She remembers everything.
She remembers that it was her fault the way the earth was. The way humans nowadays were bloodthirsty, unforgiving, and sinful. She remembers the first time she ever witnessed the blood pouring down her son's brow. The smell of something sinister and dangerous that lurked nearby plagued her nostrils. She knows who has done this, but she can't bear to point her fingers at her son.
With fingers that have been cursed to endure torment and the nature's elements she touched the red liquid that started to congeal on her precious boy's temple, her beloved second born. In awe, she watches as his life's essence slowly stains her fingers. She looks away in childish grief, this thing that spates her son, has never happened in the history of mankind.
She weeps and mourns.
At the back of her throat, a curious flavor of a forgotten fruit rises along with the bile.
She should have never eaten what has been forbidden.
The woods that surrounded the city of Burgess were thick and unnoticeable. At this time of year, snow littered the branches of every tree, pelting unfortunate people if the load was too much to handle. It was a beautiful sight, with the mounds of sparkling crystals glittering under the soft rays of the sun. Of course, at this time of year, it was dangerous and ill advised to go after dark and venture out into the nearby forest.
Wildlife existed there. Dangerous creatures, the threat of hypothermia, getting lost in the woods; things that went bump in the night if you were that stupid. Threats of stern parents that wanted what was best for their young warned to keep away. For Pitch, the surrounding area of the Pennsylvania town was comforting and he made it his home.
He found that the thickets were just like him during the cold wintery nights; cold, unforgiving, harsh, and so deliciously nightmarish. Truly, as he sized up the gigantic oaks covered in the artistic carvings of frost, the winter sprite had outdone himself for the town. Chuckling darky to himself, the Bogeyman fingered his newly acquired pet in one hand, a tooth fairy. Part hummingbird and part fairy, Pitch never knew how Toothiana ever managed to keep children believing in her with minions that…ghastly.
Chirping in fear—oh how delicious! —Pitch remained stoic to her cries.
"There, there my pet," as he slowly squeezed the life out of her," we don't want anyone to hear us." Eyes bright as he creator's the little sprite whimpered in fear at his barely veiled threat and stilled herself to not offend him further. Only then did the dark robed man slowly ease the strong hold that he held on her.
"See, isn't that better, love?" His dark topaz eyes glowed with unearthly nightmares, hunger for power deep in his eyes. Stroking the feathers atop the hummingbird's head, he hummed a long lost lullaby to quell the bird's fears. As if. He knew enough about psychology; he was pure Fear after all. What he was doing was a far cry from the caring, nurturing humans that have long since believed in him. Smile darkening considerably, the moonlight that illuminated his features made him even more menacing, if possible. Cooing gently to his newly acquired captive, he failed to take notice of the two newcomers that unknowingly passed onto his territory.
"Yirah," a whisper flows into the night, causing the shady man to look up from his plotting and into the weathered brown eyes of a wizened old lady. Although she was old and hunched over, a type of presence and power flowed throughout her form, causing Pitch to incline his head in salute. He had heard tales about this one, however he never met her personally.
"Mavet," he says, as if tasting her name for the first time. "Or shall we use English terms, milady? Death, is it?" Unnatural glowing eyes examined the form of another spirit hunch even more in despair. Wearing an ebony trench coat and what appeared to be a business suit underneath. In her hand was a clipboard, encircling her wrist was a chain, and beside her form was a pale horse, and quite unlike Pitch's own Fearlings. It whinnied gracefully, as if to welcome the man's presence.
"That is I," she whispers as she surveys the scene before her in wariness. Once her eyes alighted on the young sprite that was caged between Pitch's fingers, something akin to anger was seen in her eyes. "Pitch," she barely utters in fury as she sees the poor thing struggle to be let free. "Let her go at once!" Motherly concern flashes one her face, inner demons were plaguing her once more. Inner demons that Pitch hadn't the slightest idea, but the fear on her face was exceedingly delicious.
