Chapter Text
«««««««« ─────── · I · ─────── ««««««««
The first thing he knows is darkness. A comforting cool. Gentle hands. The clinging of his twin.
Thanatos shifts before he knows what it is, without it ever being a conscious decision. For a time when it happens all he knows is sudden difference. Fear.
When it happens, he is alone.
Nyx always finds him. She shows him the way home.
That does not change as he ages.
Many other things do.
«««««««« ─────── · II · ─────── ««««««««
As Thanatos grows older and develops more control over his ability to shift, Nyx increasingly turns her attentions to his more needy twin. Hypnos is still small, wide-eyed and timid around even the shyest of shades. Always searching for his brother's or mother's hand. Crying if left alone.
He needs her more. Thanatos understands.
To keep him occupied Nyx gives him a companion, a small mousey creature, and tells him to stay in the House, to be wary. There are dangers outside, things that he doesn’t yet understand.
Thanatos promises, and why would Nyx doubt him? He is a precocious child, and one eager to please his mother. As Nyx is quick to say, he is a good son; he wears his godhood with the maturity of one far older.
But it is new, so new. When Nyx isn’t looking, Thanatos can't help but explore.
So new: the stone and gloom of Tartarus, the orange burn of Asphodel, the rolling fields of Elysium. The coolness of the ground beneath the bushes, the way they catch at his hair when he hides in them. The light touch of the butterflies that soon begin to follow him, lonely souls that they are. The way they fluster and flutter as Mort snaps at them from his shoulder.
It is a calm life, a still life, but one so very quiet around the edges.
The shades do not scare him. If anything, they treat him as a threat. And he is very small, yes, but what could truly hope to catch hold of him, let alone do him harm, should he decide to shift?
So, Thanatos grows bigger, more confident, and ventures further away despite Nyx’s warnings.
It was inevitable that he would find the surface eventually. When he does, it hits him all at once: the blinding sun, the bitterness of the air, the raucous noise that accompanies life. Thanatos shifts immediately back to the comfort of the underworld, Mort cowering in the fold of his chiton.
But something follows him back.
It starts as a soft ringing between his ears that slowly twists into the shape of words. Then comes the ache that travels to the pit of his chest and takes root. From there, steadily, it begins to devour him.
Thanatos does his best to ignore the voice, the ache, to hide how they pull at him. Always the quiet child, he manages well—for a time.
Until one day he can’t ignore it any longer. Leaving Mort behind, he returns to the surface.
When he sees his first mortal, Thanatos is overwhelmed by the lightness of the life, the blood, the soul, that courses through them. Overwhelmed by the way they call to him and demand his name.
“I’m Thanatos,” he whispers. “You asked me to come.”
Thanatos? I don’t know that name. Never mind, Thanatos—Death will come for me soon. I am so very tired.
The soul shimmers with the words. Thanatos has never seen anything more beautiful.
He wants it.
It’s strangely soothing to reach out and touch the soul. To feel it shiver against his palm; slip silky and warm over his fingers. There’s a goodness, a rightness to it when Thanatos brings that slinking light to his teeth and tears it free from the body holding it down.
It’s calming, the sudden quiet.
His joy is short lived: the light dims to a soft glow, the body stills. The mortals around the bed—how had he not noticed them before—collapse in wails and curse Death’s cruelty.
Suddenly afraid, Thanatos flees.
He takes the soul to a forgotten corner in Elysium, brings it under the dark shelter of a bush and summons from his mother’s chambers a forgotten mirrored box of velvet and myrrh to hide it in. Thanatos does not tell Nyx, hopes that she won't notice: he has done something wrong, something irrevocably wrong, of this he is sure.
Nonetheless, he can’t stop himself from returning to look at the secret treasure that he’s stolen. It’s intoxicating: the sweet, heady smell when the box opens; the remaining glow of the soul bright against the dark fabric; the way the light refracts in the mirrors, becoming something infinite. The pleased way the soul greets him and murmurs stories of the surface. The way its torn edges slip hot against his hands. The gentle feel of his cruelty, the touch of his own wrongness somehow chaste against his skin.
