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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From:

getthehellouttahell

[Darkness once more. Enveloping him within the heat of the Styx’s blood. Ironically, for all his prowess and battles with every attempted escape from his Father’s wretched realm, the plunge back into the river’s crimson embrace was the only brief respite where there was simply… nothing. No pain. No doubts. No pride. No questions. No attitude. No mockery. No noise. No struggles. No suffering. For those few moments—he never knew if it was for seconds or minutes—everything ceased. One final thought drifting in his mind. Darkness guide you, my child. Darkness and blood. Nyx…

Blood boils and a moment later, the young prince bursts from surface of the Styx’s pool, rising in the same sloggy manner as he has so many times before. He feels the river’s sticky hold drooling off his body, like a film oozing from his skin and clothes, leaving him once more whole and complete. Amazing how much easier it is to breathe without a massive battle axe embedded within his sternum. Zagreus stalks forward, wading up the steps of the pool. He’s done this so many times, he’s completely ceased to bother shaking the river’s clinging fluids off himself. It drains nicely enough.

And hell if it gets all over the floors of his father’s House. Perhaps he should’ve thought of that before he decided to include a pool connecting to Styx to his own home. Foresight or morbid curiosity. Who knew? It’s not like he’s ever sat down to have a casual chat with the god who spawned him. At least not a chat to any informative degree that doesn’t end in mockery or bitter dismissal. It’s always been that way. He’s forgotten by now if his father even remembers his own child’s name. So often grumbling that ”boy” at him. Is he really so despised? Hmph, he knows the answer to that question. If it weren’t for the others in the House, Zagreus might have forgotten his own name by now too. Honestly, sometimes—more than sometimes—he wonders why his father had him at all.]

Damn that bull-headed monster. [That’s enough dwelling on that. Grousing at the temperamental brute behind the desk won’t get him further. He has to return, recuperate, prepare, and go again. Thankfully, Hypnos and Achilles were in a conversation together. Though he would’ve liked to speak with his mentor, Zagreus is in little mood to answer Hypnos’ incessant prodding for Asterius’ autograph without a short “No” and moving on. He shouldn’t be short with the God of Sleep. It’s not his fault, and he’ll forever be indebted to the soporific god for enabling all this to happen.

Zagreus sidles to the side of the room to give Cerberus some much-wanted (or a third-wanted) attention, petting the massive red hound’s snout and moving towards his neck while he listens to the conversation behind him. Nyx and Hades are fighting again, in their cold, stoic manner where one indirectly insults the other with threats and has the checks and balances returned. Nyx and Father are at it once more. Did his own mother clash with his Father like that? Another question stockpiled for the future. Megara isn’t in the lounge… and Dusa is her normal self, attempting to cheer him up in her flustered, supportive way before absconding to the rafters once more. Thanatos… well, he’s always a toss of the coin for presence, isn’t he?

With no one left, he turns for his room, the strange and ironic pang twisting in his chest. Despite the sheer number of people and shades filling the grand House around him, how is it that he can feel this alone? A silent curse to his father for the lack of doors to his own bedroom (of course Father gets to keep his chambers under lock, door, and key) as he passes through the violet glow into the solitude of his own chambers. He’d love to have the ability to slam his doors in their faces for once. Probably why Father had them taken off, Or to keep a better eye on me… or simply annoy me. A welcome sight, the mess and clutter. His own little place where he feels like he has an ounce of control and moment’s peace amid the discord of his family life and his unstoppable attempts at “rampaging” through Tartarus. He can keep his room as messy or decorated as he likes! The stone tiles and lush rug beneath the prince’s bare flame-licked feet are a welcome familiarity as he takes a few moments to simply stand in his abode.]

Back to it. [The empty greeting only reinvigorates his desires to leave and Zagreus approaches the wall-consuming Mirror in his chambers. The eternal gift from Nyx, his once-mother. The glass amid the golden frame and darkness-jeweled encrustments as always reflects the sparkling of starlight deep within its midnight depths. Powerful and mysterious, but at the moment, as void as Chaos’ realm itself.] For just once, you could work as a proper mirror. Then I at least might have someone to talk to.

[Being glib at the artifact won’t assist much, but it’s a small vent. He’s silently reminded of a conversation he once had. Whether within a dream, unconsciousness, dying moments, or what, he doesn’t know. But he was there. His own self. Real enough to speak to. The memory of that moment has never left him and it brings a small smile to his face regardless. Zagreus had given him a lot in that brief time. Support, encouragement, humor, embarrassment, entertainment, curiosity, a rush of levity he’d not felt in a long time. More than once he’d thought of him, of whether his own self could somehow be real. But alas, such thoughts were for moments like these. Enough to rouse him once more.] You haven’t given up, have you, Zag. You’re still there, going forward with all you’ve got. And if you can do it… then so can I. Go for it, mate. You can do this.

[Reaffirming himself. Zagreus reaches out and presses his hand to the surface of the Mirror of Darkness. For all he knew, the artifact contained the void of Chaos himself within the night-filled glass. But whatever it was inside, it had never failed to help him. Time to reflect again. And make another break for his freedom.]

