Libenter homines id quod volunt credunt
- Men gladly believe that which they wish for. (Caesar)

Chapter 2

Darkly I spat grey ash,
As I toiled away under the lash;
Oh why do men not take heed?
O' rider upon his pale steed.

They chased 'm 'cross fen 'n bush!
O! Freedom, but a fair rush!
O'er dreams, I gladly indeed,
Willingly, bare breast, and bleed!

-Toiling Away, Death and Bad Poetry

Death, the Black and a 1913 Ghana, Divine Dark Chocolate... bitter sweet

As I have stated before, I am not immortal. I AM. Death is a fact, a facet of reality older than anything that exists, even the universe itself. Thus, to put it simply, Death is real, certainly far realer than the decades long lifetimes of mortals, or the centuries lived by the wise. Even the earth in its scant few billions of years is but a blink of an eye in the face of the Death OF Universes.

It was something to ponder as I lay buried under the pile of corpses. The stench of rotting flesh was oppressive and foul but from my perspective, it was the wailing of the lost and terrified souls about me that was truly nausea inducing. I wriggled, and stretched. I gripped slippery, decomposing matter that came apart under my fingernails as I pulled.

I can still taste it; the memory of death is eternal. I can still feel the slickness of the maggot-ridden corpses against my skin. Did you know? The proteins and fats released from a decomposing animal bind easily to hair and skin. Even washing with lye soap, I still smelled of that graveyard for more than a fortnight afterward.

My scrabbling fingers, nails chipped and broken, eventually broke through the surface of the mass grave that I had been dumped in. My 'Luna', as I had taken to calling her privately, was awaiting my return. She was standing beside the last of the surviving Catholic priests in the city. What a shame...

A shame because the sight of a me, as I clawed my way free of that mass grave, was a vision that inspired such horror and terror in the poor Father as to stop his weakly beating heart.

Great, now I have to bury him too...

A snowy owl descended, clutching a wide-brimmed black hat in its talons. It dropped the item into my slimy hands and alighted upon Luna's shoulder, instead of my own filthy body.

Also beside the dead priest was tall skeletal figure, dressed in a dark flowing coat and carrying a large scythe. Taking in the sight, I scowled and said, "I hope that you're proud of yourself! That was the last priest in the city willing to perform funerals and give extreme unction."

The being's face was a bare skull that shifted within shadowy cloak that it wore. Amber light's like flames passed for eyes. The twinkling gaze of Death. At my words its bony shoulders shrugged as it replied in a matter of fact tone. DEATH HAS NO NEED FOR PRIDE, ONLY A STRONG WORK ETHIC AND A WILLINGNESS TO DO OVERTIME ON THE WEEKENDS AND HOLIDAYS.

I rubbed my sore neck and sighed, spitting out a few corpse beetles in the process. "Well let's get on with it," I said, "The guys that killed me can't be too far away. It wouldn't do to leave them lying about."

I would later sometimes wonder, at the fact that in those times I felt naught but a slight distaste at the prospect of having to replace my thoroughly ruined clothing. When the time comes for my pet soul to return to me I can't help but be curious, will my experiences inspire a greater horror than my sheer inhumanity?

This is how things came to be this way...

Marseille, June of 1721

Before I begin, let's have a bit of history from the mundane side of things...

In 1720, the plague bacillus yersinia pestis arrived at the port of Marseille from the Levant. A merchant ship, the Grand-Saint-Antoine, had departed from Sidon in Lebanon, having previously called at Smyrna, Tripoli, and at a plague-ridden Cyprus.

Following the death on board of a Turkish passenger, several crew members also fell victim to the plague, including the ship's surgeon. The ship was wisely refused entry to the port of Livorno and, on arrival at Marseille, was promptly placed under quarantine by the port authorities.

However, due to a trade monopoly with the Levant, this important port had a large stock of imported goods in warehouses and was actively expanding its trade with other areas of the Middle East and in the New World.

Powerful city merchants needed the silk and cotton cargo of the ship for the great medieval fair at Beaucaire and pressured authorities to lift the quarantine...

Thus began the Great Plague of Marseille, the last recurrence of an epidemic of bubonic plague in the city, since the devastating epidemics that began in the fourteenth century with the European Black Death.

