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Mortal lives are short, and even shorter when War is involved.
Those who die by the sword are not Thanatos' responsibility. His are those whose fields are razed for the sake of other people's strategies, those who succumb to starvation or sickness or take their last breath in their sleep, at peace against all odds. So when he heeds the call that draws him away from Elysium, he does not expect to appear where he does: in a site of violent death, blood seeping into the snow as far as the eye can see.
The battlefield reeks of carnage and desperation. Some of it is the kind that Thanatos is accustomed to hearing from his charges: pleas for more time, another chance, a different fate. But stronger than that is an anger that resonates with the one inside him. He gazes out at those who died with their enemies' blood on their hands and a firm grip on their weapon, as if saying: If this is to be the end, then I will face it on my own terms.
He thinks of Zagreus in Elysium just moments ago, bruised and bloodied and bent on leaving him behind. What was there to say to him, except goodbye?
Across the plains, as he searches for his assignment, he spots a familiar figure amid the desolation.
"My Lord Thanatos." Ares stands atop the smoking ruin of a fallen chariot, presiding over the destruction he has wrought. At the moment, he is looking directly at Thanatos. "What a pleasant surprise. It is not often that we have cause to meet so deep in the heart of my domain. How may I serve you this eve?"
The smile on Ares' face is measured and polite, but there is a wild gleam in his eyes. He, too, is covered in blood: red, and still warm despite the chill of the air. Something about it pulls Thanatos forward, and he drifts closer without thinking. He thinks he sees Ares' smile sharpen for a brief instant; like the glint of torchlight on a blade, there and gone.
"I felt the pull of a soul on the surface," Thanatos says, which is true, if vague. It would be too embarrassing to admit his suspicion that he's come to the wrong location. "There's no need to concern yourself with my presence, Lord Ares. I will find my charge, if they're here, and leave you to your business."
"Death is my business, and so your presence is most welcome, for as long as you would grace me with it." He sounds genuine in that sentiment, as always, unlike most others that Thanatos encounters on the surface. "Though... if it is a singular soul you seek, perhaps you may appreciate a vantage point from which to search."
With a chivalrous wave of his hand, he gestures an invitation to the empty space beside him, atop the chariot. How unnecessary, Thanatos thinks; he is already levitating, and can thus create his own vantage. But it would be rude to decline, so he goes.
The lingering echoes of violence press in on Thanatos as he raises himself beside Ares. He casts out his senses across the landscape to find the thread of fate he's been called to sever, if any exists. Unlikely though it seems, there may be some intrepid soul that escaped from the fighting only to freeze in the biting cold. But there's no quiet end to be had in a place like this; the air is heavy with suffering.
The blood of mortal warriors that has splattered Ares' armor and skin is the last trace of life to be found. If Thanatos listens closely, he can faintly hear the memory of a heartbeat contained within each drop. Hundreds of them, and they call to him, like the pull of a tether hooked to his very core. That vitality lays a haze over his senses, and he leans into it.
"You've a curious look about you." Ares speaks over the low thrum of the blood, and Thanatos scowls. "Have you found your target, O Death?"
"Be quiet for a moment, please," Thanatos tells him.
He hooks his fingers in the crevice of Ares' breastplate, instinctively seeking to keep him in place. It may be unnecessary. In this proximity, Ares has gone utterly still. And it's becoming harder to think of him as more than a canvas for the blood smeared on him.
A trail of it curves down his neck. Filled with an overwhelming need that he hardly recognizes as his own, Thanatos closes his mouth over it, licking all the way up to the corner of Ares' jaw. The blood is warm on his tongue, strangely comforting.
He feels Ares draw a sharp breath, his pulse picking up under Thanatos' lips, but that isn't what Thanatos is hungry for. He hears himself growl in the back of his throat, a reminder to be quiet, and laps at whatever traces of mortal life he can find on the skin. Every drop is imbued with the drive that fueled these people to keep going in the face of certain doom. Thanatos drinks it in and wonders, through the haze of his need and the raw hurt inside him, if this is what Zagreus might have tasted like if Thanatos had held him like this in Elysium and forced him to stay.
The sound that escapes him then is barely recognizable as his own voice.
"Thanatos," Ares whispers, and Thanatos feels a large hand settle on his waist. "Anything you wish, I would gladly yield to you."
It strikes Thanatos, then, exactly what he is doing. The words pierce through that haze in his mind, and all of a sudden he is aware of Ares' scent underneath the blood and the hard edges of his armor digging into Thanatos' fingers. He is not Zagreus—nor would this animalistic lust be any more appropriate if it were. This is the worst possible time to discover such urges inside himself.
He feels himself flush as he pushes the fantasies down and disentangles from Ares and the heady thrum of life that clings to him. Ares does not try to restrain him, and somehow that is worse.
"Thanatos," he says again, gentle as Thanatos knows him not to be. Part of him wishes Ares hadn't spoken, but then—what, then? The thought makes a shiver run down his spine, terrifying for the appeal that it holds.
There is nothing for Thanatos here. Nothing back home, if Zagreus succeeds. But there must be work, somewhere, and that is all he needs to manage for now.
"I'm deeply sorry." Thanatos cannot meet Ares' eyes. He gives a stiff nod, as much of a pleasantry as he is able to muster after that. Privately, he is thankful that their paths so rarely cross. "I have to go."
He casts about for the pull of a soul anywhere else, and vanishes in a flash of green. Mortal lives are short, and he is already late.