Death sees all.
Death is a force beyond the minds of mortal men and immortal men.
Death is not contained by one single form, one single being.
Death is pervasive, cold, untameable, calculating, unforeseeable, cruel.
Death sees all.
Death sees a young Fae male catch the eye of an equally young goddess. They are sweet and naive.
Death chuckles. This cannot end well.
But it seems that Death is wrong. The two fall in love, marry, have children that run around in the grass, laughing and playing. Death watches as the male becomes a warrior, becomes a king, and their own power runs wild when the male steps off the killing fields, slathered in blood. Their power purrs when the souls of those on the battlefield cross over. They are his now, and it seems as if he has the male to thank for it.
The crown weighs heavy on Brannon's head, although Mala seems to alleviate some of the pressure. Death cannot begin to describe how much he resents the couple, her with her undying loyalty and him with his undying honor. It seems as if they are destined to last forever, two just beings ruling over a just kingdom.
But things begin to fall apart.
The gods, the idiots that they are, wander into this land. Death sits forward a little as darker beings come in, and something like dread fills their stomach as the gods throw themselves against the boundary between world, desperate. They watch as Mala bends forward to kiss her husband one final time, and then leaves in the dark of night. Death can taste her fear, taste her mortality, but she is not theirs to take.
Death smiles, despite themself. They are never wrong.
Death travels. It makes little sense for someone like them to stay occupied in just one mortal realm. They see grand creatures, grand landscapes, grand wars. But Erilea is a pesky place. And so they return, half out of instinct and half out of duty.
Death sees a young prince roam the ravaged land in the center of the continent, and they scoff. Another strange fellow, most likely a jaded youth in search of something "greater." Something "better." Death rolls their eyes as the male comes into contact with an Ironteeth witch, shaking their head in chastisement. He should have honestly known better, this prince, as green as he is.
But their eyes widen as this prince and this witch . . . fall in love? Death squints, in complete disbelief. And he laughs. This, this, for sure, cannot end well.
It does not.
Dreamers, the two of them. Conspiring to bring peace between their kingdoms? Ridiculous, laughable at best. It is a wonder her mother did not find them earlier. Death watches as the male is torn away by his own people, screaming for Lothian until his voice is sore. The agony on his face nearly makes Death pity him.
They watch as her belly begins to swell, and her face begins to thin and gray. They watch as her pleads die away, and her voice fades, and all she can utter are sweet promises to her child.
Promises that are gone the moment that her child is cut out of her womb.
Death can feel her soul struggling against them, begging to be given back to her daughter. Death merely shakes their head. They do not have a choice, and something in their gut tells them that Lothian will have her time, sometime.
Lothian's prince searches the lands for decades. The rest of his people have been scattered, left for Death to find. But he, this incessant male, refuses to bow.
And that, that is his end.
The Blackbeak Matron is relentless, and the chance that she would ever give up her
granddaughter—
Death takes him.
But they spare a glance before they leave, at the still-young Crochan princess, slaughtering her way through the Wastes.
And they pity her.
Death leaves Erilea. It is a continent visited, explored, and exhausted.
They leave for a sunnier city, where the people are not as battle-weary and winter-worn.
Instinct drives them to the market, and soon they espy two golden haired males.
They cock their head in a mix of confusion and glee.
She is lovely, the princess. Beautiful and intelligent, and fierce. It is no wonder she catches the warrior's eye.
They dance, and they kiss, and they fall into bed. Death surveys them lying peacefully together in bed, and they ponder the meaning of such a relationship. Surely—
Death snaps his head away. What was that power? Old, familiar, and yet—
They shake their head. No. They were hallucinating.
Gavriel's queen calls him away. The agony is thick in the air, although neither of them tell each other. And so Death watches as they sleep together, and the warrior leaves.
They have conceived, but neither knows.
Alethea Ashryver dies a few months shy of four years later, and she, too, fights against his pull. Death sighs, quietly. But takes the princess nonetheless.
Her cousin is no less strange, and Death is beginning to think that this entire family is bizarre.