Ahh, the south of France in summer...

"...avez pitie de nous..."

Summer in full bloom...

"Mon Dieu!"

The sea breeze, so warm and enticing...

"Mon Dieu!"

Oh what a clear night sky....

"Avez pitie..."

And streets lined with the plague ridden dead.

What to do...

"Pensez-vous de la petite enfants..."

As I stated before, I can be wherever, whenever there is death. The Gatekeeper's use of the Time Gate created a convenient path that I used for my own benefit to travel to the 18th century without causing a stir. Of course I could have chosen other times in which to appear but there was a reason, several actually; that made Marseille the best choice.

The Gatekeeper of this time and the senior members of the White Council were currently grappling with an invasion of plague demons known collectively as the Loimos. These demons in the past had contributed to some 45 million of the 450 million deaths attributed to the Black Death. As a result of the mystical enhancements that they gave to the plague, most the deaths caused by them were from the ranks of the hedge-witches and the wise.

As it happens, in June of 1721, the current Gatekeeper would contract a crippling illness and eventually pass away, leaving the Loimos, and other supernatural threats from beyond the gate to be dealt with by the Wardens. It was during this time that Al-Rashid would begin to distinguish himself, having been set on the path to becoming the next Gatekeeper by his predecessor.

A path which would eventually cross my own...

I had sought to use this chaotic period of time to become acclimated to my sliver of soul. In this city, during this time, no one would look twice at a new arrival. Plague-ridden, the wise would steer clear of this place, making any incidents I might cause easier to hide.

I hoped that it would at least be enough time to allow me to comprehend the queer stirrings of my brand new immortal soul. Otherwise, even blending in peacefully among the mundane of this world would be a difficult chore and hiding what I was from the irritating wise, next to impossible.

I can give no clearer example of what I mean than when I attempted to say hello to some dumbfounded transients when I first appeared in the city...

A man bedecked in shadows, appeared in the middle of the street. He did not fade into existence, neither did he step onto the street through some portal nor enter by any other means either fantastic or mundane. HE, was a being much realer that the world around HIM, as such HE was simply THERE. It would have been more accurate to say that the street appeared around HIM, that the world faded into existence about HIM like some manner of mirage or ghostly phantasm.

HIS eyes were green pinpricks of light, like stars in the night sky; they shone from within the impenetrable darkness that lurked under his wide-brimmed hat. The beggar's pleas, like the very air in their lungs, froze.

Truly, like prey caught in the gaze of a predator, they were trapped helpless under that singular murderous look. Then, a voice spoke, passing from the terror's lips into their heads. It gravely intoned... COWER, BRIEF MORTALS, FOR THE MASTER OF DEATH HAS COME TO MARSEILLE.

It just slipped out, I swear!

And that was how they found me, as I stood in the middle of the abandoned street, trying to come to grips with the intricacies of my pet soul.

"Hello, Harry Potter."

I turned and stared.

"Luna, why am I not surprised…"

As I have alluded, there are other manifestations of anthropomorphic personification in existence. The anthropomorphic personification of War was only one of these beings that I can remember encountering. I've never had the need to seek them out as inevitably they all eventually come to me whether they want to or not.

Of these small gods there were only two that have ever sought me out of their own volition.

One of them was standing before me now...

Turnip earrings dangling from her ears, swung as she shook her head ruefully.

"Luna?" She tilted her head slightly, "Do I remind you of Luna?"

The skin about her eyes crinkled cutely as she gave me a coy look. "Or did Luna, remind you of me?"

In a fluttering of wings, the pale form of a familiar snowy owl settled on my shoulder with a soft trill.

In the Roman Pantheon Trivia was considered an aspect of Hecate, Goddess of Witchcraft. To those who knew better she was, most obviously in the guise of Luna, the anthropomorphic personification of Useful Little Facts. The Owl on my shoulder was Sentia, the personification of the childish joy felt when Learning New Things. It made sense that they should show up. These two were goddesses of learning and knowledge.

Death was the ultimate mystery, and I, its master…

"You're not getting rid of us that easily." Trivia said with a smile.

Sentia, in the form of an owl, chirped happily in agreement.

