Whatever else he may be a god of, blood, or life, or something else entirely, he isn't a god of stillness; he knows it as he leaps from his window, to the deadly maze below.
Death itself cannot contain him, cannot slow him, cannot do anything but fill him with renewed vigor and purpose; he knows it as his blood wets the stones of Tartarus, boils in the fires of Asphodel, paints the banners of Elysium.
Had he stayed, tried to do what was asked of him, be what was asked of him, stayed for all eternity, he would never truly have understood what it meant to have a calling; he knows it even as the warmth of the garden slowly slips away with the familiar touch of the Styx.
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Death itself cannot contain him, cannot slow him, cannot do anything but fill him with renewed vigor and purpose; he knows it as his blood wets the stones of Tartarus, boils in the fires of Asphodel, paints the banners of Elysium.
Had he stayed, tried to do what was asked of him, be what was asked of him, stayed for all eternity, he would never truly have understood what it meant to have a calling; he knows it even as the warmth of the garden slowly slips away with the familiar touch of the Styx.