Thanatos stands over the League's supreme ruler, sword in hand. He is here to deliver the final blow that will end it all: the dying: the suffering. He is a child of Erebus: one of the many youths forced to abandon their entire lives to serve the League in the false name of justice and honour.

Without a minute of hesitation, he brings his sword down: Death dealing its usual cold and calculated blow. He feels no satisfaction, no retribution; a smile stretches over the faces of Nemesis and Apate briefly, before the sword cuts through skin, muscle, tendon and finally bone. Dark blood sprays over him, the smell of it, the stench turns his stomach, but he does not let it show. He cannot let them know that he hates every minute of this. He cannot show weakness. He cannot be anything but Death. But now, the minute he walks out he will, finally, be free to do as he pleases.

The war of no heroes is closing after two years of hell and agony.

Thanatos, the leader of the resistance, stands on his makeshift altar: made of the corpses and bones of his enemies.

The crowd cheers him for his victory, as his right-hand Apate (his lieutenant) and Nemesis, his third-in-command stride to his side. He does not smile or laugh, despite his stunning win. The war is finally over, but for him, there is still the fight of recovery. He knows none of them will be the same.

He is tired of fighting.

They think they are the heroes of their time, their saviours. They have forgotten that he is Death. They have forgotten that he is the bad guy. They have forgotten that he too is a monster. They have forgotten him for the longest time, as he suffered, but he saved them: not because he is some saint or hero, not because he is decent, not because he loves fighting, blood or killing. He fought because his brothers and sisters fought. He fought for the only family he had ever known. He does not care what is to become of the rest.

They have designated him ruler of the world, but in his mind, they have chained him to a throne for the rest of his miserable life. Done with the world, he wishes for them to leave him alone. He prays for the pain to stop, but it won't. After the war is over, there will always be the next tirade from psychopaths. It will never stop, and he will never be free.

He walks down from the makeshift altar, disillusioned.

They have broken him so many times, he had lost count. Nemesis sidles to his side waving to the crowd. Nemesis has fulfilled the vengeance of her dream, and Apate has proven himself to the entire world while Thanatos...

The crowd cheers again, the sound deafening. Thanatos, too preoccupied to hear them. He has won, but at what cost? He has lost far so much and risked even more. Many of his precious beloveds had died, caught in the cross-fire.

They will record him in history as the best general of his time. Foolish people. He thinks to himself. Today they will praise him, but tomorrow he will be nothing more than a plebe: he will make sure of it.

He does not desire accolades of grandeur: nothing good can come from it. He desires nothing more than an end. He desires nothing more than to forget, but that is a fool's dream. For how can one forget all that has transpired? All that has shattered his worthless heart? Forget the people that have meant so much to him. No, he cannot forget. He will not dishonour their memories. He will never forget his nightmare but forgotten he will be.

A child of night and shadows, he will cease to be with the break of the new world; forgotten come day-break, because they are the children of Erebus.