Death. It has many names and many forms. In various cultures and societies, there is a story for each representative of the word and... well, one could call it an occupation too. An eternal occupation. But which form, which story was correct? Who knew the real face of death and what he/she did? Maybe none of them were right. Maybe all of them were.
Regardless of what humans thought and what they chose to believe, Thane only knew what he knew and that was his entire reason for being. And what was that, one might wonder? Why, it was being the personification of Death itself. Full name Thanatos, Thane went through his many, many days taking the souls of hundreds---thousands---in a manner and fashion on he knew how or exercised.
Casually crossing his feet, he watched blankly as the temperature quickly rose in the room. Flames as bright as the sun burned, eating and engulfing everything in sight. Even the couch upon he was sitting was being reduced to cinders, with a heat that would surely melt his skin if he were human. Yet none of the flames touched nor harmed him as he continued to remain where he was.
Glancing at his watch, he counted down the minutes and seconds it would take for the timer to reach its appointed zero. Just off to his left a group of children were trapped in the closet, a weak support beam caught aflame keeping them from coming out without burning themselves. They screamed at the top of their lungs, shrieking and coughing, begging for help. They could not see him, but still they shouted as if they knew someone was there, close enough to help. But Thane did nothing except listen, unable to stop the course that had already been set out for them.
Four children in all, the oldest one twelve, the next ten, then seven, then three. The youngest was barely holding on, her time almost up. Then down the line, one by one, they would all meet their end, and then, only then, would Thane finally make his move.
Hearing the crack of another weak support beam, he adjusted his sleeves, secured the black gloves upon his hands, and drew up the large hood (to call it a cowl would probably be more accurate) of his long black jacket over his head. From beneath his hood, only the sharpness of his red eyes could be seen, the midnight black of his hair blending in too much with his hood.
Another crack, then another, then all of a sudden the whole beam collapsed, falling on top of the children. One by one, with hardly seconds in between, the flicker of life died.
Above on the powerline across the street from the burning building, four crows sat in line, cawing to each other. And down below, there was a gathering crowd, firemen, police, and a screaming woman who was begging for someone to go in there and find her children.
Thane stepped up to the fallen beams and leaned over the fiery edge. Reaching out one gloved hand, he held out four little glass tubes between his fingers. Slowly, each one filled with an individual glowing light. When all four tubes were full, he drew back and capped each one. Holding them up for a proper look, he gauged just how much white light and dark light shown in the tubes. Then, after making his decision, opened up his jacket and stuffed them in either the left or right inner pockets of his jacket. Closing the flaps to the pockets, he zipped up his jacket and turned around. It was time to leave and move on to the next appointed destination. No doubt his various other apparitions would have been done with their own job as well and would have moved onto the next person, their pockets slowly filling with similar tubes of light in them.
On the powerline, the four crows cawed loudly before suddenly taking flight into the sky and disappearing from sight in a flurry of feathers.