She is as beautiful, but harder. It is no wonder that she catches the eye of the visiting prince in her court. Death creeps in the corners, watching the lovers slink along the walls of the castle, giggling and laughing. They are not subtle, but humans are such slow-witted creatures that they escape, unnoticed.
Mere weeks, few months. The prince proposes, and the princess accepts without even hearing his entire declaration. They are both besotted beyond words.
Chills run down Death's whole being. The cycle has started anew, a strange repetition of events that he cannot explain.
The prince and princess run away, across the sea, but this is not the last that Death sees of Rhoe and Evalin.
Death follows Rhoe and Evalin to Terrasen.
Brannon's lands have not changed much, not even after all these centuries. It is still the same land of snow and pine that Death witnessed, when they were young. And so they stride into the cities, and smile at the people there, like a lover coming back to their first.
Their magic tugs on them yet again, and although they are beginning to tire of it constantly yanking them places, they acquiesce.
The princess is panicking over a stain on her husband's shirt, fretting and pacing around their bedroom. Death rolls their eyes. Such dramatics, these humans.
The princess finally pulls herself together, and rushes to the laundry rooms underneath the castle. She is begging the laundress to find a way to clean her husband's shirt.
Really? Thinks Death. A laundress? That is what you brought me to?
But they sit back, incredulous, as this princess and this commoner somehow become friends, confidantes.
Evalin's husband returns, but he is not alone.
Cal Lochan is already blushing after the first time he leaves an encounter with the laundress, and he returns to her over and over again, making up some bland excuse about dirt on his pants. Death is practically begging him to grow a pair.
He springs the idea of courtship on the poor girl, stammering and suave simultaneously. It takes them nearly a year of tentative encounters before he is virtually begging her to marry him.
Death is not quite sure why he has been led here. A nagging voice at the back of his head pesters him to stay and see. But he shakes his head and slips quietly away after their wedding.
Death is far away when they feel the tremors. And this time, they do not need magic to coax them back.
They come upon the border, and they fall to their knees.
The air is thick with sorrow and blood and mortality and the feeling of gone.
A woman is dragged out of her home, screaming and biting to no avail. The wyvern-crested soldiers are still, unfeeling. The fire burns fierce, bright, and upwards. Her screams fade, but Death catches sight of a young girl, panting heavily, watching with wide eyes that are screaming in silent agony.
North.
He walks silently through the bodies of children, eyes open and faces sweet. Some have died running, bodies laying scarlet in the grass. Some have died with their cheeks wet.
There are no survivors.
North.
Orynth is bathed in scarlet. Orlon Galathynius is gone, dead in his sleep. His lover barely spares him a shocked glance before his face hardens once more, out of duty to his king. The Kingsflame is saved, but it will never again burn as brightly as it once did.
Death's head is spinning, and they stumble out of the king's chambers. There . . . there is so, so . . . there is so much death, everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.
East? West?
They do not dare enter the manor, not with the stench of despair surrounding it. Why hasn't anyone discovered—
A scream splits the silence. The young princess, sitting upright in her parents' bed, chest heaving as she realizes what has been done to her Mama and Papa.
To her.
It happens so quickly.
The king is dead.
The crown prince and his wife are dead.
Marion Lochan is dead.
And—
They lurch forward, some strange instinct propelling them forward. Whatever the cost, whatever the great consequences will be for this, they cannot let another death—
She is gone, swept up by the currents of the River Florine before they can reach her.
They sink to their knees for the second time that day.
Death is ruthless. Death is unforgiving. Death is unfeeling. Death is a monster.
But this one little child, this one little child—they should have saved. This world needed a—
Their head snaps up.
Aelin is gone. But they cannot feel her. Why can they not—
Not here, their magic whispers. Not here.
And so Death picks themself up. Dusts off their body. Sweeps the tears to the side.
But they spare one last glance at the rushing water of the Florine River.
Whatever this has costed, whatever has occurred here—
Vengeance will not come swiftly.
But it will come viciously.