Death Becomes Her

by CapandCarter

Peggy starts work at a new hospital. But something else is there. Something she can't comprehend, and something she can't allow. Or can she? There's much to learn... (Five chapters being posted all at once! Other chapters will be shorter)

1. Chapter 1

England - 2023

She's always been told she's an old soul. Ever since she was far too young to be labeled as anything but an infant. But even then her parents shared memories of her being a young tot and saying things she couldn't possibly have related to. They even stated that she would point out places or people and talk about them in accurate detail when she had never met them or been there before.

As she grew up, that quirk faded, although the accusation that her soul was loaned to her from an older generation never wavered. She would laugh it off, and roll her eyes and act out in immature ways as if to try to prove them wrong. But every once and a while an ache entered her heart when she saw a specific sunset, or smelt a fresh breeze. The smell of campfire smoke made her anguished with loneliness and dark red berries always caused a lump in her throat when she looked at them.

These she never spoke a word of.

Peggy can't explain why when three hospitals offer her a position in their ICU, she chooses the one furthest away from her home.

Perhaps it was the distance it would provide from her mother.

Perhaps it was the sense of adventure it would fulfill.

Or perhaps it was that inexplicable calling to throw caution to the wind and do what scares her the most. Never one to let a challenge go unchecked or a dare left unanswered.

But truthfully, if she admits it to herself, there's a draw. A pull. Something that settles deep in her chest, hooks to her heart, and then gently pulls her in that direction.

It's not a conscious thought. It's barely a subconscious decision.

She just knows when her parents ask her where she's going to pick, she says Brooklyn General.

—

New York - 2023

She's 8 days into her time there when she sees him first. A handsome man, thin and short and standing by a patient's bed that she thought had no known relatives. They're talking for a bit, the man seems serious himself but somehow manages to make the old cranky man smile for the first time Peggy has ever seen and then she's called away and thinks nothing of it.

—-

She hears the code called but she's busy with another patient and knows they have it handled since it shuts off soon after.

When she's talking to a nurse at the station, she turns to see if that man is still here.

He's not. And the patient's bed is empty.

"What happened?" Peggy asks.

"Heart stopped. Couldn't get it restarted."

It's not untypical to have deaths in the ICU. It's common, unfortunately. But this is her first in the 8 days she's been here.

"Oh…" she says softly. "Was his friend notified?"

The nurse looks at her. "Friend?"

She nods, "yes, the blonde man talking to him just a bit before."

The woman shakes her head, "we didn't have any visitors sign in for him… was it the chaplain?"

"Maybe. I don't know."

—

It's two weeks later and she does a double take. The same man, she'd swear on it. And he's talking to one of their young adult patients suffering from a deep seated infection. The woman looks nervous, but the man is chatting at her, a serious expression on his face but seeming at ease.

Peggy's about to wander over and ask what he does here, but suddenly the girl seizes, and she hears the alarms start to sound. She rushes over and the man steps back, a profoundly sad expression on his face.

But he steps out of the space, letting them work and she's too busy trying to save the girl's life that he escapes her mind.

—

"There was nothing we could have done." She hears the nurses say.

But as she looks at the young woman's body on the bed, she wishes desperately that there had been.

—

She pulls up short, stopping mid sentence and staring as a large man walks past, broad shouldered and tall.

And she could swear he looked familiar. But like who? She wracked her brain but came up empty. She'd never seen a man so… imposing.

"Peggy?" Her coworker stares at her strangely. "You alright there? You look like you're short circuiting."

She shakes her head, "sorry. I—" she can't even explain the eerie feeling she has but the man is no longer in her line of sight so she lets it go.

—-

She walks towards the curtains, wanting to check the old woman's vitals when she blinks, seeing him again, the thin blonde man leaning his elbows on her bed and listening as she struggles to tell him something. He doesn't seem impatient or frustrated with her sluggish speech.

"Peggy!"

She looks back, a nurse waving the paperwork they'd been looking for a minute ago.

"Great!" She responds, giving a thumbs up and then turning back around. Only to see that the woman is now alone. She only has a moment to look around, wondering where he went before the alarm bells start to ding and the old woman is coding.

—

It's a while before it happens again. Long enough she's just about to chalk it all up to nerves about a new job or exhaustion in every form, when she catches sight of one of them again. The large and imposing one, walking and talking with a man who had gotten his leg crunched under a tractor.

