There was no pain in death. No final gasp, no trembling hand. It had already come — quietly, like dust settling. Like prophecy fulfilled.

"He had died beneath the weight of years, in the land of Thebes, the scent of incense and bitter leaves still clinging to the folds of his robe. Some say he died in exile, others in peace. He does not bother correcting them — they all sound like endings. And he had never cared for endings.*

Now, he walks.

He doesn’t know the path, but his feet do. Each step feels… remembered, as though he’s tracing his way through a dream already dreamt. The ground is cold. Familiar. The silence here isn’t empty — it listens. It watches.

A voice speaks — Hermes. He recognizes the god’s presence not by sight, of course, but by pressure in the air. Like thunder inside the bones. The messenger walks ahead, his words weaving through the darkness like thread.

Tiresias says nothing.

He has spoken enough for one life. Enough for ten.

Instead, he listens. To Hermes. To the Underworld. To the river, where voices tangle like seaweed in the current. The world here is made of truths too heavy for the living. And yet, he does not flinch.

There is no fear. No shock. No grief.

Only the stillness of having known it all, and arriving precisely where he knew he would.

He steps forward — toward memory, toward shadow, toward the silence that once whispered everything he ever said.