Chapter 29:
Death realized belatedly he should have kept his aspect up enough to keep the Moon's spirits from seeing him for a bit longer.
At least he'd kept it up enough that they couldn't really see him.
He'd sensed Pitch shortly after entering the hospital; unfortunately he hadn't been paying much mind to the other presences in the area. He only really noticed the bogeyman when Pitch's focus was suddenly on him.
He sensed the bogeyman following him through the shadows on the walls, more curious than anything. Death for his part ignored him, making his way through the quietly bustling halls, passage unmarked by any of the humans he passed.
He paused when a young-looking man and woman stood suddenly, sketching hasty half-bows to him. He recognized them after a moment as Niamh and Brendan, banshees who watched over the descendants of one of the younger Irish clans. He glanced into the exam room beyond the bench the pair had been sitting on.
"Another scan?" Death asked.
Niamh nodded. Brendan wrapped and arm around his companion's shoulder. "The doctors want to test a new chemotherapy treatment."
"Ah." The presence of the banshees spoke to how well that was going.
"We sing to calm him," Niamh said. "But he cannot hear us, and we cannot stop the pain." The last few words were a near-wail.
Death glanced again at the small figure on the bed in the exam room, clinging to his mother's hand as the doctor and tech explained how the scan would work and what the test was intended to show.
"I know," Death said. He could see the pair's eyes glistening, but they weren't crying yet.
"We will keep the purple bear beside him," Niamh said quietly. "Arawn will be here before too long."
Death didn't respond. The banshees would keep their vigil to the end, and Arawn was if anything studious in his work. For all that adults seemed to by and large find him terrifying, the old Celtic Lord of the Dead did quite well with children, especially when he brought his hounds along.
"I commend your diligence," Death said. The two bowed again, then took up their station on the bench again. They had already begun humming together as Death made his way further down the hall, if Death wasn't mistaken a clan variation of one of hundreds of old dancing tunes.
He sensed the bogeyman shifting behind him after a few moments and barely withheld a sigh. "Pitchiner; I wasn't expecting to see you quite so soon."
The spirit became solid out of sheer indignation. "That is not my name!" he snarled.
Death hummed noncommittally, continuing on his way.
Pitch stayed out of the shadows now, but he did stay close to the wall to avoid the humans rushing about.
"What are you doing here, anyway?" the bogeyman asked after nearly a minute of silence.
"My job."
"Which is?"
Death's step slowed slightly; there was an undercurrent of unease Pitch's tone now. A quick glance backward revealed the bogeyman glancing continuously from side to side, into the doors of labs, exam rooms, playrooms, nurse's stations, waiting areas. The halls and floors were brightly painted; many of the children were laughing. For some it was an effort; for some, it was a way to reassure parents, family and friends, and maybe themselves.
Some weren't able to laugh, or do much at all, for one reason or another. Many… most… were afraid. Not visibly, and that was worse.
Death had always hated these places.
Pitch's attention, thankfully, was drawn from him before he reached his destination. A little girl (Mizett Hopkins, 6, Death noted), was absolutely adamant about not needing another test. She was terrified of the needles the doctors and nurses always used, and she didn't particularly care how much her leg was hurting right at this moment, thank you very much.
She was suitably distracted by the little shadows on the wall that very much resembled rabbits and unicorns (her favorite), that she didn't end up paying much mind to the needles, and she was giggling before she dropped off into a drug-induced sleep.
Death, in the meantime, stood at the head of the bed of Lexi Ross, 14. She was still nauseous, and it still felt like she ached all over from the last round of chemo. Her chest hurt; every breath was a struggle now, and her right ear had begun to ache again this morning.
But she could still hear her parents, her little brother and sister, their grandparents and aunt, singing 'Ave Maria' in what Death thought was a passable harmony. She could feel their hands gripping hers, gripping her legs, resting on her sides. She was smiling around the tubes as her eyes closed.
Death left holding the still-sleeping soul; she wasn't even aware of him, and Niam and Brendan sang a lamentation in an older Irish Gaelic to keep her so and whispering blessings for a fair journey before returning to their charge.
As Death was making his way to the doors, he saw the huddle of colored scrubs and a white coat; the nurses and the doctor who had first identified the pseudomonas aeruginosa in Lexi.
"You did all you could," Death said as he stood unseen behind them, the women clutching each other's shoulders as they cried. "Thank you for caring for her."
Arawn met him on the steps outside. He placed a very young spirit pup in Death's arms, snuggled up against Lexi's soul.
"A fine hound for a valiant warrior," the god said by way of explanation. As if he needed one; he always brought pups (or kits) for the young ones. Or occasionally a foal.
"The clan banshees are waiting for you," Death said as he mounted his horse.
Arawn nodded, not surprised in the slightest. "Dutiful, as always. They will tend to him well."
"They already are."
When Pitch emerged from the room, he did not see the black robed figure he had followed anywhere, though he looked all through the hospital. He did not see the two men, one wearing a tall white hat and white robes with a kindly face, the other stern-faced, wearing a black hat and black robes, arguing quietly with each other in front of a nurse's station while a dark haired woman draped in colorful robes, carrying a small glass globe in one hand and a set of scales in the other, rolled her eyes behind them before tapping the dark clad man on the shoulder and proffering the scale.
He did not see the man and woman singing beside the boy clutching his purple teddy bear. He did not see the white eared hounds following obediently beside and before their king and his horse, draped in a star-shimmering robe.
He did see the former frost spirit when said former frost spirit landed heavily on his shoulders the moment he stepped outside, laughing and asking why Pitch couldn't just let people get on with their work. He only laughed harder when the Nightmare King pushed himself to his feet and proceeded to chase the former sprite down a side street, yelling indignantly, only to be immediately chased back out by a furiously trumpeting mare.
The pale horse, standing invisible with his rider and their charge on the street, snorted in approval before a nudge from his master had him leaping heavenward.
...Hello there.
I hesitated about posting this, honestly, as it deals with some pretty heavy topics, but... I don't know, it seemed to fit after a few go-overs.
Some of the mythic characters we see here are:
Arawn, Lord of Annwn, Celtic Lord of the Underworld/Otherworld
The Heibai Wuchang, 'Black and White Impermanence', two death deities of Chinese folk mythology charged with judging and escorting the dead to the underworld
Santa Muerte, 'Lady of Holy Death', a sort of merging of pre-Columbian and Christian folklore in Mexico and other parts of Latin America.