Give My Soul A Home

Warnings: None.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

There was not much that Death had not witnessed in his long, eternal, existence.

The rise and fall of Empires, the birth and death of countless trillions, each life a story that he was both privileged and cursed to stand vigil through, waiting for his moment. Each life a dance he was bound to step into, flitting in and out like the shadows in which he dwelled. Each a dance he knew the steps to, each a memory more ingrained within him than his own existence, each a paragraph in a chapter within a story that would never end.

Most he barely gave much thought to, after they had passed on and reached their final place. Some he remembered with something akin to fondness in his cold heart, but the ebb and flow of human mortality generally touched him little. His duty, his purpose, was ultimately to await the ebb, to be there at its end, the final guardian of humanity's last moments. He had been created to be cold, as icy as the colour his human form's eyes took. He was not created to love.

Nor was he created to question his duty. For so many millennia, he never came close to doing so. For all his great power, he did not hold complete knowledge of the future, of the times to come. Such divinity was not for one such as him, but a higher authority even than Death.

He did not question it, he did not dispute it. Such mutinous actions did not exist in his nature. Yet he existed, secure in his own power and arrogance, comforted and bolstered by one single truth. He was Death and death was inevitable. He awaited them all, the warriors, the innocents, the women taken in the very act of giving life, the foolish old men who sought so desperately for some means to prolong their lives; none escaped his loving embrace. He was forever and eternal, inescapable.

For long millennia, he had observed the human race. Beneath his coldness, he would admit he found them oddly fascinating. Their petty wars, their grand passions, their destructive tantrums, he witnessed from afar, unseen and unheard, except by a very few extraordinary individuals. There had not been many.

He himself felt no such passion, no such fire within him. He did his duties without passion, without zeal, merely the cold thoroughness of duty ingrained in his very being. When he observed a pair of lovers, caught in their own embrace, their souls flying so very close to his embrace in that tumultuous feeling the French called 'la petit mort', he had no doubt that any such convulsion of passion would shake his being so.

He did not contemplate the idea of loneliness. The silent presence of his followers, his servants who fulfilled the same duty, bowing only to him, barely impinged on his consciousness. There was only his purpose, his reason for being. There was no room for desire, for loneliness, for the selfish need for companionship that he had long been denied. He hadn't cared, for so long.

And so he was unprepared when he felt her coming. With a jolt like the strike of a thunderbolt, or the cold shock of a wave of cold water, he felt her birth, her soul crying out in supplication even though she knew not what she cried for.

It called to him, as few souls ever had. He had seen many souls desiring the loving oblivion of Death, throwing themselves into his arms without a qualm but none so powerfully as she. He always answered their call.

With a shudder, he let himself be pulled to her side, to the soul that called for him. He strode from the shadows of his realm, and into the bright sunshine of the mortal world. He stood in a large, airy room, a nursery he recognised, as a newborn baby lay, fitful and fidgeting, in her cradle. The nurse sat by her side, fast asleep and snoring in her rocking chair, her matronly bosom rising and falling rhythmically, apparently utterly oblivious to the angry cries of the babe in the cradle.

Ignoring the nurse, he strode to the bed and peered within, curious despite himself. As connected with Life as he was with its end, he had not felt such a shudder in a long time. He knew what it augured and with the sense gifted to him, he could feel the world that would be shaped around this child, this girl who looked back at him with fierce, proud eyes. Even in their infancy, he glimpsed the prideful spirit, the stubborn flame of her will, at odds with her desire for freedom. He could almost see her in his mind; see who she would become and the world she would create, the world she was destined to shape.

And he knew it would not be allowed. Looking down on the child, pale and with a slight growth of fair hair atop her dainty head, tiny fists waving in unknowing rage at the world, he felt that shudder again, rippling through the fabric of his being.

He had come across very few in his existence. Such beings as this little one were rare and singular, dying as any human must, but their great and terrible destinies passed on to another, and another, until the End of Days.

Children of Lilith, they were called by the few who possessed the skill and knowledge to recognise them. While much knowledge and truth had been warped or forgotten in humanity's arrogance and ignorance, many would have called them demons upon hearing the name. Death knew they were only too human, but their paths, their destinies held the same power as their most distant ancestress. And just like their ancestress, they held the same path, the same destiny. Upheaval, chaos and darkness.

As he met the child's eyes, he sighed. She could see him and her cries quietened as she looked to him curiously, an endearing shyness making her bashful as she shrank back into her cradle. He found himself drawn despite himself, her meekness so at war with the proud spirit within her. He was entranced, even as he knew he should not be.

Just as he knew what she was, he knew her fate. The world she would create would be one that was not permitted. All too soon, he would be summoned back to her side, to fulfil his duty.

Suddenly, he was pulled from his thoughts as a tiny but strong little hand latched onto his finger. He jolted as he stared down at the little girl, holding his finger with an infant strength, seemingly uncaring of the chill of his touch, who eyed him now defiantly, no fear in her eyes yet Death sensed she knew him. Without consciousness, she knew him and she did not fear him.

If he had a heart, he might have theorised it would be beating wildly at that moment, as he looked into the innocent eyes of a babe and saw his own destiny staring back at him. His own fate, his reward for millennia of loyalty, his own path to paradise.

Once again the vision of her arose in his mind, tall and terrible, entrancing in her meek beauty that contradicted the iron will of the spirit contained within.

He heard noise outside, in the corridor, the girl's mother coming to visit her child as the nurse awoke with a start and the child let his finger go abruptly. Wreathing himself in shadow, he watched the young mother fuss over the child, a whole brood crowding around her skirts as she introduced them to their new sister.

Elisabeth. Elisabeth…

A slight smile quirked on Death's pale features, unknowingly. The last Child of Lilith had been an Elisabeth too. How fitting that the next would be too.

A strong name. A proud name, just like its bearer. He could feel it resonating in his mind, like a lullaby, or a war cry, or both at once. She would grow into it, with time, or she would have done.

The smile faded as he regarded the happy family scene for a moment longer, from his shadows, and he felt once again the meek but proud gaze of the infant Elisabeth on his features.

The realisation that he had wavered, even if only for a moment, hardened him as he hid himself from her sight, retreating into his shadowy realm, safe from her knowing gaze. With a shock not unlike the one he'd felt upon sensing her birth, he realised that emotion was flowing through him for the first time. Gone was the coldness his duty inspired, the detached ruthlessness that had once given him strength. He was drowning in the dark, haunted by the gaze of an infant girl, as pride and anger filled him.

It changed nothing. No matter what draw he felt to the child, or rather to the woman he sensed she would become, it changed nothing. He would still do his duty.

A cold smile replaced the turmoil of emotion, as he closed his eyes. I will come for you too, little Elisabeth. One day soon, I will come for you and nothing can change that.

To be continued...

A/N: So this is my take on the Elisabeth legend. Several little headcanons which evolved while immersing myself in the musical and have since developed into a story. I hope you enjoy these first two chapters but I won't be updating until Christmas now, when I can get my hands on the Brigritte Harmann biography, to weave in as much historical fact with the musical canon as possible.