Chapter Text
After countless centuries of roaming lands full of beginnings and ends, of lives and deaths, how might one change? What would one remember? The lessons, the patterns, the people they allowed close to them. The curses.
His curse was one he’d not seen plaguing another, the burden was his alone. No one would have guessed it by looking at him, for his sky blue eyes and golden hair like the sun, his warm smile, his wings of purest white—everything about him, ever since he was just a boy, spoke life. But suffering followed him and fell upon those who drew near. Death and destruction in the wake of a young angel—an immortal—who longed to create.
He didn’t know from the beginning, but the patterns are telling to those perceptive enough to recognize them. It was difficult not to notice the way the people in his town began dropping like flies from a sickness he’d never contract. The way the bitter cold of harsh winters left him with shivers while others were dying or frostbitten. The way the old king died the day he sought an audience with him.
The way his old home prospered after he left.
So he wandered, with some guilt but more morbid curiosity, from town to town, city to city, nation to nation, carried on his strong wings. His wings, by appearance, free of guilt or blame—the pure white of the lazily drifting clouds on a summer morning, or the glittering pristineness of fresh snowfall in the chilling winter months. Wings that claim the faultlessness of a man witnessing tragedy after tragedy in the wake of his arrival, time and time again.
And so time passed on.
He traveled alone, from place to place. For days, weeks, months, years, he wandered by his lonesome. Time passed in a blur, but there wasn’t a single moment that he did not feel alive as ever. Soaring through the clouds with a pair of wings to match them, exploring new places and watching nations and empires rise and fall, visiting strange worlds and dimensions, slaying dragons, spending years alone on building and creating structures that would be deemed impressive by anyone’s standards, or exploring those created long before his time. His travels brought him to places of many wonders; temples and catacombs of times ancient even to him, full of riches and artifacts that a nomad such as himself often bothered not to take but still marveled at all the same. Everywhere he went, he took time to learn and found that every new place had something to teach.
As he travelled between kingdoms and empires, watching from afar, he saw more patterns in the repetition of history. From observation, he learned the valuable lessons of rulers and tyrants, of peoples’ stubborn blindness to truth, of war and its tolls.
The cycles continued, on and on. Sometimes, he would venture to find companionship, however short-term he knew it would be. He would allow himself to grow close to someone, to make a friend, a bond—a family, though never by blood.
Loss, he knew, was an inevitability, however.
One by one, he’d watch them pass away as he, faultless but guilty, remained. Helpless, he watched each soul he cared for fall away and leave him with nothing to do but move on with the endless march of time.
As the years, the decades, the centuries passed on, the thoughts of their deaths would fade from his mind. The grief, sorrow, regret, the faces would all fade into the haze of the past until all that remained were fond memories and a longing to try again.
Unknowingly, he settled into his own cycle. One of temporary happiness and the following grief. One of more loss than gain. One he would never admit to.
Despite his habit of seeking out people, he did find happiness on his own. He grew content to watch history unfold from a distance. He found familiarity in the constant rise and fall—of the sun, of the moon, of the seas, of nations, of tyrants, of everything in its turn.
Subconsciously, he grew used to the cycles over time. Grew tired of them, honestly. Watching history repeat grows tiresome over time, after all.
So, it was with great surprise and pleasure that one of his own cycles was suddenly broken one day. His pattern of loneliness. In all his years he’d find only two people unhindered by his curse. On a calm spring morning, he found the first.
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His travels brought him through a field of flowers blooming as the sun rose above distant peaks to the east and bathed the plains in a golden warmth. He’d decided to take a few days’ break from his latest building endeavor, travelling the direction of morning. With his eyes closed and wings and face turned toward the warm light of the rising sun, he walked.
Carefree and without worry, he walked and paid no heed to where his feet fell, having long learnt to rely on his instincts to sense any danger. And so, sensing no danger, he was surprised when the warmth went away and his face was cast in shadow.
His eyes opened to find something… unexpected. Before him stood a tall tree—several trees for that matter. A forest, by all means! A forest he certainly did not remember seeing earlier. A forest that obscured the view of the distant hills he had marveled at not long ago. A deep forest, hiding the light of the rising sun.
He was sure, certain, that this had not been here before. So, how had it appeared here? He’d seen a lot—truly, a lot—in his time, but never a phenomenon such as this. The forest seemed impossibly dark within, shrouded by a swirling haze.
His gaze was fixed on the mystery and his feet set like stone, immovable. Any thought of turning away had been banished from his mind, as if the forest itself compelled him to enter, draw nearer, explore. So he stepped forward, his curiosity captivated by this strange wonder.
Living so many years he’d learned to be wary. Darkness brings with it foul creatures that seek death, and he’d learned to deal with many, many a monster. As he took slow, careful steps into the peculiar forest, he summoned his bow to his hand and drew back an arrow.
