A/N: I wrote this AGES ago, typed it up a few weeks ago, and finished it tonight. It hasn't had much editing (I'm being lazy), so excuse that. And… um, enjoy?
Disclaimer: *sigh* I don't own Rocky, or Transsexual, or the characters. Yay Sir Richard!
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He never expected Death to look like that.
He'd never spotted it before, but supposed that it'd been hanging around for a while. Because he'd felt it, and it was cold and unpleasant and comforting, and sometimes, he heard it laugh. That made him panic, because he knew he was sane, but that couldn't be normal. For a while, it bothered him, starting as a small cut which slowly became infected. And that was when he saw it, and he knew he could not be mad.
Yes, it caught him off-guard, made him stumble and slump. Squinting through the smoky haze of the heat, he had wondered why it looked that way, thinking it most curious, coincidental. Water continued to beat down upon his naked body; it was black and failed to cleanse him. He saw Death laugh. Mocking him. Yet he smiled, hand groping to relieve the failing liquid from further embarrassment, and then he pulled himself to his feet.
As he stepped out of the shower, a single shiver stealing his body, he half-expected it to disappear. Internally, he prepared himself, marvelling whether it'd dissolve or walk away or fade. But it was in vain, for it remained exactly where it was, exactly as it was… Even when he moved closer, eyes intrigued, scared, and demonstrating an unparalleled joy which had been absent for so long… Even then, it stayed.
It must've been something very queer, for Death to smile, but he could now say that he'd seen it. He'd recognised it straight away, but when its lips turned upwards in an odd sort of way, a dusky veil was lifted. Death ceased to be an enigmatic 'it' and morphed into a familiar 'she'.
Her.
And what else could he do but race forward and embrace her? He'd no other option, and he was sure his insides and mind would unite against him if he disobeyed. So obey he did. It took a while, too long, to reach her, as if the bathroom was lengthening like in an old film. It was the anticipation, a harsh feeling that tugged at him relentlessly, a feeling which he'd expected to subside when he finally touched her.
Such fortune failed to shine upon him, for although he held her, although he felt her slight form against his, she wasn't really there. A misty, broken fragment of what she was meant to be. Perhaps, if he clung to her for a while longer, she'd begin to solidify, become whole again. So he tried that, and he may have been holding her for eternity. And still, her arms remained glued to her sides, her body cold and rigid, her eyes bleak and shining.
A wry smile snaked its way across her face and wad gone with a sharp tug. She broke from him, and momentarily, her cutting indifference was a sad and slicing coldness. He was reminded that she was Death. It was hard to believe, when mythology spoke of its vulgarity, but he supposed he could rectify that rumour too. Because he'd seen Death, and it was beautiful. Strange that it looked like her. Deceivingly so.
Feeling a fool, he stepped back and stared at her. "You are not her, are you?" It would've been out of character for the object of destruction to laugh, but it wouldn't surprise him now. Because Death wasn't meant to look like her, and Death wasn't meant to smile, but the evidence was laid out before him; anything was possible. He even prepared himself for it, curious as to how Death's laugh would sound.
It never came.
She remained silent, and he pondered the possibility that the veil that separated those of the living and the dead wasn't so thin that verbal communication was possible. That was what it was to be dead, then. The torture of seeing your loved ones, sent to a parallel world, and not being able to speak, not even being able to touch. Taunting. Cruel. He felt shattered. What it must've been like to be Death itself! The agony of watching it every day…. The cool, smooth tears that would fall down her beautiful face. Did she always look like that?
He hastened to cover himself with a black robe, not dissimilar to hers, and followed her without a word, the questions invading his mouth swallowed hastily.
First, she led him to the window. Outside was black and blank, sight not permitted. A house, grand and lonely on the hillside, was isolated through the darkness. For a moment, he did not see it. She placed a finger to his lips when he parted them to speak, and it sent an icy spark down his spine. And then she pointed, and he saw.
Backing away was forbidden, as she raised a translucent hand and placed it on the base of his vertebrae. When his knees tried to buckle, her hand moved to his shoulder and held him in place. He glanced at her and she shook her head, pointing again. "De Lordy," he whispered; she nodded, the dead light of her eyes flashing once, to reveal something deep and broken.
It hurt him to see it.
Her face darkened to a scowl, her upper lip curling in a canine fashion. He was sure his quiver was visible. She was Death, he remembered, not her. Not his beautiful sister. He stared at her, repeating the words as a sordid mantra in his head.
Then he was at her side, hands running along the unfeeling ebony material which contained her. He moved to lift the lid, but Death's eyes burned into his head and he stopped sharply, like a misbehaved child. With pleading eyes, he turned to her, but she saw through him. Saw only the pristine coffin and what lay within it.
"Why?" He stumbled at the sound, his lips contorting. It was odd, a crooked cross between elation and horror. Her voice was quiet and hollow. Terrifying, yet mellifluous. She sounded like her, only completely different. Similar to what he remembered, but empty. Like Death should sound. "Why?" She repeated. He shook his head.
And she screeched, long and hard and shattered, and he grimaced. It continued, and he fell to his knees. The sound was only too familiar. He'd burned it into his mind long ago. But it'd eventually ceased, or at least quietened. His prevailed. Eyes begged for silence with salty orbs, prayed mercy from the Angel of Death.
Madness must've consumed him before blessed silence descended. Palms flat to the floor, knees bruised with the impact of his fall, he lifted his head. His eyes had dried but they continued to weep, and though silence was eventually granted, mercy was not. Death stared at him, and the overwhelming urge to join her, to be with her, engulfed him. And in the second of that thought, she looked like she would laugh. He grimaced, bracing himself once more.
"Why?" The question echoed, harassing his eardrums until he was certain they bled.
"De Lordy," he sobbed, and followed it with a tirade of incomprehensible and broken lyrics. Amongst them was an apology, and laughter flitted across her features once more. "I love…her."
"She is dead."
He stopped, stiffened, straightened. Had he turned to stare at anyone else, a fear would've pierced their heart. Were it not Death who faced him, perhaps he would be alone… anyone else would've run, he was certain. His look almost rivalled hers, but he could not scare her. Even when his fists balled, even when he advanced towards her, even when his eyes darkened and hardened, he couldn't extract the slightest flinch from the Angel.
He blinked, stepped back, and then moved to stand directly before the Angel. "Take me, then. Take me to her."
She snarled and shook her head, and he grunted. His hands flew to his face and he began to shake. "You stay." He shook his head. "You pay."
After a few moments of uncomfortable, tormenting silence, he looked up. He found himself alone. His breathing was shaky and ragged and he fell to his knees, beginning to crawl towards a flash of silver. He grinned into the shining surface and saw a madman staring back at him. Then, he was at his sister's side, his free hand running over her rigid form. "Soon," he said, "soon." Then, he raised the blade and plunged it downwards, towards the place where his heart had been before she'd broken it. He was smiling.
Then, he wasn't, as his arm froze and the knife shook, pressing against his flesh but refusing to penetrate it. He grunted in frustration and tried again, with the same result, the same anticlimax, the same disappoint. He tried to slit his own throat, his wrists, his face. Each time, the blade jolted to a halt, quivered, and stilled before it completed its task. The man's brows furrowed and his mouth growled. For hours, he attempted to complete his task, experimenting with different implements, growing more and more desperate by the second. When his body was exhausted and his mind screaming, he was forced to admit defeat. He could not harm himself.
That was when Riff-Raff understood the Angel's purpose, its sermon.
He was alone.