Thanatos can feel life from the moment he is born.
If he had to elucidate the feeling of life to others, he would compare it to fire. It flickers—sometimes burning viciously bright, while on other occasions emitting a dim, soft glow. It radiates warmth, until, one day, it grows cold and fades out of existence.
Life is undeniably the most powerful force in all of the cosmos. Without it, the universe would cease to exist. It permeates every living being, whether transient or immortal. Mother Nyx teaches him early on that no one is immune to the Fates; not the tapestries they weave, nor the thread of life they cut. No one is immune to death, either.
“Death is impartial. Death is inevitable. Death is necessary.”
Nyx drills these lessons into him every chance she gets. “You must always remember this, my child, when you tend to the mortals who call for you.”
Thanatos hovers above the dark marble floors of his bedchamber in the Underworld. The room is faintly lit with torches that emit black flames and is empty, save for two plain beds pressed against the wall. Thanatos clutches a small toy bat with tentative hands. The bat takes chthonic inspirations in its design: pale skin and red eyes, just like Thanatos. He nibbles at his bottom lip. He does not tell his mother that he can feel the forces of her life pulsing inside of him in a strong and steady rhythm. He feels his brother’s life, too. Hypnos floats above the bed beside them, snoring softly in his sleep. He looks peaceful. Thanatos envies him for that sometimes.
“If I am death…does that make me bad?” Thanatos whispers, his voice a shadow in the dark.
Nyx falls silent for a moment. She runs a slender hand through his hair, carefully tucking a silver strand behind his ear. “No, my child. Worry not about these things, for you are but a godling now. When you grow up, you will learn to harness your powers and realize that they are not bad at all.”
“I’ll learn…?” Thanatos hugs the bat to his chest. “Like Hypnos did?”
“Yes, like Hypnos did,” Nyx soothes gently, before her voice takes on a playful edge. “I suspect you will be just as talented as him, won’t you?”
“I…Yes, mother.”
Thanatos returns his mother’s smile, even though his feels empty.
. . .
He tends to keep to himself most days.
Thanatos does not feel a desire for friendship. He likes his solitude and handling matters on his own. Despite it, he finds himself forging a multitude of connections within the first few decades of performing his duties.
Most are strictly professional. He regularly attends to Lord Hades, though the god of the Underworld is usually much too busy to oversee Thanatos’ business. Notably, he spends a majority of his time interacting with Charon. The two have a mutual understanding of sorts—for they are the only chthonic beings who truly comprehend the nature of each other’s duties. The boatsman takes Thanatos under his wing, teaching him the tricks of the trade.
Around ten years into his training, Thanatos remembers asking Charon how he is capable of ferrying so many souls onto his boat at once:
“Grrrhh,” Charon grunted in response. It had taken a while for Thanatos to decipher Charon’s peculiar language, but he eventually caught on. He could never quite speak it, howbeit.
“I see. But how is that possible?” Thanatos asked, marking a small note on a piece of parchment.
“Grrrrhhhnnnnn.”
“Oh—fascinating. I hadn’t thought to try that yet.”
Charon explained the process in detail as Thanatos furiously scribbled away with his quill. Through Charon’s advice, Thanatos developed his own variation that works with his powers. He recalls the memory fondly. Thanatos cannot deny that he enjoys the partnership that they have established. He owes a lot of his early success to Charon.
By no means of his own accord, he gets to know Hermes next. Thanatos can’t help but regard Hermes as an annoyance at first—but Thanatos appreciates the sheer effort that the god of swiftness puts into interacting with him. He admits that he is not exactly the most…approachable, per se.
The only other Olympian god who bothers to make acquaintance with him is Lord Ares. Thanatos encounters him primarily on battlefields, where piles of forsaken corpses and broken weaponry litter as remnants of war. Thanatos enjoys their philosophical conversations, even if he does not entirely align with Ares’ bloodthirsty perspectives at times:
“You will come to recognize that the mortal condition is full of inherently selfish desires. Just take a look around us. They always involve themselves in the ruin of others; and that, Death, leaves no room for mercy.”
Thanatos struggles to agree. When the mortals pray to him for a restful death, he vows to honour that—no matter their occupation in life. It is the least he can offer them. Mother Nyx cautions him that it is a futile sentiment, but he believes it is a necessary one. There is little else that Thanatos can do for the dying. All he knows is that when their life flickers for the final time, he will always be there for them.