"Why should I, dear Death?" He mocks cruelly as he teasingly rubs the neck of the mini tooth fairy. Fearing for the worst, the sea green fairy looked to Death for reassurance, a plea for a painless death could be seen in her eyes. "Kill me and you kill her as well," he cries out in triumph. Despair and determination—two conflicting traits—could be seen in the old crone's eyes as she watched impending murder.
"Please," she cries in horror. She has gained so little and lost so much in a millennia. The little flighty little fairy needed her; her mother instincts would hound her until she was safe. "Death waits for no one, and I will end you." What she hopes to be a strong reprimand turns out to be a wavering bawl.
Pleased with the effect that he held on the elder supernatural figure, Pitch moved closer to her. Although she had appeared weak and timeworn, Pitch knew that underneath the façade, there was a warrior deep inside. Even when he knew that he potentially held the upper hand in this situation, Death was always the end. Death would always win. Deep inside his cold, fearsome heart, Pitch knew that he treaded on a very thin line. Death took on many forms and took everything in her path.
Feeling bored with the way his entertainment was hypothetically reaching the level of acting treacherous for her love all things living—how ironic, he thinks—he summons a shadowy cage. Chirping with a renewed sense of hope, the tiny tooth fairy looks to Death once more for comfort and smiles. The cage that imprisons the young sprite disappears to the underworld. Mavet, on the other hand shrunk even more into herself, as if apprehensive of something amiss. She felt guilt crashing down on her, but she couldn't help the young one anymore without angering Pitch. Pitch, still the ready observer looks at her in interest and places a bony finger on his chin.
"It seems that I have not inquired about your presence here…" He gestures to the surrounding trees, still covered in frost and still glittering like jewels in the moonlight. "Death is everywhere, how do you manage?"
A humorless laugh escapes the comely matron as she pets the mane of her horse, the pale horsehair shining. Looking at the Bogey in the eyes she sobers again, eyes burning faintly with regret. "When a human with certain characteristics dies, I turn them into Reapers." Tears glisten in her eyes as she stares longingly at the moon. "I am so selfish," she murmurs, lost in thought.
"Reapers," Pitch exclaims in confusion. "So what the mortals say are true; there is people out there with sickles sealing a person's fate away." The Lord of Nightmares and fright attempts to have a go at humor, only causing a tight-lipped smile to materialize on her face.
"What Sahar wants, Sahar gets." She turns away from the contemplative countenance of Pitch Black and stares at the moon.
"Sahar meaning moon," Pitch asks, hazarding a guess. He has lived ever since the creation of fear, since the end of paradise. Yet, he can't but feel that he missed a connection between Death and Man in the Moon.
Instead of answering, Death looks to the left side of her and a tear slips down the side of her wrinkled face. The dark haired man glances in the same direction and smirks in anticipation. There, at the corner of the clearing, where civilization ends and wildlife begins, there was a young man. He was barely of any notice, especially if the mystical beings were still in heated argument. Yet, one thing that kept them from ignoring the mortal male was the grief and hopelessness in his eyes and the rope that swung in his grasp.
It was a rope that served no initial purpose; it was finely weaved, yet strong enough to bind something. Or something.
"I see that your services are needed," he smoothly spoke as the reason of the Death's presence was approaching. He relaxed deep into the shadows as he watched the women tense as he quarry prepared for the final feat of his life.
"I see that you're going to stay behind and watch," Death mumbled resignedly. Her battered russet eyes urged the Nightmare to leave and let the man be, but Pitch refused. Death was such a reclusive creature and he never saw her in action. Perhaps she could be of assistance in the long run?
Mischievously, the spirit of fear drifted to the emotionless man and beckoned for Death to do her job. Sighing, she read her clipboard and double-checked the death date. Finding that everything was in order, her unusually steely gaze landed on the man who was tying a rope around his neck. Walking closer to her victim, she eyed her spectator and looked on with a warning of a reprimand in her eyes.
