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Gods do not grow as mortals do.
Granted, frequently they are not born in the way of mortals. But even those who are do not mature in the way of mortal newborns.
Physically, a mortal cannot be prevented from changing. The inexorable gravity of time draws their body from one stage of life to the next, and their thoughts, desires, and very understanding of themself as living beings follow in step.
It would be wrong to say that gods are entirely dissimilar. But where a mortal’s internal life can only have so much sway over their outward appearance, to a god they are nigh one and the same.
Each room in the House of Hades possesses its own unique sort of silence.
In larger spaces like the Main Hall, it is brighter—decorated with the subdued chatter of shades and the burbling of the Styx. In the small, dim classroom where Zagreus takes his lessons, these sounds are shut out. The air is so still and close that he fancies he can hear the hissing of the candles burning. Even Father’s voice can’t block it out—and indeed seems to make it all the more unbearable. Each “mind the posture of your jaw,” and “what have I told you about that lisp?” stokes the frantic urge to run—run away, and never stop.
But Zagreus cannot run, and he cannot express the feeling in any way Father will accept. So he kicks his heels together to make sparks and counts down the seconds.
Father is glaring at him.
Guilty, Zagreus stills his feet. Father does not continue the lesson. Perhaps Zagreus’ chiton is on backwards again? He checks. It isn’t. He looks back up, stomach squirming, waiting to hear what exactly he’s done wrong.
“When are you going to grow into that desk, boy?”
It’s true that the desk is too large for him; an extra cushion is required to put him at the correct height. But it’s always hard to guess what answer Father is looking for, particularly when Zagreus can’t guess what path he took to reach the question. Harder still without the use of the word why, which Father has long since forbidden him to use.
“I don’t know, Father.”
It was a gamble; “I don’t know” is not always a permissible response, either. And, yes, Father’s brow furrows at the words.
It’s a look far worse than anger, whatever it is. Concern? Worry, even? Whether it has a name or not, its message is clear: there is something about Zagreus that even the almighty Hades cannot understand. Something unmanageable. Something different.
Something wrong.
“As below, so above,” Father rumbles. “Until you feel grown, you will not grow. My siblings and I matured more swiftly, even in the miserable darkness of our father’s gut. I want to see you sitting here without any props before the turn of the century.”
Often, gods remember more than mortals do.
There was a time in the past when Father held him. Zagreus is almost entirely certain of this. Back when he was little more than a helpless concept, a wild little divine body without a thinking mind. When all he knew was complete, unbounded connection, and without agency of his own, those huge, gray hands meant safety and sustenance. He’d grown more rapidly then.
Then, quite abruptly to his memory, two things happened.
First, he was held less, and left to his own devices more. This was a delight in some ways—he relished the freedom of his reckless, floor-scorching toddling. He had escaped the helplessness of non-being, and the complete control of his father’s arms.
But it was frightening, too. There were the reprimands—issuances of don’t do this and be more that and remember you are a prince, each time as if to remind Zagreus of some previously-discussed rule. Had those rules ever been conveyed to him? If they had, he could not remember. He was still learning to speak.
But even this paled in comparison to the second thing—something subtle yet infinitely more discouraging.
In his wanderings through the Main Hall—perhaps because some rowdy shade would disquiet him, perhaps simply by some visceral instinct—he would look back to his father, turning to see whether he was following those mysterious rules of conduct properly.
And the answering look would be one of concern, at best. Suspicion, at worst.
How untethered he’d felt in those moments, without knowing why. So little Zagreus would dash back into the shelter of his Lord Father’s desk. At times he was even permitted to climb onto his father’s lap and watch his quill-hand scratch briskly away as his abyssal-earthquake voice issued instructions to the queue of shades.
There was a semblance of perfect connection in those moments—though it was tempered now by a sort of resentment, a fear of being consumed and utterly controlled again. And yet it seemed better than the mistrust that followed his wanderings. But it would not be long before he was no longer permitted onto his Lord Father’s lap.
It was time, Hades said, for him to learn his role as Prince.
And it was at that time that Zagreus’ growth slowed to an unbearable crawl.
On the worst days or nights, he does his best to remember that Nyx, at least, has some pride to spare for him.
But she is distant, too—absorbed in her ineffable cosmic work, and the maintenance of the structure of the Underworld itself. So he treasures each glimpse of admiration in her star-pale eyes as if it were precious nectar, desiring so much more of it while knowing deep in his bones that even craving this much is sheer, gauche gluttony.
He has learned that he bleeds as mortals do. Perhaps he also shares some of their foolish, ungodly needs.
The thought fills himself with a fierce longing and then a desperate, shapeless fear.
