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[getthehellouttahell]

"Well, let's see. In the name of Hades, I accept this message!"
. . .
"Ugh, no, that was too formal."
. . .
"This is Zagreus, Prince of the Underworld. Sorry you missed me.
If I return to this hell hole, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can."

{ Calls ◊ Texts ◊ Logs }

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a towel and helping hand for thee~

[getthehellouttahell]

[Be it a trick of his imagination or some inherent mysticism of the artifact before him, Zagreus finds himself feeling as if he’s no longer looking into a mirror, but rather through a window. Hand touching the surface, the cool of the “glass” beneath his fingertips, and yet drifting through an endless sea of emptiness in the small chamber he calls his room. “Small” in his instance being a rather luxurious space—if still messy. But even this size feels of nothing as the young prince gazes into the eternal thrall of black and violets, speckled through with the glitter of countless diamond lights. Enough to make him feel smaller than he does so many other times. It’s no wonder the mirror shows him naught but this space within instead of his reflection. Had his reflection existed, he probably would be lost inside the realm behind the mirror. A fate Zagreus wishes on no one, much less his own reflection.

Lonesome as he is, what other sorts of burdens would he dare load upon the “him” within the mirror? It’s somber enough he sometimes feels apologetic towards the face looking back at him from wherever he finds it. The bloody surface of the Styx, the glass gems in the hall, even in the shiny surface of Cerberus’ green eyes. He alone sees everything Zagreus himself struggles with. He’s heard the abusive tirades thrown at him by his own dismissive father, the shades discussing the failures of their young prince in doubtful tones as to his effectiveness, the mistakes made each time he attempts to escape that send him pitching to his bloody death one after another, the comforting but unpromising comforts his mentor gives him in regards to those nagging questions about his own “domain” and identity within this world. Shameful as it may be, he’d be lying if he said he’s never once looked at his own reflection and asked of him if he’d rather have been born someone else.

And yet, here he stands, drawing comfort from the very same “him” who remains invisible within the night. Unable to forget those echoing words issued from the lips white as ash and firm as marble around him. While he would be hard-pressed to ever admit that Chaos was a deity who gives him… comfort in the sense, there’s something about them that manages to worm its way under his skin and free him from that which he’s yet to identify. There are no airs he needs put on in front of the source of everything, no lips need be withheld from someone so removed from the tangled web he comes from, though he’s not foolish enough to treat the primordial with anything but respect and a healthy dose of curiosity. Look inside yourself; there is strength within you, Son of Hades, which can be found nowhere else within the realm of existence. Those words remain with him in the haunting echo of their voice, mingling with the faint memory of that dreamscape unknown moment when conversation with his own flesh and blood—literally—had empowered him to move forward.

No. There’s no time to be standing here feeling sorry for himself or wondering what his own reflection thinks of the “him” within the opposite side of the mirror. Every death he dies, every failure he falls to, they cannot stop him. They will not. If there’s strength inside himself where no one else by his own resides, then he’ll rely on that to get through. Whether alone or with every Olympian god at his side, the only course is to move forward. To reach the end of this infernal Underworld, grasp the gates in his own two hands, and fling them wide open. You will not keep me here. No matter how hard it is. He may be his father’s failure, but he will not be the source of his own.]

Let’s go—

[As a stone thrown into the water makes ripples, so the mirror in front of him bubbles in radiating circles. There’s no time to think, no time to react beyond a step backwards. A shadow, a shape, a figure? Whatever it is, comes through the mirror with all the ease Zagreus himself vanishes into Chaos’ realm. Feels like the hinges of his mouth fail because he finds himself with his jaw hanging half open beneath a pair of staring, mismatched eyes. Why not? Someone just fell out of his mirror. The shock wears off quick enough, and his gaze picks out colors one after another. From the familiar cluster of mess black spikes to the burning wreath of glowing laurel leaves to the black and red chiton fastened with an unmistakable three-skulled pauldron. No way… This is a trick, right?

Until that upward motion of his head reveals the same pair of eyes looking up at him. No trick. Zagreus finds himself gazing into the same black/red white/green that he’s seen so many times before. Flashed into being in two spans of a heartbeat. Just in time for his brain to manage to climb back into his head as his ears take in that casual greeting as if this were nothing out of the ordinary. Why should it be? At the very least, his counterpart is spared any indecencies as Zagreus has luckily not gone through his latest run devoid of those crimson leggings.]

Heh. [Surprise melts into a casual smile and the prince reaches down to offer his hand to himself, bracing one burning foot behind him and bending a knee to help the inevitable rise.] Hello, me. Not quite as graceful as we normally land, but ten points for effort.

[If this is a dream… he’s going to enjoy it for as long as possible.]