All Men Must Die:
All men must die.
Those were the words on the mind of Death as he strode through the crumbling ruin of the Living's stronghold. His sons – for that was what they were, even if their blood held fewer ties than the ice-water running through their veins – surrounded him, his honour guard and witnesses to the final culling of the Three Eyed Raven. Around them were his thralls, the walking dead, Living who had been given a false semblance of life, the ultimate mockery that all beings deserved.
The few remnants of the Living fought on, with their weapons of forged fireglass and their armour of cooled iron. They were desperate, tired and waning, their frail bodies failing as the tides of cold inevitability washed over them. His thralls gave deathrattles of perverse joy as they swarmed over their remaining prey. Many fell, the magic holding their false unlives to their bones giving out in the fiery presence of the fireglass. It didn't matter, there were always more to raise.
Death pondered the nature of the Living for a moment. They often lingered in his mind, it was expected, after all, he had been one of them long ago. The very thing they existed to do, live, thrive and multiply, was the very thing that now threatened to end their existences. The more the living thrived, even in the face of innumerable threats and hardships, the more his armies could swell. Their numbers became his; every Living being that fell for whatever reason became another thrall, another body for his endless armies of the dead.
A thunderous sound heralded the arrival of his most valuable thrall, the fallen dragon that had served as his mount. Though damaged the rotting beast was still formidable and in the absence of the living firebeasts it was a devastating monstrosity, burning the last of the Living that huddled about the gate of their failing stronghold. The Living's fight would not last much longer now. His armies had broken their gates, butchered their warriors and flooded their halls and chambers; there was no more they could do.
All men must die.
Death entered the space wherein the eyes of the Old Gods watched all unfold. He could feel the spirits of the Children of Root and Branch that lay within its bark and sap quail and shrink away from his presence. The great tree was life unending and he had come to snuff it out for once and for all.
All men must die.
And so too would all other things. Sitting at the foot of the ghostly white tree and its unfathomable, wizened face was the Three Eyed Raven, surrounded by the bodies of thralls and fallen Living. More thralls surrounded them further, waiting to fall upon the two and bring their struggle to an end. They only waited for Death's command and that was one he would never give. The Three Eyed Raven's life was one only he and he alone could end.
All men must die.
The quiet, sinister voice of the Great Other whispered in his mind. As darkness descended and his power waxed Death's god and master had grown more insistent, his voice which had ever been a quiet, dark presence was now an overwhelming authority, issuing the single greatest commandment to Death.
All men must die.
The last of the Three Eyed Raven's guardians stood, tired, broken and weak, a spear tipped with chipped and blunted fireglass in his shaking hands. This wretched Living smelt of salt and seawater, the Three Eyed Raven who sat beyond, his soul returned to its body, stank of the old magic mixed with the essence of snow and winter wolves. That smell permeated every inch of the stronghold. It was their place, a seat for their very being and like all things it would be swept clean of all things. Only the chilled scent of bitter winds would remain to wash over stone buried in purifying ice and snow.
Death stood at the centre of his host, watching as the exhausted guardian tried to rally his ailing strength. His time would soon be done. All that really waited was the decision of how to deal with him. Death wondered just how he should end the life of the Living of salt and seawater. Should he cut him down himself? End his life as an afterthought in his undeniable march to take the Three Eyed Ravens life? Have one of his sons take the Living's life instead? Let his thralls drag him down and finally end his life as they had the other guardians who's cooling bodies littered the clearing of the Old Gods?
All men must die.
The voice of the Great Other turned insistent. It never raised beyond the cold whisper that echoed through Death's being but the terrible dread that came with his command rose to become a crushing presence. This was the time to fulfil the promise he had made to his master so long ago. For his freedom from the Children of Root and Branch he would kill the living memory of the land itself. Now that time had finally come, there was no place for the Three Eyed Raven to run. No acolyte to bequeath his powers to. This was his inescapable fate.
His fingers almost twitched in anticipation. His blade was at his back, lying there; the cold of its ice meaningless against his frozen skin and yet so very distinct and chilling. A distant part of his clouded memory remembered the feeling of bronze and copper in his hand; so very smooth and cool against hot, burning skin. It was a distant figment of an identity long since lost to the desperation and arrogance of the Children of Root and Branch but the slight stirring of the memory sent a wave of cold anger coursing through his body. He didn't show it, he never would because showing his hatred would reveal that he felt it at all. His vengeance would not be burning hot, it would not be satisfying to his torturers, it would not be there for them to witness, for them to see and know that they had coaxed such feelings from him. He would let his rage simmer and fester in his heart, a secret only to himself, his sons and the Great Other.
'Thearn.' The Three Eyed Raven then spoke, breaking the silence as he addressed the single Living of salt and seawater in a tongue Death did not recognise. 'Oanr ara uol aam.'
With that the last guardian seemed to accept his fate. Death could almost feel an air of relief in the Living's essence and bearing and took a single step forward, goading the Living forward. With little threat exuding from the lone guardian, Death let the guardian collect himself and prepare to confront the inevitable. It was no real matter and the guardian would be nothing but a momentary delay in the culling of the Three Eyed Raven. His moment with the Three Eyed Raven done, the Living of salt and seawater lifted his spear and pointed it's fireglass tip at Death before charging.
All men must die.
Death allowed the guardian his futile gesture. Not a single one of his sons or thralls moved to block the Living warrior as he ran across the clearing, his spear pointed for Death's heart. A cry of anger, hot with the passion of all Living but just as impotent as the failing fires around him, was on the guardian's lips.
