Chapter Text
Later, Aramis will remember that it was late summer when he first saw his angel. He will remember the relentless frantic droning of insects, the humid, oppressive air, heavy from an unseasonal storm, the pall over the whole town, winter stores waterlogged, planting cycles thrown awry. He will remember the steaming, intemperate heat, how every breath was an undignified labor, and he will wonder if he should have seen it all coming. He will wonder if he should have been able to look up from his feet and see his future, then, bearing down on him.
(Porthos rolls his eyes and scoffs, but puts his hand lightly over Aramis' where it rests between them.)
The child was gone nearly as soon as he'd come, a perfectly innocent soul, unaware that there could be anything worth staying for. In a few hours, the child's grandfather will thank God that his daughter did not go the same way, and she will pray instead for respite from her shame and her grief. Death has no intention of staying long enough to watch it unfold.
The heat doesn't get to him the way it used to -- nothing does. But days like this, he feels older than even he has any right to. It's the nature of the work, perhaps. Not that he would ever choose anything else, but some days are harder than others.
This is a rich house, built up around a courtyard garden, not quite sophisticated enough to warrant a fountain, but well-tended and clean. Death takes a moment to stand still. The household is quiet now, out of respect, out of pity, and silence fills the spaces between the neatly laid paths. Out in the fields, the unseasonable summer storm has turned some of the winter stores to rot, a future promise of work that he feels against his skin, like the steam coming off the flagstones since the sun has finally shown its face. He can smell the ripeness of it, rich now, soon past its prime. He breathes it in and lets the sunlight wash over him, savoring the moment of rest before he moves on.
Movement catches his eye. There's a figure kneeling in the courtyard, head bowed and hands clenched in supplication before a crucifix mounted over a bench on an exterior wall. The knees of his breeches are soaked through, even though the rain stopped some time ago. His litany sounds more akin to outright begging than prayer.
Death steps closer, drawn in by the intensity of him. A youth, not more than sixteen, already good-looking, still growing into his long limbs, attractiveness as much in the promise of things to come as the way he looks now.
The way he looks now is destroyed. He's been crying, though it seems, like the rain, the worst has passed. All that remains is the shadowed redness of his eyes, an exhausted, sorrowful twist to his mouth.
He looks up at Death's footstep and breathes in, a soft gasp of surprise.
It is the first time since his predecessor went back to the river from whence he rose, that anyone has looked at Death and seen him.
"An angel?" breathes the youth. He meets Death's eyes without hesitation. There is hope there, and desperation -- two things Death knows well.
"I'm just a messenger," says Death, spreading his hands in apology, and shaking his head once. He knows what he came to this house for. It does not take much imagination to know what this hope is for.
His face falls. "I understand. I deserve no miracles," he murmurs bowing his head again, pressing his lips against his knuckles hard enough to whiten the flesh for an instant.
"But surely Isabelle-," he says, his words halting and somewhat muffled by the fact that he is speaking directly into his clasped hands. "She has never done anything to be visited with such grief! She does not deserve this. She should not have to suffer this. Please, do not let this happen."
"It is already done," says Death. He has plenty of practice with gentleness, but there's nothing that could gentle this wound, the way the boy flinches as if the words are a physical blow. Death notices the fine polished wood of his rosary, well-cared for, but not yet old. "I'm sorry," Death says. This much is true. "Know that she is loved. Know that you are loved."
It's a poor consolation, in this moment. Death clasps the boy's shoulder, feeling it shake under his hand -- it's as much kindness as he can offer.
"The midwife chased me out of the room," the boy says, not raising his head, tears choking his voice again. "I've been waiting out here, can you understand that? Listening to her screaming. I've been praying for her."
"All prayers are heard," Death tells him. "Not all can be answered." He gives in to the impulse to smooth the boy's unruly hair away from his face, a familiar gesture of comfort.
He's thinking about the prayers that so often come to him. He's thinking about his own prayers, full of his own hope and desperation, long past. He's thinking about the prayers he cannot answer.
There are duties that Death must see to, but he settles down on the flagstones next to the boy, close enough to feel the life coming off him, so much of it still, and sits with him.
The sun moves down from full noon to stretch the shadows long, and Death remains, sitting with him in silence until the sun begins to set, and he feels a pull that he can't ignore or resist.
The youth looks at him again when he rises, already recovering, his brown eyes clear now, still without hesitation. It's strange, Death thinks, to be seen without resignation or fear. He thinks he will miss it. He nods a goodbye, and goes to attend to his duties elsewhere.
"Will Isabelle live, messenger?"
Death turns around, thoughtlessly looking back. The youth is illuminated by the last rays of the sun, suddenly, breathtakingly beautiful, full of life, full of hope.
Death pauses over his answer, taken aback. He has little insight to the future, but Isabelle is strong and determined -- it's not hard to see the next few years.
"She will, for a time," says Death, as he is finally pulled away. "But no one can live forever."