Work Text:
He isn’t the first to meet the successor, he isn’t even the first to see him, that honor goes to Hypnos. His twin had glimpsed the boy as he and a Judge walked along the River Lethe to find a child. Looking at him now, Thanatos finds his physical form lacking. He’s no great beauty, unlike his companion. That one is a mystery. Thanatos’ hands slid off him when he had tried to give a playful tug, just to see if he could. Deathless? Perhaps, perhaps not. He holds dominion over peaceful deaths while his sister Keres, along with her many Valkyrie friends, gather their dead from violent deaths. He has a lot of free time on his hands nowadays.
“Brother.”
“Sister.”
The two gods stand in silence as they watch their future king’s stories mesh and swirl. Every story is different, but usually not this different. They tend to stay stationary, bound to their flesh even after death, until someone like them comes and reaps them. Kim Dokja is far from still. He’s still bound in the most literal sense, story rooted to his meat suit, but by the thinnest stem Thanatos has ever seen. Most stories stay inside their bodies, instinctively knowing that creatures far worse than Thanatos and his ilk may find them if they don’t. Kim Dokja is quite happy to flash his story to the whole Starstream. Thread-like tendrils reach out to twine around certain people. If he has to describe it, it’s like comparing a patch of sunflowers to a single potato. One hides in the dirt while the other reaches to the sun.
“The little shit’s gotten larger.”
“He’s gained another legendary story.”
“Ho? What did the crazy kid do this time?”
“He killed an Outer God.”
“No shit?!” Keres laughs, “You’re not kidding? Way to go successor! Wait, then what are you doing here?”
Thanatos coughs and looks away. What he did with his free time was none of her business. While Keres is too busy laughing and hitting him to notice, Thanatos sees Kim Dokja’s story shudder. It tends to do this. In fits and bursts, Kim Dokja will regain consciousness for a short period before tiring and falling back asleep.
“He’s waking up again.”
They both watch as the story contracts, pulling itself into a more uniform shape. It blinks up at them and give a little ripple in greeting. He’s not quite awake, they wouldn’t be here if he was. There are rules for infringing on scenarios, a no contact policy with incarnations before death is one of them. A small bump forms on the story’s body and flashes at them.
“Little successor, come to noona.”
Keres coos as a tendril wiggles its way loose. It hesitantly circles the main stem before slowly drifting to the two death gods. Inch by inch it closes the distance, sometimes pulling back when Keres gets exceptionally loud. Eventually though, it reaches them. Keres squeals in delight when it lightly pats at her.
“Brother, brother he’s touching me!” she whispers.
“Don’t you have work?”
She reaches out and clenches, “He’s so squishy, yes he is. Who has no structure to their narrative? You do! Yes, you do! Who’s isn’t even Historical grade?”
“That’s our future king you’re manhandling.”
“You probably can’t even kill an incarnation by yelling at this size. Who’s a tiny baby?”
Thanatos’ sister may be a little problematic. Kim Dokja is flailing in her hands. The tendril whips between her hand and its body like a jump rope. It starts to darken and thin in distress as Keres tightens her grip.
Having enough of her foolishness, Thanatos slaps her hand open, “Enough, he’s going to wake up soon and you have work to do.”
“That’s not fair! How come only I have to work?”
“I have work as well. Come on, off we go.”
He shoves her until she sighs in defeat. Opening her wings, she takes off to another battlefield. Making sure she actually leaves and isn’t just hiding, Thanatos turns his back to Kim Dokja. He opens his own wings and is about to take off when he feels a tug. Looking back, he sees the tendril yank at his feathers. He’s so stunned that he can’t block the next attack. The story rams into his chest and slithers up to curl along his collar bone.
Its soft. There’s no overarching narrative, no great moral or theme beyond vague rebellion tying his stories together. Yet, it is… not unpleasant. To feel the emotions behind each action, jumbled as they are, or hear the recitation fumble and jump scene to scene with halfhearted transitions, sometimes even cutting from one climax to another. It's a mess, but a charming one.
“I hope the queen introduces us soon, little on. Until then be patient.”
Gently untangling himself, he gives Kim Dokja a final stroke and takes off.