A God's Gamble

(Twelve days Post-Incident)

Death's throne room was rarely disturbed, even by the creator of death himself. He didn't need to physically move to seek out and assess the fears of mortal souls, to work his plans upon their hearts within the Mortal Realm. Most of the rooms of his ivory palace were devoid of decorum or utility, and those filled with anything had every item covered in soft white sheets, undisturbed since the Song of Creation. He had many servants but they left the palace unattended as he had no need of them within its empty halls. Even the air of the throne room was still; the dust hanging, unhurried in its journey to settle upon a surface.

Most of Death's time was spent upon his decayed wooden throne, statuesquely poised upon the chair. If one were to observe him now, it would appear rigor mortis had set upon a corpse, his face expressionless no matter what he was contemplating or concocting. This was Death's natural state, unchanged throughout time until he deemed physical action necessary; for instance, at the arrival of company.

Company was rare in the Spirit world; especially the kind of company that barged through your delicate whalebone doorway like it owned the place. Light shined through the opened doors of his throne room, pouring across the expanse to fall on Death's open eyes. Slowly, he blinked, then more rapidly, but remained unmoved.

"Why are you here?" Pluto inquired, his lips the only part of him that moved as he asked. He already knew who the intruder was, the light a herald trumpeting his lord's arrival.

"This is exactly what I feared would happen should you let him free!" The light dimmed, dismissed to reveal the masculine Seraph hovering on six opalescent wings in Death's throne room, too disgusted to even let his pristine white robe touch the floor. His hair shined like polished gold, held together by a vine in a small ponytail. His vibrant green eyes glistened with contempt as he pointed a bronze spear at the Lord of Decay. "Two lives extinguished before their time, their threads cut short by his indiscriminate scythe! I will not abide by his unaltered bloodlust!"

"Careful where you point that stick, Michael," Pluto reproached, his face still void of emotion. "I may decide to break it. As for the matter of Lucifer's bloodlust," Death's mouth lifted in one corner to smirk at the Arch-Seraph, "what you will abide is of little consequence."

"I rid the Spiral of his influence to allow life to flourish, free from the terror of his ever-present specter," Michael snapped, wings fluttering in agitation. He lowered his spear toward the floor. "I will be watching him closely, and I will intervene if he relapses to his old ways."

"YOU WILL DO NO SUCH THING!" Pluto roared and sprang out of his throne with startling swiftness to approach the Arch-Seraph. A cloud of darkness followed him, dispersing around the room. He stopped before Michael, looking up at the Seraph only because the angelic being was hovering above the floor. "What transpires now was an agreement between your Lady Mother and me, her suggestion for handling the imbalances of the Spiral caused by the waning influence of Death and booming populations of Life. It involves the very fabric of this universe; the energies of the Song of Creation. These things are concerns of gods, not their children."

"This is a gamble," Michael scowled, "with the lives of the Spiral as the stakes."

"Do not speak about that which you do not comprehend," Death reproached again, his nose nearly touching Michael's chin as he leaned forward, causing the Seraph to recoil. "If you intervene, I will personally pluck your wings, feather by feather, and chain you in the Pit beside the one you placed there." Death sneered at Michael, his pointed face grotesque beside the gorgeous chiseled features of the Seraph.

"My Lady made a mistake," Michael glared, "striking such a deal with you. She will regret this."

"That is for my sister to decide, not you. And she will not, because I am not a gambler. No matter the outcome, the Spiral will benefit," Death assured him. "Now run along back to mother before she worries where you have gotten to, child." Death shooed him off, turning away to walk back to his throne.

Arch-Seraph Michael frowned, insulted and yet aware there was little point in retaliating. The Seraph turned away and fluttered back to the Throne Room doors. He looked over his shoulder at the Lord of Death, "this is not over."

"Was not foolish enough to think it was," Death commented back, sitting upon his throne once again and relaxing. "Now leave. You disturb my dust patterns." Michael snorted before telekinetically slamming the doors, swirls of dust following in their wake.

"You underestimated her…"

The voice was a whisper in a turbulent ocean of damned wails and pitiful cries, but he plucked the sound from that chaotic chorus with the ease of an experienced fisherman. It was a voice he had not heard in some time, at least not within the confines of the Pit.

"Even worse, you underestimated him," the voice of his Father continued, cutting through the gloom that surrounded him. He was trapped in a void, bereft of all detail no matter how mundane, except the sounds of his fellow damned. But that voice became the brush that painted the world around him, adding touch to the sensations the void provided. He could feel now the chains that bound his hands and feet for eons come and gone, the rough rock that supported his bare feet, and the coarse stone wall on which he rested his back for time immeasurable.

"It shall not happen again," he replied into the darkness, voice hoarse from neglect.

"And now, because of your foolishness and arrogance," his Father continued, the words inviting vision to the space of the void. Rocks materialized around him, holding the chains that bound without fault. The darkness rescinded to reveal a rough floor of stone, leading away as if the floor of a hallway or a bridge. "I have that insufferable Arch-Seraph Michael barging about my palace." Taste returned to him, and the dryness of the air invaded; the dusty, decayed atmosphere embittered his tongue and irritated his throat.

Scent was the last sense to return to him, and came with the heavy musk of rot and mildew as Pluto, Lord of Decay and Creator of Death, entered his vision. His wings beat furiously at the mention of the Arch-Seraph, and he glared at his Father.

"As I said," he replied, "it will not happen again."

"It best not, Lucifer," Death declared, approaching the chained Dark Seraph slowly. "Or she will defeat you, and take what part of your soul I granted her as her own and assume your mantle, leaving the rest of you here with no hope of release."

"That will not be necessary, m'lord," Lucifer put jeering emphasis on his address to his Father, "though I must admire the strength of his spirit. The strongest will to live I have ever had the pleasure of opposing… Is that why you want him dead? Do you fear he may choose his own path, irreverent to the Judgement?" Lucifer cocked an eyebrow, his decayed face grinning.

"The reason I chose him as your target is mine to know," Death replied, drawing close to his first born, "and not of your concern as of yet. You will know the reason for your release, and the circumstances of it, when you have conquered her spirit and killed your mark. It just happens my chosen mark is also a challenging one; I must ensure your skills have not waned after all these years."

"You will not be disappointed. She is strong, but I will prevail," Lucifer declared. Death lifted a boney hand to brush his knuckles against the swollen, sore-ridden cheek of his child, empty eyes gazing at the Dark Seraph.

"There is that determination, that ambition that brought you here all those years ago," Death cooed, stroking Lucifer like a loving father to his infant. "You used to be so beautiful too…"

Lucifer twisted his head away from his Father's hand, frowning. Death turned away from the decrepit being, walking away leisurely.

"Do make an effort to control yourself next time, Lucifer," Death requested as the world around Lucifer began to recede, the sensory stimulation brought by Pluto's visit being torn from his mind once more. "I would appreciate having the Grim Reaper at my disposal once again," he finished with a smirk as the void engulfed his child, resuming the punishment he'd endured for millennia.