Chapter 2 #2
“Thanatos, you must go.” Clotho’s wide eyes lift, burning into mine.
“Leave?” I blink, taken aback by their sudden urgency. “Why would I—”
“This is not for you to see.” Atropos cuts me off, her voice as sharp as her shears.
I straighten my shoulders, irritation flickering through me. “I came here specifically to ask about this soul. You cannot just dismiss me when you’ve barely told me anything.”
My sisters move as one, forming a wall between me and the thread that still pulses with that strange light. I’ve seen them protective before, but this is different. There’s something almost like fear in their identical expressions.
“Some threads are not meant to be examined before their time,” Clotho says, her voice gentler than the others but no less firm.
“That’s never stopped you from showing me before,” I counter. “What’s different about this one?”
Lachesis sighs, a sound like wind through ancient trees. “Thanatos, this once, just trust us… Please.” I watch their faces carefully, studying every micro-expression. In all my existence, I’ve rarely seen my sisters this protective over a single thread. It's…unsettling.
“You’ve shown me the threads of gods and monsters,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I’ve seen the destinies of kings and heroes. What could possibly be so different about this mortal that you’re acting like I’ve asked to see Father’s darkest secrets?”
“We know Father’s darkest secrets. It’s what landed him in Tartarus.” Atropos’s fingers tighten around her shears. “Some threads are dangerous to witness before their time.”
“Dangerous?” I laugh, the sound echoing strangely in the vast chamber. “To whom? I’m Death itself. What danger could a mortal's destiny pose to me?”
Clotho shakes her head, her luminous eyes filled with something I rarely see directed at me—pity. “Even you, brother, are not immune to the consequences of fate.”
Her words hang in the air between us, heavy with implications I don’t understand. I’ve never thought of myself as subject to fate—I am its instrument, its inevitable conclusion, not its subject.
“You're being cryptic,” I accuse, crossing my arms. “If there’s something I should know about this soul—”
“There’s nothing you should know,” Lachesis interrupts, her voice firm. “Not yet.”
“Not yet? So eventually—”
“Thanatos.” Atropos steps forward, her ancient eyes boring into mine. “For once in your eternal existence, accept that there are mysteries even you must wait to understand.”
I clench my jaw, frustration building in my chest. I could push harder—I’ve never been one to back down easily—but something in their unified stance tells me this is a battle I won’t win today.
“Fine,” I huff. “I guess I’ll just go see for myself then, hm?”
The three exchange glances, a silent conversation passing between them again. “I fucking hate when you all do that.”
“You will perform your duties as Death requires, nothing more,” Clotho says finally.
I raise an eyebrow. “When have I ever overstepped my bounds?”
Lachesis actually laughs at that, a sound like wind chimes in a storm. “Shall we count the instances chronologically or by severity?”
“I’m wounded.” I press a hand to my chest in mock offense. “Truly.”
Atropos steps closer, her eyes holding mine. “This is not a game, Thanatos. Promise us you will only do what is required.”
Something in her tone makes me pause. My sisters are eternal, immovable forces of creation, not given to unnecessary warnings. If they're concerned—
“I promise…to do what is needed,” I grumble.
I notice how Atropos’s eyes narrow at my careful wording. She knows me too well—knows I’ve left myself room to maneuver within that promise as a god of my word.
“Thanatos,” she warns, but I’m already backing away, hands raised in surrender.
“I understand your concern, sisters. Truly.” I offer them my most disarming smile. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have twenty-eight souls to collect, all because of one little mortal, apparently.”
Lachesis shakes her head. “He’s going to cause trouble.”
“When doesn't he?” Clotho sighs.
I throw them a wink. “It’s part of my charm.”
“It’s not that charming,” Lachesis calls after me.
“Well, I never said I was a prince.” I chuckle over my shoulder.
The Court of Destiny dissolves around me as I walk back through the archway. The waters of the Styx begin to rise around me once more, the river reclaiming its domain, lifting me back toward the surface.
My sister's warnings echo in my mind, but they’re overshadowed by my curiosity about this Mackenzie Vidente.
A mortal clairvoyant whose thread glows with celestial light, who changed the course of twenty-eight souls.
I’ve taken billions throughout my existence, but none have ever prompted such a reaction from my sisters.
As I breach the surface of the Styx, I shake the obsidian droplets from my hair and cloak. The underworld air feels different somehow, charged with possibility. I can’t remember the last time I felt this…intrigued.