The darkness fell away like a veil as he moved deeper. Light, soft and enchanting, danced around each tree. A light mist hung in the air, and the sunlight filtering through the foliage and reflecting on the haze gave the whole scene a dreamlike quality.
He felt at ease, and that alone almost frightened him. Almost. Still he moved deeper, his wings held around him like a shield. Just in case.
He quieted his steps, for he believed it a crime to disturb the silence of what felt like a near sacred place. He felt like a trespasser, but welcome all the same. He walked slower, quieted his breaths, tried to calm his racing heart. Or, was that right?
He wasn’t scared—no, there was not much that could scare him anymore. He felt calm, peaceful. A voice in the back of his mind told him it was the forest or something inside doing this to him, telling him that he ought to feel unsettled.
So no, maybe he wasn’t calming his heart. Maybe he was wondering why it wasn’t racing at all.
All thoughts and motions stilled at the appearance of something new. A sound. The first sound he had heard since entering this peculiar place. Music. A voice.
A beautiful voice that couldn’t have come from very far away hummed an unfamiliar song, the tune just as mysterious and dreamlike as the surroundings.
He loosened the bowstring as he took a few more hazy steps deeper into the forest, disarmed by the enchanting voice. When he found the source of the song, his bow and arrow fell to the forest floor as he stood there in awe.
Before him, in a glade of blooming flowers and sunlight dancing on the mist, stood a woman with her back turned.
This woman had dark hair flowing from beneath a large hat that had a long veil hanging from its rim and little charms—feathers, gems, bones and the sort—decorating its surface. She had wings, beautiful wings with feathers of black and deep purple. She was clothed in a beautiful dress of purples and blacks, much of it adorned with ribbons tying feathers and small bones.
He was convinced now that he was dreaming. She couldn’t be real. None of this could be real.
If it was a dream, he wasn’t sure he wanted to wake up.
He watched in silence as the woman walked slowly through the glade. In her wake, flowers bloomed and saplings grew taller. The mist parted before her. The light around each tree grew brighter as she drew near.
As he watched and listened, the tune she hummed grew familiar. He could have hummed along, but did not dare make a sound lest the woman be disturbed and he wake from this dream.
Finally she reached the end of the glade, and he feared he might lose her to the dream. Instead, she turned around and looked over the glade and at the life that had sprung up around her feet. She scanned the scene with a pleasant gaze.
He held his breath when the woman’s gaze fell on him, and her humming stopped. Her dark eyes, ever darker behind the veil, fixed him with a look of surprise, then softened into something much kinder. Much happier. And oh did a smile look stunning on her.
“My, my,” she said, and oh did her voice sound like music, “it’s been quite a long time since I’ve seen an angel walk in the realm of men.”
His face flushed and his wings puffed slightly with—well, he wasn’t quite sure what emotion he was meant to feel when the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, in a mysterious forest nonetheless, called him an angel. His mind raced as he searched for some way to respond.
“Pardon me,” he settled for, “but I’m no angel.”
“No? Well, my mistake then.” She spoke with a genuine smile and a slight laugh, and she fixed him with a look of curiosity.
He only blushed a little harder.
“What’s your name then?”
His heart skipped a beat, he couldn’t be sure why. “Phil”
“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Phil.”
He gave her a smile and a nod that was only slightly awkward.
Phil hesitated for just a moment as he pondered. Then, “Are you?”
“Pardon?”
He cleared his throat. “Are you an angel?”
She ducked her head ever-so-slightly with a widening smile, and—was she blushing? He couldn’t tell with the veil. “No, I can’t say that I am.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered under his breath, and Primes he hoped she didn’t hear him. Or, perhaps he hoped she did. She made no indication either way. “Who are you?”
A darkness—or a sadness—crossed her face as her smile faltered. She looked away for just a moment.
Oh. Oh dear. Had he offended her? Perhaps he should—
“They call me Death. The Goddess of Death. Lady Death herself, take your pick.” Her smile, now, seemed a sad one.
He faltered. Oh. He certainly hadn’t been expecting that. He cleared his throat again. “And… is that your name?”
‘Lady Death’ looked at him again, expression full of surprise and mayhaps a bit of hopefulness. “Are you not afraid?”
He was. He was afraid. Deep down he knew, a small part of him was terrified. But, perhaps a part of him still believed that this was all a dream, or that someone with such a kind face and calming presence could never be a ‘Goddess of Death.’
Either way, he fixed her with a warm, reassuring smile. “What’s your name?”
Her eyes softened, and her genuine expression mirrored his. “Kristin.” And oh was that the prettiest name he’d heard in a long, long time.