From:

deathdefiance

[ this was just one of those hellish days (or nights) when everything goes wrong. wake up, wash his face, check and ready himself in the mirror, run out to tartarus, get slaughtered handily by meg. revive and run through the gauntlet again, scrape through the fight with tisiphone by the skin of his teeth, make it to asphodel and accidentally fall into magma and burn before he could clamber back onto shore. now that was embarrassing. why couldn't he have been born truly fireproof rather than resistant? after clawing his way back to asphodel and bumping into thanatos, who was truly on top of his scythe game, he'd struggled so badly he couldn't even win the centaur's heart, which he really needed because practically the very minute he'd stepped into the hydra's lair it'd burst out of the lava and nearly snapped him in half--

he was having an especially godawful time in hell today. when didn't he? but today was particularly ruthless. he almost isn't even looking forward to elysium. knowing his luck, he might just be speared a dozen times by theseus before he gets back on the ball enough to defeat him, and then he'd have to contend with the satyrs and then his father...

'you seem to be in a particularly sour mood, son of hades,' chaos' voice echoes in his head. he'd popped into the paradox space on his n-th run before heading into asphodel proper. something about talking with chaos is always equal parts comforting--he never has to put up any pretense with the primordial god--and unnerving of course, because he's certain he can't put anything over chaos if he tried.

'what's troubling you? speak.'

what is troubling him? he runs a hand through his hair with an exhaled sigh. ] Trust me, you don't even want to hear about my day. Though it's kind of you to ask. [ their conversations are a little rare when chaos prefers him to be quiet, so he treasures this when he can.

'oh?'

the expectant and patient pause, he thinks, is almost a boon in itself when he rarely has a chance to actually speak his thoughts to someone who was genuinely offering to listen. life in hell is busy that way, funnily enough. sure he can trade quips with meg, talk embarrassing deaths with hypnos, snatch the rare conversations he can with thanatos before he has to disappear to pick up souls, but... well, it's always 'what's zagreus doing' and 'where's zagreus off to now' and never quite 'how's zagreus doing'-- ]

I'm not gonna talk your ears off about how awful my day was just now. But hey, I appreciate the thought, I really do. [ and then a huffed breath in exasperation, a sudden flash of just wanting to vent, even if it's not about hie frustrations in specific. ] You know, sometimes I wish... sometimes I wish there's someone who actually understands how hard it is sometimes. Someone who understands how tiring it is to be killed over and over, trying and failing over and over, how exhausting it gets...

Maybe Sisyphus might get it? The whole trying and failing constantly part, anyway. Maybe Orpheus understands how awful it is trying to escape this place. Even Meg would understand how frustrating it is to die over and over again. [ a rather dark laugh, but--no, he doesn't blame her for doing her job. ] But man, I guess the only one who really has to go through the hell that I do is me.

[ it's an almost lonely thought. one that prompts back a memory of some paradox conversation he had cycles and cycles ago; since then he'd certainly gone pantsless sometimes, flashed thumbs up at the mirror and even give himself little motivational psych-ups. what can he say, he kind of talks to himself a lot. and on retrospect, he wonders if this is even more of a sign of loneliness than it might appear--

'it might be,' chaos says with something almost like amusement in their voice. 'but i believe i understand you, son of hades. you want someone to empathize you, in perhaps the most literal sense. i can help.' ]

What, really?

[ 'certainly. there's little beyond my power. think of it as a free boon, and that is a rare gift.' it's an offer that must have prompted incredulity on his face instantly, because there is a wry, inscrutable kind of smile from that alabaster face-- 'if it's that unbelievable, perhaps i'll require a small favor of you someday. if you feel like accepting that offer, search the mirror of night the next time you return to your room, and enter through. i assure you that it'll be an interesting experience.'

an interesting experience?? that can mean any number of things, pleasant or painful or a multitude of anything in between or out. but it's enough to occupy his thoughts as he exits the void, returns to the searing heat of asphodel, rallies himself to tackle hell anew and--

the barge of death that attempt was brutal to a sadistic extent. on one hand, the humiliation of dying before he could reach the hydra is a special kind of embarrassment. on the other hand, he thinks as he drags himself out the river of blood, through the great hall, towards his room... he might have an opportunity to try that mysterious boon chaos had offered. what could it possibly be, anyway? that ancient deity was so often cryptic. but even then, he thinks, they were correct in their assumption of his problem: maybe he just wanted someone to understand him and his frustrations and endeavors, if that was even possible.

there are practically an infinite number of souls, undead and ex-mortal occupying the depths of hell. there are a legion of gods and god-adjacent powers governing the underworld, each with their own jobs, keeping the chthonic machine ticking like a great clock counting down the ticks of lives that trickle down. so many souls and lives and snuffed out lives. but as much as he appreciates his allies and friends and even occasionally his enemies even as they stick a blade in him or otherwise slaughter him, he occasionally feels pretty alone, maybe subconsciously just wanting someone by his side.

the surface of the mirror, showing simply himself, blurs into ink-dark void reminiscent of chaos' gates. he doesn't quite do a graceful dive inside like he does through the portal, he reaches out more cautiously to tap the warping surface and the pull of it draws him abruptly through, the familiarity of falling through space like he does before landing in chaos' realm.

only instead of falling onto the cracked marble, he lands much less gracefully and nearly faceplants right onto... the floor of his own room, right in front of the mirror. ] What the-- [ for a split second he wonders if that ancient deity might be playing some strange trick on him and if nothing had actually happened at all, before he notices a very familiar pair of glowing feet in front of him and he follows the line of leg up to see... ]

Oh.

Hello there, you. [ greeting himself casually, as if he hadn't just tumbled headfirst out the mirror straight at his doppelganger's feet. he offers a lopsided smile. also, let's hope this new zagreus isn't pantsless or this might be even more compromising than it already is. ]

From:

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.]

Edited Date: 2020-11-12 11:01 pm (UTC)