“Gods may raise themselves,” says Father. “A god may be raised by sprites, satyrs, lions, or wolves. I grew to maturity in my own—”
“—in your own father’s stomach,” Zagreus finishes for him, still perched on his stack of cushions. It’s been two centuries. If anything, he feels he’s gotten smaller—while that awful urge to run is exponentially heightened. “And it was painful, and you hated it, but he chucked you all up full-grown and ready to commit patricide. I know.”
“If you know,” Father grinds out, “then you will understand my frustration with your apathy of divine spirit. I have done my best not to coddle you, and to instill in you a bearing appropriate to your station. I have done more for you than many mortal kings do for their sons. And yet you look at me with such belligerence, as if your failings fell entirely on my shoulders.”
The words send a hot, sickly prickle through Zagreus’ gut, and up into his throat. It comes out of his mouth as, “You think that’s belligerence?”
And then he kicks the desk over.
He isn’t proud of what follows; he never is, when his anger gets the better of him. Father never loses his temper, after all. Father’s control over his anger is perfect and unwavering. It’s no wonder that after such outbursts (leaving desks broken, scrolls torn, and floors scorched) he looks down at Zagreus with that same horrible distrust, that same lack of recognition.
Zagreus thinks sometimes that he is one of the underworld’s monsters. Perhaps he was born of Echidna; a monster wrapped in a divine disguise. Perhaps he is Typhon reborn, and one day his teeth will grow long and sharp and his body will twist into a great, monstrous thing and his rage will destroy the world of gods and mortals.
He certainly feels as though it could.
And yet there is one good thing to come of his outbursts.
Two good things, perhaps—his body begins maturing again.
The frantic chant of grow up already, grow up, grow up, echoes through his bones, stretching them long and raw, making body ache and sweat and his voice crack like a snapping lyre string. It is not pleasant, but it is growth, at last.
But more importantly, Father begins teaching him to fight. And Zagreus, miraculously, is good at it. His body grows still stronger from it—or for it, perhaps, though the distinction matters very little. At last, Zagreus looks the part of the prince. Like young royalty grown.
“Until you feel grown, you will not grow,” Father said. And so this must be what feeling grown is like.
For just a little while it creates—or it makes possible—another kind of bond between them. Something external that ties them together again, even if Zagreus’ feelings are too monstrous and alien for Father to connect to.
Even now, his gaze is never exactly admiring. But sometimes he will say, good, and sometimes he will have Zagreus spar with one of the House’s security shades, and it feels almost like being shown off. It eases something within him to know his incompetence is not total, does not infest every part of him. So Zagreus, who is still burning with that pitiful, mortal hunger, races to improve as if his life depended on it.
Then Father decides he hasn’t time for it anymore, and hires a teacher.
The cold edge of a blade is against Zagreus’ throat. Achilles holds it there for a moment, as graceful in stillness as he was in action, then settles back to plant the butt of his spear on the courtyard flagstones.
It’s their first lesson. Achilles had said, we’ll spar first, best of five, and then completely wiped the floor with Zagreus. But really, it’s an honor just to lose to such a legendary warrior. And Zagreus is determined to impress—either by a display of skill or by his meek, assiduous response to critique. He has the best possible teacher, so he will be the best possible student.
The first thing Achilles says is, “It’s alright to relax, you know.”
“Oh,” says Zagreus, who hadn’t realized he wasn’t. “Alright. Sorry, sir.”
“You needn’t apologize.” And then, again, “Relax.”
“I am,” Zagreus insists, then winces at his own sharpness. “I'm s— I mean...forget that. I didn’t mean to talk back.”
“You weren’t. Trust me on that, lad.”
His smile doesn’t reach his sad blue eyes, but his voice is steady and warm, and he has been nothing but kind since they met.
There is no reason for the words to send a spike of rage and pain through Zagreus’ chest.
And yet, his eyes prickle. His throat closes. He wants to drive his own spear through the shade’s gut and hide in his chambers like a petulant child. There is some essential yet delicate structure inside him, the foundation of which shook under the force of those mild, unthinking words.
“Right,” he manages, swallowing the ache after a few tries. “Back to practice, then, sir?”
At last, Achilles’ eyes focus on him through the mist of sadness always hanging over them. He steps back and offers a perfunctory bow.
“Back to practice.”
More cracks appear in that foundation, over the years. A thousand little things—Achilles’ encouragement, Nyx’s gentleness, Hypnos’ oblivious cheer... But perhaps most painful of all, he recalls a brief exchange with Meg, near the end of their ill-fated first attempt at a relationship.
“Well, Zag?” she said, lounging against the frame of his chamber door, magnificently languid. “What do you want to do?”
“Anything you want.” His heart was hammering so hard in his throat he was surprised his voice didn’t shake in time with it.