Her first thought is that the man should not be up and walking. But her second thought is that he seems to be walking just fine…

Dr. Carter to the nurse's station

Dr. Carter to the nurse's station

She starts walking quickly, leaning over the high top counter, "you called?"

"Doctor needs you in OR. Emergency surgery's been called."

"For who?" She tries to mentally run through their list of patients but can't think of one who would need surgery.

"The farmer, Mr. O'lan. Compartment syndrome creeped up, they're trying to save the leg."

"But I-" Peggy glances back, not seeing them in the hallway. She's pointing to empty air.

She turns back and sees the nurse looking at her with the same confusion she feels. "He was just up and walking…"

The nurse looks at her like she's crazy. "They wheeled him to prep for surgery ten minutes ago."

Peggy scoffs, "no." Then she's stomping towards the O.R. She follows procedure, halfway through scrubbing in when there's a commotion and she walks over to the glass window with dripping hands to see the Doctor ripping off his gloves and sighing.

A nurse is writing something on a chart as the doctor is speaking.

A deep curl in her gut tells her what she shouldn't already know.

A nurse walks out and Peggy stops her, "what happened?"

"Should have been a routine surgery. Something in his heart gave out under the meds. He was gone before we could really even start."

"Natural causes?"

"We assume so. Coroner will run the usual tests."

Peggy walks slowly back out onto the ICU floor and stares at the spot she'd seen him walking. And a chill creeps up her spine.

She sits at her apartment that night and tries to rationalize. The small bowl of ramen she'd made, something her local asian market carried that she could make in a pinch, was comforting, and kept her from skipping some meals altogether, rested in her lap, the bowl warming her hands.

She was sure she wasn't insane.

She was sure she was seeing something.

But there was no rational explanation for what that thing was.

A man.

Men.

Brothers?

Chaplains?

Assistants?

She doesn't know. But something makes her skin crawl. Why had the man who couldn't walk suddenly been walking? With seemingly no issue?

And the most confounding piece of evidence of all…

Why did whoever the men talked to… die shortly after?

That either solidified they were chaplains… although that would mean they were either highly attune to when people were dying or being called. But they had been wheeling the man in for a relatively routine surgery… Why would he be walking with a chaplain? Or…

There were no answers that made her feel settled. So she decided that she would wait and see if they appeared again. Then she would search for more answers.

—-

She can't decide which is worse. The mother's frantic hysterical sobbing or the father's blank eyed stare while he holds his crying wife.

"We're going to do everything we can." She assures the family. But she makes no promises. She'd seen the state the little boy had been brought in.

"I only looked away for one second." The woman gasps, "he was playing in the yard! The phone rang! I—" the woman's unnatural wail makes the whole ICU fall silent.

"It was an accident." The husband says robotically, although Peggy's grateful he doesn't seem to blame his wife. At least not yet

"I need to get to surgery." She stares, "please stay here." Then she's walking away, trying not to wince at the sounds of the mother crying as she walks away.

She's almost entered into the surgery ward when a young boy darts past her. She pauses, turning to see blonde hair and blue eyes and the skinniest little body waving something else forward.

"Come on." The little boy calls, "it's this way!"

Soul crushing dread fills her as she slowly turns to see what the young boy is waving at.

Red hair, and green watery eyes stare at the boy. "But I'm scared."

The blonde boy, looking maybe a few years older than the red head, is nodding. "Oh, I know. I was scared the first time too. And a lot of the other times you know? But now I'm not. And I'm going to take you the super secret route! It will be fun!" The blonde reaches and gently grabs the boy's hand in his own. "Come on, we got to go."

The red headed boy seems to hesitate for another moment. "But my mom and dad won't be there."

The blonde boy's face stiffens, and Peggy gasps silently as she sees his entire frame flicker. Like he might suddenly expand or shrink. Age passes through him in a wave before it settles and the young boy nods again. "That's true. But they'll get to you eventually. And you can have fun together again."

"My mom is probably mad at me."

The blonde boy is a bit more persistent, tightening the hold on the boy's hand and starting to pull him forward.

"No." The blonde boy says, "she's not. I promise."

"She will be". The redhead frets. "She told me to never go into the street without her. I didn't listen. She'll be mad."