How beautiful. How horrible.
But one soul is not enough: again, he feels the pull to the surface. The want. Thanatos tries to ignore it, to hide it, but still it happens. It happens again, again. Each time that he gives in, each time that he steals yet another soul, a part of that light is lost in his hands. Each time, the living beg and grieve. Sometimes so do those same souls that had called for him.
Thanatos is greedy. He takes them anyway.
The souls amass in his hidden box until he can scarcely see the velvet that cushions them.
«««««««« ─────── · III · ─────── ««««««««
Soon Lord Hades frets and thunders about the House, demanding to know where the missing souls have gotten to. It is strange, the manner of this surface god who has been present in the underworld for as long as Thanatos can remember, yet still fails to fit. He summons the household to the Great Hall, demanding answers. From Hades’ side, Nyx casts an eye over Thanatos. He cannot meet her gaze.
When they are dismissed, he shifts immediately to Elysium and takes the box into his arms. It is warm to the touch. Within, the souls sing for him.
“It is not wise to test Lord Hades, my child.”
Thanatos freezes. “They are mine. They called to me.”
When he turns to face her, Nyx is watching him carefully. “They have chosen you to ease their suffering. It is a heavy task, but one that is vital. Yet, that does not make them yours.”
“They don’t want to leave me.”
Thanatos glares and throws his chin forward stubbornly, hair falling into his face as he does so. Nyx’s expression softens as he flicks it away in annoyance. “They fear the unknown and the judgement of their misdeeds. But you cannot keep souls locked in a box for eternity.”
He tightens his grip, skin warming from its heat. “Misdeeds?”
“You are still young. You do not yet know the cruelties the mortals so often inflict. It may be that some of those you hold have done great wrongs.”
Thanatos thinks of the gentle lights, the silky feel of the souls. The way they sing his name. How could something so beautiful do wrong? He frowns. “If they did, then I can punish them. They are mine.”
Nyx shakes her head, continuing more firmly, “That is not for us to decide.”
He clings to the box, panic rising. “Mother Nyx, please don’t make me give them away.”
“Thanatos, child—my willful child—you must. This, I believe, is to be your role.”
He bows his head against the words of his mother, words Thanatos doesn’t understand—not at first—beyond the cutting knowledge that he has been denied. It prickles at his eyes, but Thanatos is the good son, mature beyond his years. He stills his face and stands straight.
When he hands over the box the warmth saps from him immediately.
As she takes it, Nyx pauses before stiltedly opening her arms. Thanatos blinks up at her, uncertain, then hurries to bury his face in the darkness of her dress. Slow, almost hesitant, she pats his hair. “You will learn, my child.”
It is a statement, a gentle order, and the words are enough for Thanatos to remember himself. Careful to hide his disappointment, he steps back and nods in acknowledgement, untrusting of his voice.
As Nyx fades into darkness without another word, he shifts.
It follows him: the memory of warmth, of voices, of the souls slinking through his hands, softer than anything he’s ever known. The absence aches.
Thanatos shifts lower and lower into the underworld in the hopes of escaping the feeling, but as the distance from the surface grows so too does the sudden awareness that he is alone, emptied of something he never before knew he needed. The awareness that the hurt is of his own disobedient creation.
The knowledge shames him.
Somewhere far away a new soul calls for him, tugging at the space between his ribs. Thanatos stops, cupping his hands over his ears to no avail.
He shrinks into himself and cries.
«««««««« ─────── · IV · ─────── ««««««««
It is dark.
It would be quiet if not for the rhythmic lull of his own breathing, the soft lap of the Styx, and the distant pleas that follow him still.
Thanatos clings to the darkness until time ceases to hold meaning.
He sits unmoving until the footsteps approach.
They will not stop unless you heed their call.