She paused, then said, “What don’t you want to do?
And wanting to please, he replied, “That doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t work like that, Zag.”
And he felt the urge to run and the urge to drive a spear through her heart, both at once, and he knew that foundation was crumbling faster still.
Even so, he shores it up as long as he can, because there might be nothing underneath it. And because without it—
(The agony of being caught between his longing to run from Father’s all-consuming control and the terror of separating from him, of defying those great, strong hands that once kept Zagreus safe. The misery of working in the Administrative chamber, under those watchful, doubting red eyes. The ceaseless judgments, the impossible expectations. The endless fine-tuning, trying to fix every detail of Zagreus to his liking. The absence of pride and admiration. The distant contempt for outward displays of emotion.
The fight.
The letter from Mother.)
—Father won’t love him anymore.
Everything inside him came crashing down, that day or night. All at once he’s a reckless toddler again, dashing off into the unknown—except that this time, he doesn’t have to look back to know Father doesn’t approve.
Part of him is savagely pleased about that. Part of him wants to beg for forgiveness; to be the thoughtless, helpless version of himself that was acceptable, the version his father wanted to hold. He doesn’t want to see what strange thing he might become on the other side of this. He doesn’t want everything to change.
But he knows with absolute, cold certainty that things could not stay as they were, either.
This, he’d thought, must be what it is to feel grown. He has gone so far from the House. He’s seen so much, and defeated foes he’d thought were invincible. He’s risen to the forbidden surface. It is real, undeniable progress.
And then he set foot in the snow outside the Temple of Styx and saw Father waiting for him, and nothing had changed at all.
He conceals the fear well, he thinks. He hopes. He tries to ignore it as he readies his sword and a joyless grin for the battle to come. But part of him is screaming all the while that he is— stupid, useless, wrong—show some decorum, boy, manage your temper—idiot boy— he is destroying everything. He is the monster tearing the world to pieces with yet another tantrum. He is unbearable.
He ran and ran and ran, and thought it had taken him away. But all of this he did while within Father’s domain, with Father looking down on him.
There is no escape, whether in mind or body. There is no escape.
Gigaros opens his belly, severs his spine, and he collapses into the snow—so cold it stings his face like a slap.
“Think of me what you will,” says Father, barely audible through the ringing in his ears. “These are merely the measures you drive me to in your ignorance. I do this for the safety of the realm. Your own safety. If you fear me somewhat, so much the better.”
Zagreus’ vision blurs, and the Styx rises up around him, and its waters feel warm after the chill of the surface. Its arms wrap around him and he is held.
He is nothing, and helpless, and gods help him he wants to stay here forever—not just infantile but unborn. Swallowed by blood, listening to the heartbeat of the earth, blissfully nonexistent.
He cannot do this. He is not strong enough to stand alone.
Unmake me, he begs the Styx. Don’t let me go. I don’t want to go.
And then he surfaces from the Pool, and the air is cool on his damp face, and there is a soft, excited woof at the end of the hall. So he bears the pain of standing to scratch Cerberus under the chin.
“Am I wrong?”
He is staring down at the Styx again—the mesmerizing eddies and coils of its scarlet current. It is no solution, but still it beguiles.
Than’s shoulder is a cool, reassuring pressure on his. “Wrong about what, Zag?”
“Leaving. Trying to find Mother.” Zagreus swallows hard, closing his eyes for a moment. “If it made sense—if it were the right thing to do—wouldn’t he understand? Wouldn’t he be reasonable about it? He’s thousands of years old…he's seen and done so much. He must know more than I do. I mean, he was never exactly nice, but he always kept his temper. He always made sense, before.”
Than’s brow creases in apparent confusion. "Zag. I respect Lord Hades’ work, and I am not...well-equipped to speak on matters of personal relations. But the impression I've received over the years is that he spent every possible minute berating you.”
“Yes, but—for good reason,” says Zagreus, smiling weakly.
“No,” says Than, flatly. “Not for good reason."
“Is there anything you don’t want?” says Meg. And this time, he has answers for her.
Doing the impossible, it seems, is as simple as that.
Sometimes he imagines that if Father would just follow him through each realm, watch each grueling battle, see how very badly he wants this…then he would understand. He would really see Zagreus. Some simple thing he'd missed before would be proved to him, and all would be healed.
But, no. He is as immovable as ever. He waits exactly where he is, until Zagreus has clawed his way, scorched and bruised and bloody, to the surface.
And then stops him cold, without question.
“Hello, Zagreus. Take this boon, or don’t, whichever. I was wondering, though, have you tried transforming into a bear? I think even Uncle Hades would have trouble fighting off a bear.”