. . .
He reaps the soul of a butterfly.
It’s a delicate creature. Golden hues spill across the horizon like the liquid nectar of the gods, making its figure appear almost iridescent. It crawls on thin legs, slow and weary movements inching across the petal of a rose with no real purpose. Its wings flutter softly as its light begins to dim. Its passing is nothing short of peaceful.
The residue it leaves behind resembles a fine, glittery dust. It’s beautiful, in a way. Rare. So very distinct from the bodies of fallen warriors that Thanatos has grown accustomed to seeing over the years, covered in the blood and dust of battle.
Thanatos recalls a distant memory by the River Axios, where the body of Zeus’ son Sarpedon lay motionless on the ground. Lord Apollo crouched over the Trojan soldier, cleaning the grime off of his skin with the river’s cool waters. Hypnos was there, too. Sarpedon’s soul slept blissfully under his brother’s care as he awaited his accession to the afterlife. They dressed him in immortal raiments and anointed him with a drop of ambrosia, before wordlessly handing him over to Thanatos. He returned the body to its home in Lycia and guided his spirit to the Underworld.
“I am at peace,” Sarpedon told him as he mounted Charon’s boat. Thanatos contemplated the war on the surface, and believed him. He returned to Lycia a year later where the mortals had raised a memorial pillar in Sarpedon’s honour. Thanatos never understood how such sentimental creatures were capable of so much destruction.
The natural world is much simpler, Thanatos decides. He does not usually stay when reaping a bygone soul, yet he finds himself lingering in the garden long past sundown. The butterfly remains on the rose petal, still ever–so peaceful.
Thanatos purses his lips. He begins to dig a small hole in the grass with the tip of his scythe. He plucks the petal from the rose and gently lays it down in the soil. The butterfly is incredibly diaphanous on his fingertips—he has to be careful not to tear the fragile membranes of its wings. He covers up the hole and decorates it with little white daisies and bluebells, then plucks a rose and places it in the center of the grave.
He steps back from his work and straightens his shoulders. He feels something he cannot quite decipher. But he doesn’t mind it. It’s…pleasant, in a way.
Perhaps humans are not the only sentimental ones.
. . .
When Thanatos returns the next day, the grave has been dug up and the flowers scattered. Birds chirp joyously in the tree beside the rose bush. The butterfly is nowhere to be seen.
Death is impartial, Thanatos has to remind himself.
Thanatos keeps strictly to his duties for the next few centuries. He never comes back again.
. . .
The King of Ephyria lounges in his bedchambers in the late hours of the night, twirling an empty goblet of wine between his plump fingers. He appears no different from any other particularly well–dressed, well–fed mortal. Thanatos is all too familiar with men like this; drowned by an abundance of ego and jewels. There is a dark glint in his wide, beady eyes that leaves Thanatos feeling slightly uneasy. He readies the enchanted gold chains that Lord Zeus bestowed upon him, but is caught off guard when the mortal’s voice pipes up:
“Ah, you do not appear to be the great boatsman of the River Styx! I was under the presumption that it is Charon who guides unfortunate souls to the Underworld. Lest, of course, we have the details of the mythos all muddled up—wouldn’t be surprised. Tell me, to whom do I owe this pleasure?”
“I am Death. Your time has come, Sisyphus, King of Ephyria.”
“Yes, yes, of course!—Do forgive me for my ignorance. Thanatos, I believe they call you? You must fathom my curiosity, since I was expecting to meet Charon and all. Lord Hades, if I was lucky, even—though I suppose he deals more with the dead than the dying,” Sisyphus rambles before Thanatos can even give thought to how indifferently the mortal referred to the chthonic gods. “Although I am well–versed in the afterlife, I must admit that I am unfamiliar with the process of chains being involved,” he adds, eyes catching light of the golden chains. “May I inquire as to what they are used for?”
“To restrain mortals,” Thanatos simply responds.
“Is that so? Most understandable, of course. Wouldn’t want anyone to try and run away from their fate!” Sisyphus throws his head back in a short laugh, oily locks bouncing with the movement. “Say, are you able to demonstrate how these chains work? I just want to be prepared for what’s going to happen, is all…”
Thanatos hesitates. It must show, because the mortal sets down his goblet and clasps his hands together within a plea. “Oh please, won’t you indulge in a poor man’s dying wish?”