Peggy can't hear the blonde boy's answer as they get farther and farther away.

But she's rooted to the spot. She must be hallucinating. But she knows deep in her soul that she's not.

True grief filters through her bones. And she knows what's going to happen before she even gets to the OR.

The little boy lays lifelessly on the table. Red hair covered with blood. One of the nurses. A tender hearted one is crying. The doctor is stone faced and she just stares and stares.

—-

She'll never forget the sound a parent makes when they're told their child is dead.

The whole ICU is more quiet that entire day. Like they could sense the grief filtering through the staff.

But her grief turns into confusion which morphs into curiosity and anger. A blonde boy. A blonde young man. A blonde, large imposing man… All too similar looking to not be connected somehow. Who are they? Why was this group taking her patients? Was it causing their deaths?

It takes her a few days to work out an idea. But when she figures out a plan of action, she waits, patient.

—-

6 days later she sees one of them again. The imposing man is standing beside a bed with a young man on it. In his early thirties. She's seen him before. He's on chemo and extremely prone to infections and illness.

"Angie." She calls, getting the nurse's attention, "who do you see in that room over there?"

Angie looks up, tired but still smiling, "oh, is it Paul. He's back in? Poor man. Can't seem to catch a break."

Peggy's lips thin. It's as she expected. But she double checks. "And that's it? You don't see anyone else?"

Angie stands dutifully and cranes her head, looking into the room. "That's all, English. Why?"

"Just wondering." Then she turns and walks towards the room. When she enters the man in the bed looks over at her. He's flushed and looks exhausted. Like every ounce of his strength is going towards holding on.

"What's the prognosis, doc?"

"Your white blood cell count is exceedingly low. Even for a patient on chemo. I'm going to want to keep you in a sterile room for a few days and see if we can beat this infection and then see what our options are." The man is nodding, and she points to the man still standing there, quietly, "are you the one who brought him in?"

The man on the bed looks confused, while the man standing looks surprised.

"Huh?" Peggy points to— she blinks. He's gone. She turns back to the hospital bed, all the wires hooked up to him and soft beeps, "the man you were talking to?"

"What man?"

"The tall blonde one?"

He frowns. "I haven't talked to anyone but the first nurse and then you."

His face is completely open, genuinely confused.

He's not lying. He can't remember or perhaps she really truly is going insane.

"Alright." She says, "sorry to bother. I'll send someone to move you to a sterile room soon, alright?"

He nods and she leaves, determined to figure this out.

Except she doesn't get the chance. The infection flares, leaving him seizing and he's gone in the next hour.

She grieves silently, as do the rest of the staff.

But the thought of the man never leaves. Something is happening.

It takes a bit of flattery and bribing but she manages to get access to the hallway security tapes. Going back through every date she can remember to see if she sees one of them. Now she has a suspicion it's all the same person, just shifting shapes which makes her shiver.

And not a single sign of them or him on the tapes.

Which means she's either clinically insane, or something more is afoot.

—-

It takes a considerably long time for her to see one of them again. Almost 3 full weeks.

But she does. He's talking with a teenager. She feels fury and determination.

Unacceptable. She will not allow him to take another young life.

She stomps over, pushes the curtains aside and stares at him. He looks up at her and then seems shocked once again.

"Who are you?" She asks, not taking her eyes off him for a second.

"Are you talking to me?" The young man on the bed asks.

"No." She responds, but doesn't blink, doesn't let him out of her sight, "I'm talking to him." She points to the man. "Who are you?" He's stunned, eyes wide and mouth gaped. "Who are you?"

"Uh, Doctor lady? There's no one there."

Suddenly she's in a staring contest. She knows if she blinks he'll be gone. Her eyes start to dry and she blinks her left, reopens it, then blinks her right and continues staring.

His face morphs from shock and surprise to confusion. Then annoyance.

"Who are you?" She asks again, "why do you come here? Where do you take them?"

He doesn't answer. His face a cold and wary expression. Beginning to look like a cornered animal.

"Uh—" the young boy is sounding concerned. "Are you okay? Should I call someone?"

She nods, "yes, call a nurse."

The kid presses the button and Angie walks in. "Hello!" She says to the kid, "I'm nurse Angie." Then she turns to Peggy and pauses. Peggy can feel the confusion from here. "Dr. Carter?"

