"This again?" Thanatos' tone hinted at annoyance, but his expression remained stoic as ever. "I suspect you are doing this on purpose."

Theirs was a strange dynamic. He was the God of Death, bound to fetch the spirits of the deceased. And this was one of Zeus' many illegitimate offspring, cursed by Hera to not enter the Underworld, unable to truly die. And so, Thanatos would dutifully come fetch the soul, which he knew he couldn't, and be forced to wait there while the body regenerated and the soul returned to it.

"Does it not bore you, being stuck with me for this process every time?" he asked, exasperated, as he crossed his arms. "I cannot imagine myself to be pleasant company. And it must be painful, besides. The physical process of death, that is. Most souls only have to undergo it once, yet here you are, doing it every other day like it is your favorite pastime."

He'd long suspected that this mortal—was "mortal" even the correct word?—took an interest in him that went beyond his role as death itself, but what this interest entailed, he couldn't tell. Thanatos wasn't the cheeriest of people, barely ever smiling and speaking in monotone. His routine was limited to his duties, given how frequently mortals died.

In fact, this particular situation gave him more breaks than he'd ever had in his very long existence. He was honor bound to attend to a disembodied soul, and so the first time he'd had to do this, nobody within his jurisdiction could die, which had annoyed his sisters, the Moirai, greatly. They'd eventually reached an agreement, but that had been quite awkward.

"You need to at least stop doing this so often. Atropos is quite cross with me, as though I have a say in any of this." He sighed, rolling his golden eyes. "Not that this curse is your fault in any way, I suppose, but still. You are causing a disruption in the cycle of life, and for what? Surely hearing me grouse does not make for engaging entertainment."