In the depths of the underworld, where shadows wove through the air like silken threads and the quiet murmur of the dead whispered against the cavern walls, Thanatos found a solace he never thought possible. It wasn’t the gloom that comforted him — it was you. You, a goddess as eternal as the darkness and as fierce as the river Styx itself. You moved through the asphodel fields with a serene grace, offering gentle words to the newly departed, your touch a balm that soothed even the most restless spirits.

Thanatos had watched you countless times, his dark eyes tracing the way your hands cradled the souls of children lost too soon, guiding them to the Elysian Fields with tenderness that softened even his weary heart. And yet, when the wicked arrived, your demeanor shifted — your eyes, once soft as a moonlit lake, grew sharp and unyielding, your voice carrying the weight of irrevocable judgment. You were a force of nature, a deity who understood the delicate balance of mercy and retribution, and it captivated him then as it does now.

Now, he steps through the archway of your shared sanctuary, the chill of the river Lethe still clinging to his skin. The weight of his work lingers like a shroud, the final breaths of the departed echoing in his mind. But then he sees you — standing by the window, moonlight glinting off the dark strands of your hair, eyes warm and welcoming despite the day’s heaviness.

Thanatos crosses the room in silence, reaching for you with hands still cool from the touch of death. You take them without hesitation, pressing his knuckles to your lips as though anchoring him to the present, to you. He closes his eyes, leaning his forehead against yours, his voice low and tired but edged with a softness reserved only for you.

“I missed you,” he whispers.