"You know," Zagreus said to himself as he pulled himself out of the water, clearing out his ear with a fingertip, "I am going to get those towels. And then a fireplace."
"I heard that, boy!" his father called from the other end of the grand hallway. "You will not ruin the architecture of my house with your fripperies. Paid for, I might add, by your reckless plunder of my domain!"
Rather than have a yelling match from the other end of a long corridor, which was a contest that Hades had an unfair advantage at due to considerably larger lung capacity, Zagreus decided to actually approach his old man.
"Oh, the Ghost of Sparta again?" Hypnos asked as he passed. "Says here he picked you up and threw you into the Styx. Where you promptly drowned. Have you ever thought of swimming lessons?"
Rather than dignify that display of Hypnos-ness, Zagreus just passed him. "You know, maybe you'd be in a better mood if people weren't tracking Styx-water into your house."
"I would be in a better mood, boy, if you gave up these foolish escape attempts, which invariably lead to your demise, and subsequent dripping approach through my halls. But you continue to disappoint me."
Zagreus considered whether to bring up that there were very few people who had the authority to redact the name of an individual in the records of the Underworld, but decided against it. For one, his conversation with his father had reached the usual point that occurred after a few sentences where no one was going to be getting anything productive out of things. And for two, his father wouldn't know he was interested in who was this strange dust-white skinned man with red tattoos and a serious anger issue unless he asked him. Then he'd probably start getting in the way, if for no other reason than Zagreus wanted it.
So rather than talk to his father any further, Zagreus instead patted three-headed Cerberus who dozed at his father's side, then wandered the cavernous halls of the House of Hades until he came upon the shade of Achilles at his customary guard-post.
"Welcome home, lad," said his mentor. "Back already?"
"Not really my choice."
"I hope you haven't gotten sloppy out there."
"Trust me, sir, it hurts enough each time I die that I'm no real fan of doing this any more than I have to." He fished at his belt, and offered Achilles a surreptitious unopened bottle of nectar that he had found lying around one of the bathhouses of Tartarus. "I'm sorry, this isn't quite as altruistic a gift as other times," he said, passing it over.
"Oh?" The nectar had quickly vanished under his cloak. "If my student was giving me a contraband present, that would be pretty altruistic."
"Well, no." Zagreus leaned against the wall next to Achilles, looking for eavesdropping shades. "You were Greek."
"Still am, at least by how I count it. I didn't suddenly become Persian when I died."
"Do you know anything about Sparta?"
"Sparta? Oh yes, lad, though I wish I did not. It was fighting the war of Meneleus, king of Sparta, that I met my end. And had I never heard of that city, I would have lived a much-different life."
"Really?" Zagreus perked up. "You don't like to talk about the war. I didn't know it was all for Sparta."
"Aye. Meneleus called us to fight for him, for the Trojan prince Paris had stolen away his wife - though even then, there were mutterings that she had left willingly. Meneleus, I can tell you, did not like such stories… and the rage of a Spartan is a terrible thing. Normally, you wouldn't believe it. By their nature, they are the most laconic of men. But when that temper breaks, it's like a storm wrapped up in the shape of a man."
Ah. "Yes. I think I experienced that," Zagreus said wryly. "Tell me, sir, did you ever hear of the 'Ghost of Sparta'? Not just… a ghost from Sparta, but enough that it's a man's title?"
"The ghost of Sparta? I'm sorry to say I don't recall anything specific by that name. What happened out there?"
"Ran into a newcomer. He didn't take a liking to me. But I'm pretty certain he's not working for my father."
"Oh?"
"The fact he was bellowing 'Hades, you can't keep me trapped down here! I will find you! I will get out of here if I have to kill you!' was my first clue."
"That's pretty good evidence," Achilles conceded. "He didn't want to talk to you?"
"Well, the first time, I asked him what he was shouting about, and then he called me a 'hellspawn', said he wouldn't fall for my tricks, and started attacking me. But he got even angrier when I tossed a blade storm at him. He started screaming about Ares. And then gouged out my eyes with his thumbs."
"Hmm." Achilles stroked his chin. "Spartans always gave plenty of honour to Ares. They preferred him to Athena. I'm surprised he attacked you. I would have thought he'd stand down seeing that you were favoured by the boons of so respected a god."
"Well, he hasn't forgiven me," Zagreus said. "I saw him… oh, five minutes ago. He screamed about me being a servant of Ares, I told him to calm down, and offered to share a bottle of nectar with him. He took offence to that. And stabbed me a few times with those nasty twin blades on chains he's using, then tossed me in the Styx."
Achilles straightened up. "Twin blades? On chains? Savagely shaped, and crudely jagged?" He sucked in a breath through his teeth when Zagreus nodded. "But… that infernal arm should be in your father's armoury. And was, the last time I checked."
"Maybe he stole it?"
"I… don't know." Achilles shook his head gravely. "I'll need to check. Thank you for that, lad. But a word of advice. If this is the case, and this man can wield an infernal arm, he is likely no mere shade. Though perhaps you saw that already. Regardless, I suspect he has divine blood."
Zagreus sighed. "Wonderful. More relatives."
