Work Text:
Death is fleeting. For every mortal, it (he) comes but once. Just for a moment, just at the very end. Whether that ending comes slowly or quite suddenly, surrounded by familiar faces or looking into the eyes of a stranger with weapon in hand, the world stills as it (he) approaches. A gentle hand to guide them to what comes next, long enough to feel the ghost of its (his) touch but not enough to linger.
Death’s hand lingers on his chest as he sleeps beside him, bodies tangled together still, and War holds his breath. Listens to the steady breathing and keeps himself still, aching not to disturb him. To keep him for longer than just a moment.
War holds its (his) breath in honour of the funeral pyres, of the truce made to bury the dead. In honour of death (in honour of Death). Watches as mortals beat their breasts and cut their hair and have their bloody hands kissed and give up their rage in favour of shared grief. War steps aside to make room for mourning, pauses its (his) bloody streak to allow for funeral rites and grief and tradition and prayer.
And that could be where the story ends. War halted in its tracks in deference to death. Holding his breath on soft sheets so that Death may sleep soundly. So that they might share this space for longer, so that it need not end. They could pause the action indefinitely, never bring about the finality that comes when the city finally falls and the soldiers begin the journey home.
That is not where the story ends.
War must resume, and set about the beginning of the end. The city must open its doors to ruin, the city must burn, the city must fall. One final glorious round of slaughter. War tears through the stronghold, filling men with the spirit to do battle one last time. Death visits each door and receives a bloody offering upon the altar, spares but a few, mindful of their fates (mindful of his sisters).
War can only hold its (his) breath so long, and then Death stirs and gets back to work.
Eventually, the burning city cools to ash. The sheets grow cold. War comes to an end. Death moves to another city, preoccupied with endings of a more gentle nature. Preoccupied with new beginnings. Preoccupied with one that knows how to die and how to stick around.
Death is constant. For every mortal, there will be an ending. Though it will last only a moment, there is the assurance that they will be guided by a capable hand to what comes next. Every one of them knows that when they draw their final breath, they will feel the touch of death.
War feels the touch of death as it rages on, but then war comes to an end. An impermanent end, an ending unlike that which mortals experience. After all, there will be need of it (him) again - war is inevitable, war is endless, War is deathless. Unable to truly end, unable to see what it might be like on the other side of the bloodshed, on the other side of the brief time where two domains cross over for the heat of a burning city, for the heat of a shared bed.
The next time they meet, War does not feel the touch of Death.