In the realm of the divine, love was an elusive concept. It was an emotion too pure and too fragile to be wielded by mere mortals. Yet, even Death himself could not escape its grasp.
Thanatos, the God of Death, had always been driven by his duty to...
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The grave makes equals of slaves and emperors.
Six feet under, crowned heads and callused hands alike become fodder for maggots. So few remember that as fat kings revel in power and riches, one day they too will molder in the same cold earth as the lowest beggar. That is the great equalizer, the democracy of the grave.
Yet still, these mortals carry on, oblivious as always. They fight their petty wars over scraps of land, raising their pathetic kingdoms from cold, dead rock. All their vaunted works are but motes of dust, here and then gone in the winds of time. But what care do they have for the judgment of history? None can see beyond the moment. So they struggle and strive, ants scurrying about, achieving nothing. Their empires rise and fall with the turning of the ages, and they along with them.
With hammer and chisel, plow and seed, they shaped the land to their will, imprinting their mark upon the earth. Gaia, the slumbering mother of all, felt their footsteps on her breast.
Death has no mercy for humans, just as lust spares none. Though he favored the beds of fellow gods, unlike Zeus and Apollo, who fancied themselves heroes for sheathing their swords in mortal maidens, Thanatos preferred resting his blade against their throats. He recalled their sordid tales—the empty vows, the doomed half-breed children, the delusion of love. These mortals dreamed of coupling with gods, but it always ended in tragedy. And yet they always came back for more, clawing at the sky, the stone in their temples for even the slightest recognition, the barest glimmpse of love from their divine.
"Love?" Thanatos scoffed. A rose-tinted fantasy, at best. Mortals prattle on about love as if it were the purpose of life itself, blind to the thorns that pierce their naive hearts. They speak of love's tender embrace, ignorant of the icy grip of death that awaits them all. Fools—the lot of them.
Love is but a temporary reprieve from the ceaseless march of time, a fleeting respite before the inevitable. Its giddy heights make the fall into his kingdom so much harder. Cradle love gently if you must, but do not be surprised when it shatters in your hands. Love is, after all, as fragile as the mortals who pursue it so desperately. They should enjoy it while they can. Death waits for no man, woman, or child.
The concept of love would forever elude Thanatos. To love was to suffer, and he would have no part in such fleeting human frivolities.
The gods of old were bereft of souls, devoid of the tender embrace of love. Vengeance, greed, and lust were the sole fibers that wove through their delicate silk robes. For him, there were no fragrant enchantments amidst a glistening meadow.
Thanatos stood stoically, his back pressed against the rough, weathered bark of a tree. Its gnarled branches reached out like skeletal fingers, stretching towards the vast expanse of the sea that lay before him. The grains of sand ensnared his weary feet, their relentless grip refusing to relinquish the leather that adorned his shoes.