The moment the Guardian was upon him, Death stepped to one side, the fireglass spear passing by him. Grabbing the weapon, Death broke it in half and, in a single fluid, forceful move, impaled the guardian with the wood of the broken shaft. The Living looked up at him, barely making a sound beyond a muffled grunt of obvious pain. Death could feel the hot blood of the Living man flow down on his hand, the stench of seawater surrounding him for a moment.
For a moment the Living held Death's gaze and then his body surrendered to its waning. Death watched as the guardian fell to his knees, more hot blood falling to the snow before him. The Living had not yet succumbed to inevitability but his body had given out. He toppled to one side as if making way for Death. It was almost fitting really that the final guardian's fall would truly clear the path to the Three Eyed Raven.
All men must die.
His target now sitting in front of him, vulnerable and alone, Death strode past the body of the dead guardian and approached the Three Eyed Raven. A sense of anticipation, almost as hot and fiery as the sensations that had rushed through his body back he was mortal and flesh, ran throughout his icy veins. It was almost powerful enough to force his body to hasten itself, to rush forward and drive his frozen blade into the Three Eyed Raven and end the living memory of the Living.
All men must die.
The Three Eyed Raven was in front of him now, practically unmoving. Death stood in front of the living memory of mankind and paused, savouring the moment he now had. He had waited for thousands of years, worked and toiled for this final moment, the final one for his adversary and the first step in the utter annihilation of the Living.
All men must die.
The voice of the Great Other was insistent, hissing his command over and over again. As if sensing the dark god's presence, the Three Eyed Raven finally turned his head and met Death's gaze. Death watched as the young Living who now served as the Three Eyed Raven stared back. The smell of the Living's essence was almost overwhelming, the old magic giving almost overwhelming strength to the pungent odour of life.
The Three Eyed Raven then broke Death's gaze, looking him up and down slowly and intently. For that moment the heavy gaze of an ancient enemy was replaced by that of a stranger, a Living youth who had been thrust into the endless war between life and death. That flicker of unfamiliarity disappeared in the same heartbeat it emerged but in that moment it filled Death with rage. This was the end of their war, the end of the seemingly endless feud they had fought for millennia and for that moment it seemed that the Three Eyed Raven would once again, somehow, in some way, attempt to flee and leave him only with the mortal shell its power and essence was held within.
All men must die.
Death's face remained frozen and cold, he would not let the Three Eyed Raven see his true rage; only bitter, cold, relentless hatred would be seen by the world. His hand rose to the blade on his back.
He felt the Living before he heard them, before he saw them. In an instant Death whipped around, his hands outstretched to catch a Living youth who had leapt out of the darkness. Thoughts and questions warred in his mind as his hands wrapped around the youth's throat. Where had the Living come from? How had they gone unnoticed by his thralls and sons?
He could feel the burning magic of firesteel in the hands of the Living youth. The youth's stench was also overwhelming, mixing the ever present scent of snow and winter wolves with shadowy magic he could not recognise. For a moment the youth's magic seemed to touch his own essence, recognising the touch of death between the two mystical forces. Death paused as he felt his magic brush the youth's own and try to discover where it had come from, how a Living youth could touch the powers of death and remain mortal and alive and just what realm it could have emerged from.
The Living's arm had been raised, the firesteel blade held high in their arm to slay Death. Now, however, their strike was withheld; Death's own grip held the youth's weapon aloft, unable to reach down and make the killing blow. It was still too close, though. Death could feel the hungry, fiery magic woven into the metal of the blade, desperately seeking flesh and blood to slide into and glut its power upon. Death felt the flames within the blade flicker and twitch in anticipation. It had felt its bearer's intent and knew it was time to feed.
All men must die.
In that single moment that Death had caught the youth and recognised the blade, he knew he had to crush the Living in his arms. His grip tightened and as he did so the youth dropped their weapon. Death watch the blade fall with satisfaction and small flicker of relief. It was then that he saw the Living's other hand reach out, catch the blade and thrust.
All men must die.
Death felt the blade pierce his chest. It burned unlike anything he had ever felt in his many millennia of existence. Even the pain of the ritual that had damned him so long ago could not compare to the furious torment of the firesteel as it plunged into his frozen flesh and drank deeply of his essence. Ancient spells that made him proof against all weapons and threats, that kept time at bay and defied even the very fire that had forged the blade were undone in less than a heartbeat. Magical bonds frayed before the blade and it sank deeper and deeper.
The voice of the Great Other had risen from an insistent, commanding whisper into a piercing roar of anger that now felt as impotent as the cries of the dead guardian he had slain only a few moments earlier. The dark god's rage was drowned out by the hunger of the firesteel and the burning that spread through his veins, turning ice-water to fire.
The blade passed through his flesh, the area around the wound, flaking and changing to frost and ice. In a single heartbeat it struck the blade of fireglass embedded where his heart had been. With only a single graze of the stone by the firesteel's tip, the spells that made him whole were unravelled. Death felt the bonds that connected him to his sons and his thralls come undone as well. As the magic of his body shattered, he knew the same was happening with his entire host. Once his body fell apart his sons would join him in the same fate, his great army would return to eternal slumber and the darkness that was supposed to engulf the world of the Living in endless night would fade away.
Death knew, as his body turned to ice and began to crack, that it was over. His time in the world was done. His demise, long delayed by the foul sorcery of the Children of Root and Branch, was rushing to meet him. His sons, corrupted by him into the same damned state, would fall with him. The Great Other, his patron who had been invoked to twist him into Death, had already abandoned him, the final scream of anger fading away into darkness.
All men must die.
And he was free.