Thanatos tightens his grip around his legs, a strand of hair caught tight in one fist. “I’m not to go to them. They are not mine.”
No, you are not to go to them. Not until you learn.
Slowly, Thanatos lifts his head just slight enough to see over his knees. Charon looms above him, face vacant save the emotionless glow of his eyes. Thanatos pauses. He cannot remember ever speaking to Charon, not directly. His brother has always scared him. “What do you mean?”
Charon lets out a rasp that could almost be a laugh, then holds out a hand to gesture toward where his boat is tied in the distance. Join me.
Charon’s eyes are unreadable. Far away, the souls cry and cry.
Slowly, Thanatos pulls himself to his feet.
«««««««« ─────── · V · ─────── ««««««««
The boat moves smoothly along the Styx, Charon’s rows steady. Thanatos watches the bloody waters from the bow. Watches as his reflection shudders and distorts in the red. He could be something awful: he can see it in the blood like a dream, a vision.
Perhaps he already is.
As he watches, a strange fog begins to thicken around them until he can’t see the waters at all. The voices grow louder and louder, calling, gossiping, crying, until he can scarcely bear it. When he turns to Charon, his brother silently points ahead. Looking back, Thanatos sees them: the souls lined at the dock that appears through the fog, wretched and endless.
He shivers, catching at his hair before he can stop himself.
Their numbers grow. Thanatos startles at Charon’s voice and drops his hair, turning to meet his gaze. There are many now, little brother. Too many for us to manage.
“And what am I meant to do?” Thanatos intends for the words to be dismissive, but his voice betrays him and comes out small.
It leaves him lightheaded, the way their pleas twist inside him. The entrancing way the souls glow on the shore.
What they ask you to do: collect them. Bring them to me, or to Lord Hades if you truly wish.
“But they want me.” The effect is whiny and Thanatos regrets his words immediately.
Charon only laughs and brings them closer to the dock. As he ties the boat to the dock post the souls surge forward, voices raising until Thanatos finds himself cowering in the hull. Charon stands firm above him, bringing soul after soul aboard and pocketing the glittering obols that they carry. The cries of those still waiting on the shore catch in Thanatos’ ribs and he clenches his eyes shut.
Only when the rhythmic rowing picks up again and the voices begin to soften does he open them. Charon watches him from the stern, behind a neat row of souls patiently waiting on the deck.
This is what they want. They are not meant for us.
Thanatos shrinks down against the wood and listens to the waters lap and part. He tries to ignore the distant pleas. He tries not to think of the warmth, the pull, the want.
Such things are not for him.
«««««««« ─────── · VI · ─────── ««««««««
“I’ll do it.”
Thanatos is still small, a child with a child’s stature, but he is growing and he wants to learn. Needs to learn. He is small but wary of the terrible want that he carries, wary of the voices and their relentless pull. Of the careful way the old gods watch him now when they think he’s not looking.
Lord Hades glares down at him. “You will bring them to Charon.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“All of them.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Hades sighs, sitting back in his throne. “Demand has grown too great. You will be a useful asset—if you can prove yourself trustworthy,” he says pointedly. Thanatos stares up at him blankly until the god shakes his head. “You will train first with Charon, then you will begin slowly as a trial.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You are dismissed.”
“Thank you, Lord Hades.”
Before Thanatos can shift, Nyx appears at his side. Her face is cool but he knows the feel of her approval. In her arms is a long box of polished oak. “To assist you in your work, my child.”
Thanatos blinks and accepts the box. He starts to send it to Nyx’s bedchambers, where he still sleeps along with Hypnos, then stops. Instead, he sends it to his hidden corner in Elysium. “Thank you, Mother Nyx.”
With a quick nod, he shifts.
Already, a few curious butterflies hover about the box where it sits before the bushes. Mort creeps out to bother them as Thanatos crouches down beneath the flutter of their wings, running a hand lightly over the smooth wooden lid.
