Work Text:
Death and Her General,
Oil on canvas, c. 1545 A.D.
Artist Unknown
If Nesta had to pick, she supposed this painting was her favorite.
The woman, the warrior, with a golden mask on her face, her eyes glowing an iridescent silver. She held a sword in one hand, and a harp in the other, her hair loose and flowing around her head. Her dress was a gradient of blues, silvers, ending in an orange that looked like the tips of flames, fanning out over the earth.
She was powerful. Regal. A goddess.
And at her side, stood her General. Clad in black leathers, a mess of dark hair peeking out from the helm that covered his eyes, his bronze skin eerily perfect, save for a single gash on his lower cheek. Red gems were strapped to his chest, his shoulders, his knees, and hands. He held a large sword in one hand while the other rested on his Lady’s shoulder, devoted, until the end.
Behind them was a war zone – two armies clashing for control of the world – one undead and one comprised of gods and men alike.
But the focus of this story was always Lady Death and her General. The pair of them were eternal, a love story that nothing had ever compared to, in all the years Nesta spent reading. She’d devoured the texts in the original Illyrian, in English, and Ancient Greek, and French. She studied every adaptation of it she could find.
She was, after all, writing a damn thesis on it.
On divine feminine power and its portrayals throughout history, with Lady Death as her case study. It was a hefty work in progress, one that was often just as frustrating as it was exhilarating. More often than not, it resulted in one of her dear friends insisting she take a break – a walk up the street to the National Gallery.
Every time she visited, she ended up here, admiring her Lady like the devout follower she was. Nesta could stare at the work for hours, entranced, picking up the various shades in the pigment, the level of detail in the background, and on the subjects’ dress and armor. No other piece captured them as perfectly as this one. It was exactly as she pictured them in her head: strong, and able to withstand anything, so long as they were together.
It filled her with a kind of desire for a similar companionship. Not to defeat death gods, of course, but a partner to stand through fire with her, that was always there no matter how horrible things became.
Loneliness was a feeling Nesta Archeron was well accustomed to, but looking at them, she often found herself in a unique state of yearning.
A yearning she only let herself feel while standing right here, alone, with her thoughts, and the strange kinship she felt with Lady Death, Queen of Queens, savior of worlds.
“She kind of looks like you.”
Nesta blinked, irritation coming down like a hammer at the interruption to her solitude. Turning her head, she took in the man beside her. He was egregiously tall, dressed in a white T-shirt and jeans, an open flannel with rolled up sleeves overtop. His long hair was pulled back, and he was very obviously fit. A backpack was slung over one shoulder, casually.
It was a sharp contrast to her turtleneck sweater and plaid skirt, her black tights and oxfords, the briefcase at her feet.
“Excuse me?” She asked, blunt and cold.
The man raised a hand, pointing to her beloved painting.
“Lady Death. She kind of looks like you.”
His accent was the next thing to grate her nerves. American. Nesta sniffed, turning her head back to look.
“I don’t know how you would know that. Her face is behind a mask.”
The man shrugged, then offered an easy smile. “Maybe it’s the striking demeanor in this depiction. She looks the fiercest and most regal here. ”
Nesta scoffed.
“And you are a connoisseur of the arts, are you? Tourist?”
“Student,” he answered. “I study architecture at UCL.”
Nesta blinked again, turning back to look at him. “You’re at Bartlett?”
He smiled, sheepishly. “Yeah. You know it?”
“Of course I know it. Don’t be ridiculous.”
He laughed again, a sound that was, to her disdain, delightful.
“What about you? You do seem to be an art connoisseur, with how long you’ve been standing here.”
Coughing, she straightened, looking back at the art. “History and classics. Kings.”
“Impressive. I take it you know the story then.”
“Of course.” Nesta said. “Lady Death, though we don’t know her birth name, was a queen devoted to her kingdom. When the gods of the underworld came to destroy her world, she made a deal with death itself, bent it to her will, convinced it to give her its gift, its power. She mastered the Dead Trove and led the war that sent the undead and their vicious ruler back to hell. She lost her mortality and her connection with humanity, doomed to walk beside death all her life. But she is the reason us humans did not fall to darkness.”
“Well, she had help.”
“What?” She asked, raising a brow.
The man pointed to the General at Lady Death’s side. “She had help. Her General was by her side until the end. Helped her find the items, guarded her while she made her deal with death. He led her armies while she wielded the Trove. And afterwards, he served as her final link to her previous life. And after he passed, he refused to cross into the afterlife, if only to be with her. It was a partnership.”
Nesta crossed her arms, slowly.
“You know your mythology.”
The man shrugged. “I dabble. This one’s my favorite, though.”
