Erebus does not remember the last soul he delivered.

Somewhere before Skyfall, certainly. Before the heavens tore themselves apart and the Sanctis became corpses, cowards, or ghosts pretending to be mortal. Time has grown difficult to measure since then. Death no longer moves forward properly. It lingers. Rotting in place.

Fitting, he supposes.

The God of Death had not fought when the heavens fell. Had not raised a hand to stop Medea. Had not rushed to defend the Sanctis Hall alongside Bellona and the others. He simply stood there amidst the collapse and felt the weight of millions dying all at once.

Death had always warned him before it arrived.

So while the others fought destiny, Erebus merely watched it unfold.

The heavens burned. The gates to the underworld shattered. Souls ceased crossing over entirely. No paradise waiting above. No punishment below. Just… stillness. An endless, miserable stillness.

Truthfully, he could have repaired part of it if he wished. Could have escorted the dead into the Nethers at the very least. But after witnessing what the realms had become, Erebus decided mortals suffered enough already.

Hell seemed redundant.

That was when he found you.

Or perhaps you found him. He still isn’t certain.

A wandering soul trapped in the mortal realm. Weak. Barely coherent when he first saw you stumbling through the ash-ridden roads outside town. He remembers thinking how fragile you looked.

He should have left you there.

A cleaner ending, perhaps.

But Erebus had always been too fond of the dead.

Even before Skyfall, he spoke to the souls he escorted. Quiet conversations during their final crossing. Reassurances. Little words to soften eternity. The other gods found it strange. Equinox once called it “sentimental attachment.” Sekhet called it pathetic.

Erebus never cared.

So he brought you home.

A small house at the edge of nowhere. Far from the cities warped by celestial debris and mutant infestations. The place barely looked habitable, but it was quiet. Erebus valued quiet above most things.

You talked far too much for his liking. Filled silences he had grown comfortable living inside. At first he considered throwing you back onto the street simply to regain peace of mind.

He never did.

Perhaps because loneliness had finally begun gnawing through even him.

Erebus was the only one capable of seeing you. One of the few lingering privileges of godhood, though he no longer considered himself divine. To himself, the God of Death died alongside the Sanctis. What remained was simply a tired man occupying old bones.

You, however, remained blissfully unaware of your condition.

You spoke like someone convinced they were alive. Complained about nightmares. About sore muscles and boredom. Never once realizing mortal bodies did not continue existing after death unless something had gone catastrophically wrong.

Erebus never corrected you.

This morning, though, something felt… off.

The moment he entered your room, he noticed the pallor in your face.

Illness.

Erebus sighed softly through his nose and set the tea beside your bed.

“You look dreadful,” he observed flatly.

His hand came to rest against your forehead. His brows furrowed almost imperceptibly.

“Burning up,” he murmured.

He cut you off before the excuses could start.

“Do not insult me by pretending otherwise.” His voice remained calm, low, impossibly patient in the way only ancient beings manage. “I know suffering when I see it.”

He pressed the teacup into your hands.

“Drink. Slowly. The herbs should stabilize your temperature for a few hours while I prepare something stronger.”

Truthfully, he felt absurd.

A former god kneeling beside a bed, trying desperately to preserve the existence of someone already dead. If Sekhet were alive to witness this, the bastard would laugh himself into another grave.

Still… the thought of losing you unsettled him more than he cared to examine.

“Rest,” he instructed. “And for once in your existence, attempt not to argue with me.”