She watches in surprise as the blonde man raises a hand, beckoning Angie forward. The nurse, unbeknownst to herself why, steps forward and Peggy realizes he's going to place her in between them so she can't see him and can escape.

Peggy shoots out her arm, blocking her from walking around and facing her. The man is frowning. And she glares at him. "Angie, I want a comprehensive scan on this boy."

"But…" she looks at the chart on the end of the bed, "he's just here for some lacerations."

"Doing what?" Peggy asks, man still locked in her gaze.

"Skateboarding. I was doing some sick moves and then probably hit some gravel on the ramp. Went skidding."

"Do you own a helmet?"

The boy's voice falters, "uh… yeah…"

"And were you wearing it?"

There's a longer silence and the boy answers sheepishly, "no."

"Did you hit your head when you fell?"

"I mean, I dunno, it happened so fast."

Angie walks over to the boy and uses her penlight to look into his eyes. "His pupils are reacting normally. No slurred speech, no pain—" she tilts her head at the boy, "no pain, in your head. Right?"

He shrugs, "I mean. I dunno. Sort of a dull throb but it's nothing. My arms and legs are the worst."

The man looks carved from stone, face rigid and eyes resigned. But his gaze is trapped in hers. She doesn't know the rules here. Has no idea why he doesn't just leave or say something or anything. But he just stands there, his large stature filling the room although she is the only one who can see it.

"Comprehensive brain scan. Now!" She barks, "get him on blood thinners too."

"What?" The boy asks, sounding concerned. "Why?"

She doesn't break eye contact, even though her eyes are killing her. "Just do it, Angie!"

"But…" the kid seems confused, "I'm just here for my arms and legs."

She repeats her half blinking to keep him in her sights while she talks. They always die so soon after she sees him. "Angie, I swear right this second."

"On it, boss." Angie says quietly, leaving the room.

"Ma'am?" The young kid says, "who are you looking at? You're freaking me out."

"I know." She responds, swallowing hard, "I'm sorry, I can't even explain it." She narrows her eyes, repeats her blinking process and then takes a deep breath, all while staring at him, "I can't even explain it to myself."

Not a few minutes later, they're wheeling him down to the MRI and she's left standing there, staring at him in the empty room.

"Who are you?"

He shifts, "how can you see me?"

She scoffs, almost forgetting to keep her eyes on him, "I've seen you around here for months now. What are you doing to them?"

He tilts his head, "doing to them? What do you mean?"

"Every patient I've seen you with, dies shortly after. What are you doing to them?"

His expression hardens, "You think I'm killing them?"

"Aren't you?"

His broad chest straightens, arms crossing over and eyes narrowing, "I am not a killer."

"Then why do they always die after speaking to you?"

He finally drops her gaze and then sighs, and it's like she knows, he won't leave now. He won't disappear. "It's easier that way." She blinks rapidly. Her eyes feeling a sense of relief.

"What is?" She asks.

He turns back to her and his face is calm but his eyes are full of guilt, heartbroken even. It almost takes her breath away how devastated he looks. "It makes it easier to convince them to come with me. After the physical death, people are usually frantic or horrified and trying to get back. I hate dragging people. So I introduce myself to them beforehand. Then the first face they see is familiar. And they're not so scared."

Her heart is pounding, "follow you where?"

He frowns, "that's a long story. And I'm not supposed to be talking to humans. How are you seeing me right now?"

"I don't know. I just can. I saw you last time. I looked at you."

"I thought that was a fluke." He whispers quietly, almost to himself. "And you…" he looks at her, an expression of confusion across his regal face, "you remember seeing me multiple times?"

"I do."

He looks down, his brow pulled tight and eyes far away as if thinking. "Strange. I've never had that happen before."

"Who are you?"

Dr. Carter to the nurses station-

She looks at him and sighs, "you're going to disappear now, aren't you?" He says nothing. "Please stay, I don't understand. And I need to understand." He says nothing, but as she knows he has no plans to stay. "Can you-

Dr. Carter to the nurses station-

She curses and then glares at him, "I'm assuming I'll see you again."

At this he responds, "you will."