When Thanatos opens the box, he stills. In it are the garb, the weapons, of someone far bigger than himself. In it are the makings of a god.
He runs a hand gently over the new chiton first. It is as dark as his current one, yet lined with gold. Woven through the fabric he can feel the protective fibres of Nyx’s darkness, fibres that cloak and armour. More gold shines to the side of the chiton: a winged pauldron, a gorget, skulled greaves. A belt, gilded and lined with darkness. Arm bracers; a clawed silver gauntlet with a watchful eye.
The cool extravagances of his mother’s blessing. Her many wary shields.
In the box it all appears too large for him, but as Thanatos picks each piece up it seems to shrink to match to his form. The metals are cold against his skin, heavy as he clasps them about himself. As the gorget settles against his neck, Thanatos stretches and turns his head experimentally before giving up against the restriction, locked in place as he now is.
The black chiton hangs loose over his form until he tightens the belt about his waist. As he draws up the hood, Thanatos feels himself relax into its shadow. He fidgets with the fabric, then pulls it further forward.
The gauntlet is huge as he pulls it over his hand, but as he watches it shrinks to cling to his skin. Thanatos opens and closes his hand, fingers clicking together like claws.
At the bottom of the box are two more items. Thanatos stares. The soft Elysium light is cold, reflected back from the metal. Carefully, Thanatos draws out the sword, mindful of the watchful eye at its base. The blade gleams, its hilt shaping to the form of his palm. He sheaths it and sets it down again.
Thanatos has never held a weapon. He never had any desire for such things.
Then, nestled down at the side of the sword: the scythe. It is far too tall for him, the blade long and curved, though Thanatos suspects that it too will shrink at his touch. From its heel, yet another eye follows him. Thanatos stares back into the depths of its pupil for a long moment, then takes the scythe into his hands.
And maybe he is young and hurried or maybe it is fate, but as he lifts the scythe he flinches, the blade nicking him lightly on the shoulder. The scratch—no wider than a hair, really—shines gold.
The instant the metal touches his skin, something strange happens: it starts as a creeping feeling in his chest, a fluttering that rises up his throat to the back of his tongue. Thanatos splutters, then opens his mouth and lets the thing that crawls out fall free into his open palm.
The butterfly opens and closes its wings, shimmering with darkness and purples in the light. Its feet needle at his skin but it stays in place. Thanatos stares. He’s always loved butterflies, the way they drifted weightlessly after him in the Elysium air.
But this is different.
This is his butterfly, he knows suddenly, a fragment of himself cut loose and braided with darkness.
Thanatos draws it close, suddenly horrified at his carelessness. He will remember this; will keep his erring soul near as a precaution, a reminder. He sets the butterfly at his chest, pleased to see it cling to the fabric of his chiton, and grips the scythe tighter in his other hand.
A blade that can rend a soul.
The surface pull aches in his chest, the voices a silent chorus. Thanatos shivers.
«««««««« ─────── · VII · ─────── ««««««««
Thanatos is unsure what to expect when he shifts into Erebus. It is a strange place: a realm detached, floating weightless in darkness. Yet his feet find stable ground on the island, between the towering urns. Stable ground under the burning eyes of his brother.
Sat against one urn, though, is a less familiar figure, if one that he vaguely recognises. The girl seems close to him in age, but intimidating: the curve of her wing, the sharp line of her blue hair, the determined chill of her expression. She looks him over briefly through calculating bronze eyes. "Death?"
He blinks. "Thanatos. And you—?”
"Megaera."
She watches him another moment, then returns to wiping down the leather whip in her hands. Thanatos sets his chin forward, determined not to appear phased.
It is time.
Thanatos straightens and turns his focus to his brother. The girl stands, taking a place off to the side.
Charon is a good teacher, if one of few words.
It is no easy thing, harnessing magic. In theory, the spells that Charon teaches can be learned through a calming repetition. Yet in action, Charon says, they must be linked to feel, to sense, to some deep unknown unique to each of them.