Snorting, she replied, “and why is that? Let me guess, a lover of the Great Wars?”
All men were, after all.
“Because it’s a love story.”
Nesta’s brows rose into her hairline, unable to hide her surprise. Without missing a beat, the man continued,
“He would die for her. And she would die for him. It’s never stated outright, but if you read between the lines in the original texts, it’s clear. They’re in love. It’s their love that drives them forward, to save their people. And it’s their love that keeps her from going mad in the years that follow, as death’s queen.”
“You’ve read the texts.”
“Mhm. I’m learning to read them in the original Illyrian.”
For several seconds, she could just stare at him. Who was this stranger and why was he able to speak so accurately to this one niche thing she loved with her whole heart?
“I see.”
He turned towards her then, holding out a hand.
“Cassian.”
“What?” She asked, head moving down to focus on how long his fingers were, the size of his palm.
Huge.
“My name is Cassian. I figure I should tell you, since we skipped introductions and moved straight into analysis.”
“Oh.” She said, still staring at his hand.
God, he could probably engulf her entire wrist with it, if not the width of her waist with it, her neck-
He laughed again, quietly.
“Can I have your name?”
With a jolt, she lifted her head, to meet his eyes.
“I- Nesta. I’m Nesta.”
Slowly, she lifted her hand to accept his, and as their skin touched, a shock seemed to pass through her, filling her from head to toe with a kind of electricity that made every hair stand on end, that left her tingling for minutes afterwards.
The kind she’d only read about.
For a moment, they stood there frozen, his lips having parted, as if he, too, felt whatever had just happened.
“Nesta,” he repeated, a soft, quiet thing. “That’s a beautiful name.”
“I’m sure you say that to all the girls you meet at art museums,” she replied, automatically deflecting.
“No,” he said, entirely serious. “I don’t.”
His gaze felt too profound, too real, and suddenly she couldn’t hold it anymore. So, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she met the eyes of her Lady again, finding comfort there.
She wouldn’t balk at something so simple as a handshake, so Nesta wouldn’t either.
“I’m serious, though,” Cassian added, shoving his hands into his pockets. “She does look like you.”
Nesta snorted.
“By that logic I guess the General looks like you.”
He hummed, thoughtfully. “I guess he does. Shall I swear an oath of fealty to you?”
“Well, I can’t say I’m making a deal with death anytime soon.”
“I would hope not, that would be a tragedy.”
Nesta’s lips twitched, fighting a smile. She would not give him the satisfaction of a laugh so easily.
Instead, they fell into a silence, the two of them simply taking in the painting. She didn’t know why he was here, exactly, only that, despite her initial irritation, she didn’t quite mind.
She was capable of standing next to a stranger and admiring her favorite painting for as long as she wanted. And it didn’t have to mean anything. Even if every fiber of her being wanted her to look at him again.
“This is my favorite one too,” she said, trying to distract herself. “Of them, I mean.”
“How many are there in total?” Cassian asked.
Nesta shrugged. “Maybe a dozen. A few sculptures. But no one does them justice like this.”
“And we don’t know the artist?”
“No,” She said, with a sigh. “We don’t. Isn’t it a shame?”
“I don’t think so,” Cassian replied. “I think it adds mystery.”
She huffed a laugh. “Mystery?”
“Yeah. I don’t think we were supposed to know. Just appreciate it.”
“An interesting perspective.”
“Anyway,” he said abruptly, looking down at his watch. “I’ve bothered you enough. I usually take my lunch here on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but it means I have quite a bit of a walk back to campus.”
“Oh,” Nesta replied, trying to decide why her chest squeezed at hearing that information. “Alright.”
“It was nice to meet you,” Cassian said, with a grin. “Lady Death.”
Without another word, he spun on his heel and disappeared into the crowd. Nesta watched him go, more than a bit helplessly.
She felt as though she should have said something, should have had the last word.
But now he was gone. And it felt…wrong, somehow. She hadn’t even asked for a last name, or hell, a number.
Looking back at the painting, she held the gaze of the woman before her, replaying the interaction in her head. Now that she looked at him, this Cassian did kind of resemble the General.
It made her laugh, softly. Coincidences were aplenty today, it seemed.
As she bent down to pick up her briefcase, to make her own departure, his final words came back to her.
I usually take my lunch here on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
Today was Tuesday.
With a breath, she battled the thought that instantly came to mind.
She supposed it might be possible that Gwyn and Emerie might force her to take another break in two days’ time. Or that she’d need to come back, for analysis’ sake. A pure coincidence, nothing more.
Maybe he’d be here.
And maybe, they’d meet again.
Or maybe they wouldn’t.
Nesta decided she would leave it in the hands of the gods watching over her.
In the hands of fate.