The message came with a boon from Artemis somewhere back in Tartarus, and it's been bothering him ever since. His chance to respond comes in Asphodel—after slamming his last bloodstone roughly into the face of that awful giant gorgon head, which blessedly explodes into ruddy smoke.
Gone. For now.
An orb of dazzling green light flashes into existence ahead of him, and he limps towards it. Clasping his hands around a warm bottle of nectar, he prays.
“Lady Artemis! Hello! First off, thank you again for everything. Er, so, about the bear thing—is that how you say it? Bear? Some sort of animal, I assume. Anyway, Father prohibits shape-changing down here, says it’s ‘frivolous and deceitful’. So he never taught me, which means I have no idea how to go about it. I wanted to ask—when you transform back into yourself after being a…bear, or what-have-you…how do you know you’re still really you?”
He pauses. Something more seems to be in order, after such a lengthy message.
“Er. Thanks in advance. Hope you’re well. Zagreus.”
The nectar rises from his hands, and is swallowed by a flash of divine light.
Her reply comes a minute later—a shining phantom presence alighting on the raft next to him as he crosses another stretch of the Phlegethon. She brings with her smells he can now name—wet earth, snow, fir trees. Her glossy, animal-dark eyes stare disconcertingly over his left shoulder, reminding him that she is not (cannot be) here, exactly.
“Zagreus,” she says, with her usual bluntness. “Thanks for the nectar. Have to stay sharp for the hunt, of course, but it really sets a good mood for our moonlit revels. Now, about your question. Everything I transform into lives inside me already, so, no offense but I don’t really understand being afraid of it. Unless you’re afraid of yourself, I suppose? Though actually, if my father were Uncle Hades and he forbade me from doing it, I’d probably also be—”
Zagreus cuts the message short, shifting his train of thought to break the connection. Disconcerted.
Perhaps he can’t change shape intentionally at all. He bleeds like a mortal. Perhaps his powers are limited, like a mortal’s. Perhaps he is less of a god than even his father imagines.
Perhaps he is nothing his father imagines.
Perhaps that’s alright.
“I know what it is to be trapped somewhere in time,” says Achilles. He swigs the last of his nectar and gazes morosely at the Head Chef, dicing an onion behind the counter. “Inside oneself, I mean. It…dams up some essential flow. Impairs the judgment. Keeps one from learning. That’s the sort of state I was in when I met, though I daresay I’ve improved since.”
“What happened?” says Zagreus, to whom this sounds all too familiar. “What…helped?”
Achilles gives him a pointed sidelong look.
He understands it all a little better, now.
His body is a shell, formed around something small and tender and terrified. Something that has lived so long in the wilderness between stay close to me and not too close that it no longer knows how to hold or be held.
It does not reflect inward growth, only a desire to be grown.
Father’s blood is still drying on his arms. It is the third time Zagreus has killed him; each time it gets easier, and each time the sadness and fear of separation become fainter. He is not the all-powerful, all-knowing, always-right figure that has stood over Zagreus for so long. He is, at risk of blaspheming, just a man. He did the job of fathering quite poorly, but now it is done. Perhaps one day or night Zagreus will re-hire him for the position, but until such time, the probationary period continues.
And for now, the sun dapples his shoulders in dancing gold, too-bright and too-hot but perfectly beautiful. For now, he is alive.
He is helping Mother with her gardening.
“Not quite so much,” she says, nudging his arm as he spills water over a fragrant patch of plants whose names he cannot recall. “There’s such a thing as too much, as well as too little.”
“Oh.” His mouth starts to form the word sorry. He swallows it. “Right. Thank you, Mother. Erm. Will they be alright?
“Of course.” She grins, sunlight gleaming on the pale gold of her flyaway hairs and the sweat beaded on her nose. “Some plants are hardier and some more delicate, but most will forgive you for a little overwatering or underwatering. If you correct quickly, anyway.”
“That’s awfully generous of them,” says Zagreus politely, and she laughs, sitting back on her haunches with her soil-smudged arms propped on her knees.
“It is, isn’t it? You’d think it would be overwhelming to keep track of what each of them needs, but it’s not as hard as all that. They’ll tell you, if you’re willing to listen.”
Something hot and sharp wells up in his gut, and to his surprise he feels able to let it rise. “Listen to them?” he manages. “Plants can speak?”
“Everything does,” she says. “And anyone can hear it, I think. If they want. It’s simply a matter of being ready to accept what you hear.”
The breeze blows. Birds sing.
“Zagreus?” she says. And then, “Oh, dear…what have I said? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“I’m alright,” he manages. “I only—would you—?”
She holds him when he leans in.
She lets him go when he moves away.
And she looks at him with love and pride.