Thanatos knows immediately that Charon refers to his tugging want of the surface, the urge that never seems to leave him anymore. It’s cruel, to be ordered to harness the very thing he’s fought so hard to suppress. He catches anxiously at his hair.
Megaera is more adept to begin with: the flames tear open the ground beneath her in pits of magenta, the air about them distorting from the heat. When Charon draws forth a wretch Megaera catches it in an instant, raising the fiery circles again and again until finally it falls into nothing.
Thanatos watches the precise way she moves, the sharpness behind her grin.
“You’ve already been practicing,” he says, unable to keep a touch of dismay from his voice. And practicing on what?
She turns to him, eyebrow raised. “Tsch. And you haven’t?”
He thinks suddenly of the many souls crammed into the mirrored box. Of the way he stood before Lord Hades. He feels the gold rise up his face and looks away without replying.
When it is his turn Thanatos finds it difficult: he stares at the wretch, searches about for its pull, and with their eyes on him comes up blank.
The wretch looks about, then lurches aimlessly away. Thanatos feels no fear. Wretches would not dare attack him, of this, he is sure. He focuses on its back, on the low glow of the threads that course throughout its form, but there is no draw.
“It’s not calling to me,” he mutters finally.
“Calling?”
Thanatos frowns to himself. “They call for me. Ask me to take them.”
“Do you really need them to?” He glances to his side where Megaera stands, watching him with a touch of disdain. “You are a god, after all.”
“I never thought to test it.” Thanatos glares, silently cursing himself as still the feel evades him. Finally, he gives in. “How do you do it?”
“Me?”
Thanatos shrugs. “You’re better at this than I am.”
Megaera turns the whip in her hands, searching his face, before seemingly finding him satisfactory. “Thanatos—” she pauses, considering her words, before continuing, “—do you like to do it?”
He blinks. “To do what?”
“Well, what is it that you do, exactly?” she says, impatiently. “Kill them, right?”
“…I collect them.” I give them away, he doesn’t add.
“Whatever, collect them. Do you enjoy it? Does it feel good?” she asks, matter-of-fact.
Thanatos opens his mouth to deny it, but there is no judgement in her eyes. “…yes, I suppose that—”
“Good. When you find that feeling, let yourself feel it. Then—send it toward them.”
“…and what is it you do exactly?”
Megaera looks him in the eye, unblinking. “I hurt them.”
It isn’t easy, not at first. Not when there is no call to guide him, when the pull comes from elsewhere. It is a slippery thing to chase, a more difficult thing yet to grab hold of and redirect. But redirect it he does.
Focus firm, Thanatos turns to the wretch, now milling lazily about at the other end of the island. He can see the way the threads flicker and coil through its form, the way they reject him to cling to flesh.
Thanatos remembers the feel of those threads between his teeth. The feel when they were taken from him, a misery nearly too much to bear.
He channels the symbols and sends that feeling forward.
When the circle forms it is a deep purple, heavy with the feel of darkness and inscribed with spell symbols. Its hums with hunger.
When it snaps closed, the wretch disappears entirely, its soul appearing hot in Thanatos’ hands. He catches his breath at the sudden warmth, the smoothness as it slides across his palms—
Well done. Charon holds out his hand.
Thanatos slowly steps forward, unable to stop himself from turning the soul in his hands as he does. Reluctantly, he gives it away.
It disappears immediately, and Thanatos steps back, tearing his eyes from the place it had been. Megaera watches him with a sudden respect. “Collect them, you said?”
“…yes.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Well I don't know what it is you're so afraid of. Call it what you will, but it looks like you were made for you were made for your job.”
«««««««« ─────── · VIII · ─────── ««««««««
When Persephone arrives, she is bright like the mortals. At first, Thanatos shies away from her, but she is gentle. Patient.
She looks at him with kind eyes.
«««««««« ─────── · end of chapter · ─────── ««««««««