Author: The Wanlorn
Title: Black Reapers 1/1
Summary: Reflections on a deathbed.
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: none
Distribution: Anywhere, just ask first.
Disclaimer: The characters in this short piece belong to either Rouen French or the makers of 'Forever Knight'. It's really a 'Sons of Lilith' piece of fanfiction (what a dork I am - writing fanfiction from fanfiction). The poem, "Reapers", is by Jean Toomer. The only thing I'm getting out of this is for someone else to write my Statement of Faith for me.
Thank Yous: Thanks to April for letting me play with her character and for betaing this.
Black Reapers
Twinkling rays of a dying sun filtered through the half-opened blinds, dancing across the emaciated figure on the bed. A slight smile graced the wasted face as the beams gave the drab sheets color, if only for brief moments in time.
The smile faded quickly. Time. What a fleeting concept. Moist lives were cut too short by the merciless scythes of black reapers. And those few who were granted eternity… too often was time squandered by stupidity. There was never enough - not to do everything that needed to be done.
A soft sight quickly turned into a hacking cough. Crimson blood stained pale lips, bubbling forth like a perverse fountain of youth. Oh, the prices paid for trying to change a decision, for trying to go back. One of the deaths on his hands would be his own. The wracking coughs threatened to tear out his throat, heave up his lungs. Bloodtears streamed down his face at the pain, each hacking explosion taking more and more out of him.
Spent, wasted, too tired to move, he slumped against the pillows, amongst the red. A sheen of bloodsweat covered his body, but he was too exhausted to rise and wash it off. It began to dry, flaking off of it's own volition, but he was too tired to care. Eyelids too heavy to raise clamped shut over hollow eyes.
The dark abyss of sleep would have been welcomed. But, instead, his mind rolled on and on. Every bone, every sinew ached terribly, enough to drive a man to the brink of madness.,
But he had been there, and over the edge. This was nothing.
His perfect memory called up a few lines from a poem he once had read. Over and over, the section ran through his thoughts, emblazoned on his memory.
"Black reapers with the sound of steel on stone / Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones / In their hip pockets as a thing that's done, / And start their silent swinging, one by one."
Black reapers… They were relentlessly creeping closer, their blood-stained scythes swinging nearer and nearer.
He was matter-of-fact about his approaching death. Always matter-of-fact to ward off the pity. He could not stand their pity. But it was stealing closer, ever closer. And there was much he had left undone.
There was much he had left to tell Nicholas…
Much he wanted to say to his daughter…
And his newest fledgling would be left without a master…
But nothing could stop the steady slinking of death. It was not a matter of if, but when. He could hear the ticking of his Deathwatch, growing louder and louder.
Another bout of coughing left him curled on his side, shivering. This torment was too much - it was time. Maybe not this particular moment, but soon.
Finally, sleep claimed him.
*Fin*
~~April 6, 2003~~