Thanatos tightens his grip on the chains, feeling the divine power radiating off of them. It was not his place to question the demands of the gods, but even he thought it strange when he was tasked to chain the king in Tartarus. Most souls roamed freely in the Underworld. Sisyphus must have angered Lord Zeus greatly to be bound in chains for eternity.
Thanatos glances across the room, contemplating. The good–humoured smile never leaves the mortal’s face. There is no harm, Thanatos supposes, in demonstrating the function of the restraints.
The chains jingle once as Thanatos loosens his hold. The moment he begins to relax, the tyrant king’s smile turns predatory. He pounces, shoving Thanatos against a concrete pillar, knocking the wind out of him. Thanatos has no time to recover before the enchanted chains latch around his wrists and wrap around his entire body, binding him to the column so tightly that he can barely move.
Thanatos curses himself for letting his guard down. “Release me, King!”
“Hm… I don’t think I will.”
“Release me, or else Lord Hades will hear of this—”
“And do what? Kill me? I’m already a dead man. Though not for much longer, thanks to you, I suppose.” His voice takes on a tone of smugness. “Who ever said that death is inevitable? Not I!”
Thanatos sneers as Sisyphus adjusts his emerald robe back into place. He parades around the room, slowly snuffing the flames from each of the torches on the wall. The light fades until only a single torch remains lit by the entrance of the chambers. Sisyphus takes it from the wall and holds it to his chest. The flame casts a sinister shadow over his face. It shatters the guise of the carefree royal he played earlier, revealing his true, malevolent nature.
“Farewell, Death. Do enjoy the rest of eternity. I know I will.”
The door shuts behind him with a soft click. A key turns in the lock. Footsteps recede, and Thanatos is left completely and utterly alone.
. . .
Thanatos does not know how long it has been. How many laps had the chariots of Helios ridden across the sky? How many visits to the Underworld had Persephone made? Eons could have gone by, for all he knows. He wonders if Mother Nyx or Hyponos have noticed his absence.
Thanatos’ head pounds against his skull. A cacophony of impatient wails plague his mind—the screams of mortally wounded men, groans of the elderly, cries of sick children—unable to find relief in their deaths. The tug of their souls overwhelms him. With every breath he takes, he aches a little bit more. He cannot imagine the disarray that the world has fallen into with Death out of commission. He doesn’t want to know, either.
Thanatos shuts his damp eyes, then blinks them open, only to be met with familiar darkness. He never thought he would miss the sunlight, until he was deprived of it.
. . .
A crimson light filters through the grandiose chambers. Lord Ares materializes in front of him. There is no sign of anger, nor of pity. Thanatos’ face burns red, regardless.
The god of war unsheathes his sword and severs the chains as though he were slicing through a piece of parchment. Thanatos falls to his knees. Ares does not offer a hand, waiting for Thanatos to rise on his own. A moment of silence passes by, and then:
“Who shall suffer for this?”
Thanatos’ eyes narrow, taking on the coldest edge. Ares’ smirk is more dangerous than his blades.
Nobody escapes death.
. . .
Death is impartial. Death is inevitable. Death is necessary.
Thanatos remembers the words Mother Nyx ingrained in him since childhood. He abides by them as though they are a law of the universe, never to be disputed. It becomes easier to detach himself from the ephemeral living when he keeps these truths in mind.
He loses track of the generations that pass by, but it does not matter. They are all the same in the end. War. Always war. Thanatos never understood what compelled the human mortals before. He found it foolish that such intelligent creatures continued to betray and kill each other in cold-blood. He realizes, now, that it is not his place to understand. It is merely his role to execute what the Fates have already decided. Life is the currency of his trade, and it is his loyal duty to collect the debt that is owed.
Thanatos stands in the garden at twilight. A thin, golden butterfly crawls on the tree branch, its life flickering dimly. A mother bird eyes the butterfly hungrily from up above. Thanatos reaps its soul with a touch of his cold finger. He leaves without a trace, as though he were never there to begin with.
No matter where he goes, the souls of the dying call to him, praying and pleading. Their screams grow louder, and louder, and louder.
Death summons his scythe. His work is never done.
Farane Zaidi is an English Major with a concentration in Creative Writing and a minor in Greek & Roman Studies. Farane is from Zellik, Belgium and enjoys writing in the genres of Fiction, Fantasy, Mythology, Mystery, and Young Adult. Farane is a lover of books, pirates, and puppies!