The White Council's archivists, when I finally came to the Senior Council's notice, would mark that Monsieur Henri-Jacques D'Is-Pitar first appeared in Marseille, France in the records of the city notary Jean-Philippe Bernier.

A man by the name of Monsieur D'Is-Pitar has taken up the gruesome but necessary task of clearing the streets of bodies for a sum of fourteen sous paid at the end of seven days of toil at the expense of the city. For a sum of two ecu d'argent paid to him in advance, Monieur D'Is-Pitar, whose given name is Henri-Jacques, has agreed to provide the means to deliver securely a coffin to his employer's family tomb and seal it within. For further fee of one ecu d'or, the Monseiur also provides transport for one of the few surviving priests in the city to meet the terminally ill for extreme unction. He is a brave man, strange in his manner, but fair…

Records of Mr. Bernier 1721

The wagon, I cobbled together from driftwood collected at the harbor. The nails were likewise scavenged. There were enough deaths so that the demand for skilled workers was high. I worked as a scrivener for a few months until my employers fell ill and died. For a time I kept accounts at a merchant house, until the same fate befell the few remaining workers there as well.

Thus I passed my time in the city as a Jack of all Trades, I was a baker until my customers were too ill to come to the store, a deliveryman until there was no one alive to send or receive goods. My second longest stretch was as a blacksmith, where ages of metalworking experience came to the fore. I built the wagon in the yard behind the smithy. I forged the wheel bindings from strips of scrap metal when the owner of the forge took ill. I cared for his family after he died until they all passed away in that one terrible year…

Through it all they were with me. Sentia in the guise of dear Hedwig and Trivia as my old schoolmate, though I would later learn that she was actually reincarnating herself as the Archive of all Human Knowledge.

It wasn't an easy life, and it was made more difficult by the fact that the White Council had instituted a barrier to prevent magical humans from spreading the plague beyond the city. A small section of the vampire population ended up being caught within, being mostly fledgelings, they suffered horridly. I'm afraid that many of the grave-diggers and wagoneers who cleared the streets of dead, met their end in manners unrelated to the plague. I suffered more than a few of these attacks my self.

Being drained for blood was a novel experience, but quickly grew old as the fledgeling Red and Black Court vampires failed to realize in their desparation, that there was no profit in drinking my blood...And they were getting more creative about how they killed me. See in those days you'd normally expect to held upside down over a chintz basin as you bled out. The noble-born vampires would then be fed the blood in gold and jewel encrusted goblets brought by servants so as not to stain their frilly chiffron ascots. These desperate younglings simply ripped open my jugular and let the geysering blood spray over their parched lips. Then to ensure that I didn't turn, they dismembered me.

It was the last part that was getting on my nerves, that rusty saw they were using was DULL! Dammit!

Marseille, October of 1722

We heard them before we saw them, that desparate keening. These vampires fed on the life-giving blood and essense of humans. I who was anything but, possesed veins which coursed with the inevitability of death, rather than the dearth of possibilities in the blood of the living. The general effect, was as if a dehydrated man, under the desert sun, drank a gallon alcohol mixed in with salt. Needless to say, they were rolling around in agony, hours before dawn for all the world to see.

I'd have pitied them if this particular pack, hadn't had the temerity to dismember my body before dumping it in a mass grave...ugh, I wasted hours just pulling myself together...

Still, I couldn't just leave them lying around.

Rooting aroud on my way there, I found a shovel left behind by the grave-diggers. I brought it back with me and rolled one of the gagging vampires onto its back. Slowly, I lifted the tool over my head.

COME UNDEAD THING, THINE HOUR IS AT HAND... Death spoke up behind me with a slight modicum of glee.

I swung the edge down...

AN: Yep, another one that started out as a blog post, I'll put the disclaimer here, the last chapter was a bit mangled by the editor, it should be fixed now. Unfortunately the content editor doesn't allow me to put in all the effects I'd like eg. Death's distinctive speaking front from Discworld but it gets the message across.

I own neither the Dresden Files nor Harry Potter those works are the genius of authors I don't hold a candle to. This story is not for profit and is a work of fanfiction, no animals were hurt in the creation of this story and any real world similarities to the demonic entities depicted herein, both real and imagined is simply a coincidence. TTFN