathtaking, sir."
Achilles shakes his head as if to gently dislodge the praise. He reaches out to cup Zagreus' cheek and seems to struggle with words before settling on, "You know I'm proud of you, Zagreus. Never doubt that."
"I know," Zagreus replies, because he does. "Still... Thank you. I have to say, it was very satisfying to see Theseus being made to shut up for once."
He hears a rumbling laugh behind them and leads Achilles by the hand to the foot of the stands, where Patroclus looks down at them with fond amusement.
"A true Champion in all but name," Patroclus says. "What spoils will you be claiming, O Great Achilles?"
For a moment Zagreus is concerned, but he recognizes the note of mischief in Patroclus' voice. And Achilles flushes, and chuckles nervously in reply. Embarrassed, but not uncomfortable. Whatever pain may once have been tangled up in that suggestion, it's behind them now.
Before Achilles can string together a response, Zagreus interrupts. "This calls for celebration, I say. I need to make a detour to expunge my boons, but after that... We could spend some time together in Patroclus' glade, if you're amenable."
For once the voices in his head are in agreement. To the victor go the spoils.
"It would seem that the spoils have claimed us instead, my friend," comments Patroclus, and a shiver goes down Zagreus' spine that belongs entirely to him. The voices of his relatives drift away, their whims drowned out by the intensity of his own feelings, and the looks on his partners' faces when they turn to him.
"Soon enough," he promises, both to them and to himself. He glances at the doors to the Temple of Styx and then, together, they set off in the opposite direction. Back into the depths of the Underworld, toward the place where he can finally prove everything they mean to him, and have them welcome him in turn. Compared to that, the surface can wait.