“Twenty-seven souls,” I mutter to myself, summoning my scythe with a flick of my wrist. The familiar weight settles in my palm, its blade gleaming with hungry anticipation. “Plus one very interesting clairvoyant.”
All around me, the Underworld yawns in obsidian arches that gleam like polished volcanic glass, their surfaces reflecting the shimmering skies.
Coils of star-fallen shadows writhe and twist along the ground, leaving etched patterns in their wake.
Above, orbs of spectral light—not stars, but something older—pulse with a blue luminescence.
In the stretch of the River Styx that flows behind my estate, Mortis Hall, along the Court of Oblivion, I take in the stars that shine above.
The warm breeze in the atmosphere brushes over my skin and rustles through the leaves on tall nixlock trees.
My scythe pulses in my hand, its bone handle warm against my palm, a living thing with its own heartbeat, hungry for the carnage it was forged to deliver.
I spin it once over my knuckles; the curved blade, sharp enough to sever souls from flesh, hisses through the air, parting the River Styx’s breeze that carries the scent of whimpering souls and lost hopes.
“Be patient,” I murmur, snapping my fingers. The scythe folds in on itself, metal and bone collapsing into a sinewy butterfly knife—deadly and clandestine.
If I’m venturing above, I can’t parade as I am now. Mortals don’t welcome skeletal horrors; they prefer their monsters in pretty faces.
So, I’ll give them one.
My black cloak and armor flake away like ash, revealing a midnight leather jacket that smells of smoke and asphalt.
In the glittering obsidian reflection of the River Styx, I watch moonlight dance across a face chiselled so sharply it could carve diamonds and full lips that twist into a lethal smirk.
Silver piercings catch stray light—an industrial bar through my left ear, and two cuffs curling my right, a pair of studs glinting from my lower lip, my long hair cropped and shaved on both sides—temptation wearing a warning.
Across my back, my midnight wings melt into my flesh, inked shadows coiled beneath my skin, etched in lines so perfect the most skilled mortal hands might have scribed them.
They burn with power, hidden but eager—a black T-shirt covers the rest of the ancient runes across my chest, inked into patterns that mark me as what I am—the harbinger of endings.
I had almost forgotten what my mortal form looked like; it’s been so long—this modern version of me is not quite to my taste, but I’ll make do.
My brother Charon’s boat creaks at my side as though it were alive.
The boat is his home for obvious reasons, he remains a nomad, docking every once in a while along my court for some respite.
I don’t mind, Charon doesn’t get in the way, or speak.
He is the easiest of my brothers. The other, my twin, like my father, we prefer not to talk about him.
In my humble opinion, he deserves to be locked in Tartarus right next to the bastard, but I digress.
Noir flies across the skies in the form of a raven, back from whatever trouble she was brewing. Transforming, she perches on the ornate serpent carved into the prow of Charon’s boat—resplendent in mortal form.
“You know he hates it when you do that,” I grunt, still giving myself a once-over. “He’ll drown you in the river if you don’t get down.”
The shapeshifter is more beautiful than a goddess, legs crossed, leather hugging every curve as if it were poured onto her—a Moroccan fire, with jade eyes liable to stop the heart of many.
“I won’t tell you if you don’t.” Her voice coils around me—smoke, seduction, sin, but her brow furrows in concern. “What’s eating you?”
I spin my butterfly knife, the blade flickering like a spark, then snap it closed and sling it into my pocket. “Souls are slipping through my fingers up there. I’d rather not explain to Hades why the ledger’s bleeding.”
“How did this happen?” she hisses.
“It’s a long story I’d rather not go over.”
Her braid brushes her shoulder as she tilts her head. “So, you’re going up?”
“Yeah.” I exhale heavily.
She drifts off the serpent’s head, landing before me with a predator’s grace. “Then I’m coming with you. Obviously.”
“Obviously?” I catch her at the waist, pressing her into me while she straightens my jacket, ensuring I look like the perfect palette for mortal obsession. “You sure you can handle the living, princess? They’ll tear each other apart to get to you.”
Her nails trace a slow, scorching path down my chest. “Says the man who turns heads without a thought. You’re a god among men. I’ll just be there for moral support—make sure you survive the worship without Hades tearing you a new one.”
My lips hover near hers. “Are you saying I can’t survive without you? Calling me sloppy?”
“Never sloppy,” she purrs, chin tipped like a dare. “Just reckless. Someone has to keep Death on a leash.”