"Dear me, I hope that I'm not interrupting," Pitch sarcastically amended as he felt her glare at the back of his head.
The man was now tying the length of the rope on one of the strong branches of the tree, careful to remain on an old stump that resided under the boughs of the older plant.
In response to the climaxing events, Death threw her clipboard in the air, automatically turning into a scythe. It was nothing special. The blade was long since the age of its prime. Old and rusty, it served to be just like its wielder. Nearby, the Boogeyman eyed the change of an unusual weapon hungrily. Such power, he thought! Oblivious to Pitch's plots for world domination, Death readied her deathblow, anxiously looking around for any witnesses.
With a shuddering breath, the man jumped away from the stump and gasped at the sudden pain and fears that invaded his senses. His previous lack of reaction was now replaced with the innate will to survive. Eyes wide open, they stared at the still form of the Bringer of Death.
Surprised at the sudden eye contact, Pitch turned to his companion in disbelief. "He can see you?"
Not taking her eyes off of his struggling form, Death only looked on grimly. "Forty more seconds," she surmised. Striding forward, she used her scythe to cut open the man's chest. What should have been blood, instead showed essences of white light and vague moving pictures? Pictures that showed colorful images and held the spirit of life.
His eyes bugged out.
"What's that coming out of his chest?" Although Pitch would never admit it, he felt the extent of Death's powers and feared her. Was that how he died? Was that how everybody died?
"Memories. Like teeth handed to the Tooth Fairy, but these snippets of life reminds you of the will to live…" Her voice breaks off, cracking at the word 'live.'
He was now shallowly gasping for breath.
Pale light from the moon emphasized the color purple that dusted his cheeks.
Not wanting to interfere with Death and her job, Pitch melded back into the shadows, fading out of existence. Knowing better than to assume that he left the premises, Death made sure to keep focusing on her job.
Whimpering from the man signaled the end.
3…
2…
1…
"Fool," she mutters with unconcealed disappointment. As she magically turns her scythe back into a clipboard, Pitch reconnoiters back into his underground lair. For once, the very process that had taken his own life shakes him. Death was not one to be messed with.
She looks to her God, her Yahweh and wails. On her wrist is the chain that will restrain her to her fate forever. Beside her, Adam takes his punishment without a word and looks to the moon in earnest. His aged old features belies his strength and he tightens his hold one her before letting go. His body dissipates to the heavens, leaving behind nothing, as if he was never there.
As for her, she is sentenced to bring death. The Mother of All Living Life was now the bane of everyone's existence. As she falls to the ground her eyes land on a nearby snake that has slithered in on the scene. Without thinking, she strikes at its head, cursing it for all it's worth.
At her touch, it dies and she backs away from the dead creature. Slowly, it transforms into a sickle that her people uses. Gently picking the instrument up, she feels the burden and responsibility getting yoked to her shoulders. For all that she has done to humanity…
… Her punishment starts now.
Hebrew words:
Yirah—fear
Mavet—death
Sahar—moon
References used:
Kuroshitsuj (the business suits, death dates, seriousness and the clipboard, etc.)
Death Note (forty seconds, hanging by the rope)
Bible (Eve, even though her name means "life" or "source of life," I felt that God would punish her for bringing misfortune upon humanity. So, while Adam gets stuck as the moon, Eve is now Mavet, or Death. The first section is first brush with the angel of death and the last part was when she was officially turned into Death. I picture as having regret for the rest of humanity, often coming as a harsh and reprimanding crone. Since she was the first mother/woman in the world, I often see her as having a motherly affection to those who are nearing their death date. I'm going by the belief that she lived to be 930 years old, hence her age. Death was one of the four horsemen in Revelations.)
I was also kind of inspired by Death's entrance in Supernatural. I never watched the show, only his dramatic entrance.
I hope that you guys will review and tell me what you hate/like! So press that little button and start typing!