Written for the QLFC, Season 6, Round Eight.
Position: Keeper
Position Prompt: Theme - someone making preparations for their death (natural or otherwise).
Word Count: 1379

Characters: Ignotus, Death, some OC's
Summary: sometimes Death leads you to him...

A huge thank you to Claude Amelia Song for beta'ing :)

Not now, not yet

As soon as he lifts his cloak, a shiver runs down his frail body, and rhythmic steps resound in his ears.

Ignotus is tired and his sight is clouded by age, but that's not the reason he misses the stranger lower their hood or change their mask as they approach him, though he knows that's what they must have done — they always do.

He's only aware of the waterfall of auburn hair that ensnares the sunlight in front of him — a mere glow in his weaker eye — before a lock of it is casually aimed at the figure's cerulean eyes by the wind. He immediately recognizes that particular shade. His heart skips a beat, and he thinks that surrender may be worth it, now that he's prepared himself for this as thoroughly as he did when he first wooed his Lady Edith.

It's easy to be ready, after all. Ignotus has seen it happen often enough to know how the game's played, to know that even Death, solitary creature that he is, has a weakness: he loves Life enough to be willingly part of it for few precious minutes.

Death craves for attention, hates being neglected.

Ignotus knows it. Wrapped up in his cloak, hidden from everyone's view, he's been following Death for a while now, ever since the effort to wake up in the morning has not been compensated by the following hours of daylight any longer, ever since his body has grown too heavy and his soul too big for it.

Never one to dive headfirst into the unknown, he resolved to take notes on how Death works, the purpose of dying ironically giving his life a renewed taste.

.x.

Twice does Ignotus see Death taking lives in the middle of an action. But the point also is that Death likes to be cared for.

To old Juliana, Death appears in the disguise of a short, muscular boy, his skin dark from the sun. She doesn't even spare him a look, too intent on stirring the content of a little black pot, the gesture slow and methodical.

"Wash your hands before sitting down," she says.

"Yes, Mother." The boy smiles, smelling the air. "Oh, is it frumenty? 'Tis my favorite."

"I know."

The boy laughs as Juliana stirs the frumenty one more time, her face clearly conveying her happy thoughts: He's here. All is perfect.

Ignotus is standing in the sunlight as he's been watching the scene from an open window, but when a sudden cold creeps up under his robes he expects the worse. His gaze finds the portrait of Juliana's dead boy a few moments before she falls to the ground, unbreathing, the frumenty left to burn. The smile hasn't left her lips.

Death, Ignotus suspects, can't wait, and the next time he sees it happen, he doesn't have the heart to stay until the end.

William is young, apparently healthy, and whistling an old love song as he tends the sheep when a blonde maid approaches him, interrupting him. He doesn't mind it — not yet, Ignotus thinks as he feels the cold breeze and recognizes the pattern, pitying the little shepherd. His heart clenches.

The boy has always had a soft spot for golden locks and freckles, and it doesn't take a fortune-teller to know William is lost.

She holds out a tiny, white hand and says, "May I have this dance?"

A soft sigh escapes Ignotus, and the girl seems to hear it. She turns towards his general direction, her bottomless eyes saying, I'll come back for you.

Death, Ignotus is sure, doesn't wait, but that doesn't bother him. His affairs have been in order for a long time, his will but a formality — from father to son, from father to son, endlessly. That's how things work in the Peverell family.

He still feels like he's missing something so he turns the other way, wrapping the cloak, his most precious possession, tighter around himself, and starts walking, his steps as swift as his weak knees and unsteady feet allow.

Not now, not yet.

.x.

He never knows what mannerisms to look for in a crowd. On any given day, Death may be male or female, young or old, may or may not have facial hair; he may be dressed as a noble or as a peasant.

But Ignotus is not discouraged. He's figured out his own cloak craves to be reunited with the fabric it had been torn from, to feel whole again. It is evident from the way it reaches out for the hem of Death's cloak whenever he's nearby, a cold wind making them flap towards each other. So Ignotus doesn't have to struggle to go to the four corners of the known world. He really doesn't. He just follows the chilling breeze of kidnapped souls, no matter how easy, how predictable it seems.

It leads him to a crack in the ground, and now that he's close, he can hear soft moans and angry curses too. He wonders why he didn't pick up on them sooner.

He's about to reassure whoever fell in there that he'll find a rope and help them when he notices he's been preceded. Ignotus has no alternative but to lie down on the unforgiving stone to listen to their conversation. His bones grind together, but he's lucky: the two people at the bottom of the crack don't mind him, and he's spared another dizzy journey into eyes who have seen too much, absorbed too many.

"Drink." Death has taken the guise of a tall, gray-haired man, a scar visible even to Ignotus across his cheek.

"I'm sorry," says the fallen man.

"For what?"

"For not being able to save you that time…"

"Let it go."

The wind howls, covering the man's moans before he can reply: "I was afraid. I couldn't think…"

"Don't speak," Death says, his tone almost caring. "You're hurting yourself."

"You were so heavy, so pale. Gods! I-I just..." He shakes his head as if to clear it. "Gods!"

"I'm here now." Death cups the man's face.

More wind.

"Can you f-forg —"

And just like that, the scene ends, fading into a rush of wind.

A tear escapes Ignotus' eye.

Never has he seen Death so understanding, so merciful, and Ignotus wonders if that's reserved to those who haven't tricked him — definitely not to his poor brothers.

But then, who knows what's Death's purpose? It may be just a trap, a way to lull his victims into a false sense of security. Or maybe — the thought hits him like galloping horses — Death has been courting him by showing him such serene departures.

He shakes his head. "Not yet, but soon," he promises. He can't, won't run forever.

He slowly gets up and goes in search of a cemetery or a church. Either of them is the only place where he can feel close to those he's lost, the only place where he can ask for forgiveness — apart from his son, he has no living connections, and everyone he's ever known is now enjoying their eternal rest.

"Very soon," he says, the idea of sleeping for a long time more and more appealing.

The tears that are now streaking his face are bitter, but their warmth is oddly comforting.

Death values forgiveness, he reminds himself. Death doesn't appreciate being neglected.

.x.

He's learned enough.

He's deemed himself ready.

He's allowed his turn to come. Quietly. Like a leaf falls from its tree.

"Edith," he can't help but say at the red-haired apparition.

"My Lord." She curtsies. And isn't that ironic?

She smooths her pale green gown like she did when she was —

"No, no. You're not Edith. Edith's dead, I know." He looks up, hopeful. "Have you come to take me? I'm happy to see you." He makes sure Death understands he's not talking about his beloved wife.

He never gets an answer — he didn't really expect one — but his whole body feels lighter. Muscles that he didn't even know he had unclench.

"Edith." It's a whisper, a prayer, a hope. His Edith's been waiting for him.

Now.

And then he consciously but effortlessly lets it go.

Peace, at last.