"You were right!" Angie crows at her three hours later. "He had a clot, some sort of obstruction in his brain and if we hadn't taken him in, he would have thrown it and been gone very quickly." Angie is grinning but then she frowns, "but you were acting strange. How did you know?"

"It was a very strange hunch." She answers. "I can't even explain it. I thought I was going crazy." Then she thinks about the invisible man who takes away the dead and she frowns. "Perhaps I am."

Angie sits on her chair and spins, coming back around, "crazy how?"

"Seeing things that aren't there." Peggy admits. "Talking to people that aren't there."

Angie reels back her head. "Excuse me?"

"Listen. I understand it sounds insane." She huffs, "but I can't explain it. And it's going to happen again."

"When?"

Peggy shrugs, "I don't know."

"I feel like…" Angie winces, "this is the sort of stuff I need to report to a supervisor. It sounds mentally unstable."

Peggy grimaces, knocking the tip of her pen against the counter, "I know. I agree."

"Are you sleeping enough? Eating? Are you on medication?"

"Are any of us? Yes. And no."

Angie studies her for a long time. "Will you tell me when it happens again?"

"I will." Peggy responds, then she looks at Angie seriously, "You'll tell me if I start acting insane?"

"Other than today?"

"Other than if it's trying to save someone's life."

"Okay."

She nods. "Okay."

3 months pass. More than a handful of people die. She does not see him.

She wonders if it was all some sort of psychotic episode. Except for the teenager whose life she saved because of him. The boy has come back in for a check-up, he's thanked her a thousand times. He's sworn to wear his helmet forever and might even change sports because of how close of a call to death it really had been.

It was real. He was real.

So where is he?

It makes her gasp when she sees him again.

He's gaunt. Pale, almost translucent and his blonde hair has faded to be so light it's practically white. Deep circles are under his eyes and his features are sharp, more terrifying than she can explain.

She's shocked by his outfit. While he's been in something different every time, they were common clothes. Jeans, button ups, children's clothes or something so normal it hadn't drawn her attention.

But now he's wearing black. All black. A black long sleeve turtleneck sweater, black slacks and black shoes. And there's something smoky about it all. Like his edges are smudged out. His appearance flickers and she swears she sees his skeleton before his face settles back into place. His gait is slow as he walks towards the room of an older woman. She was close to dying. They knew that. They were working to get her comfortable and thinking of transferring to hospice care soon.

Angie's talking to her but she doesn't even say excuse me before she's taking off, following his steps into the room.

She stays quiet as she hears him speak to her.

"Hello, ma'am."

"Hello, my you look tired, young man."

"My apologies." His voice is soft, deep and very soothing. Something she can't remember hearing the last time. "I've come to make you comfortable." She watches him watch her with a somber and respectful gaze.

"Oh?"

"Yes, and I've come to take you with me. Is that alright?"

"Where are we going?"

"I'm afraid I don't know your final destination." He says softly, "but I'll be by your side the whole way. Is that alright?"

She nods, "I suppose so." Peggy marvels at his calmness, it exudes from him.

"Here," he offers softly, "take my hand. I'll need you to stand."

"I can't." the woman admits in a sad tone, "I'm too weak."

"Nonsense." the man says, "you're stronger than you know. Come on, I'll lend you some of my strength if you need it."

His pale hand, thin and elegant extends and the woman reaches a bony hand in response, clasping it. She uses his help to leverage herself, sitting up and then pulling her legs off the bed.

Peggy knows this is impossible. The woman's bones are too brittle. Her muscles too weak. Her body in the last stages.

And yet the woman stands, straightening and looking at the man in surprise, "well look at that." She smiles at him widely, "you were right."

He smiles at her back, the first one she can truly remember seeing him give, "I usually am." Then he maneuvers her hand into the crook of his arm and begins leading her out of the room. He catches her watching him and he pauses, each caught in the other's gaze.

Peggy narrows her eyes, "I thought you took them after."

He drops his gaze, "I'm doing my job."

"Job?"

His mouth shifts, and he rests his other hand on top of the woman's. "Come now," he says softly, "we've got to get going."

He's walking past her and she can't decide what to do. Unlike the young boy, there truly is no way to save the woman. She is and would be dying soon.

She watches them walk out the room, strolling as if in a garden and exchanging pleasantries. The woman seems to get more fresh and young with each step until they step out of sight.

And then she hears the woman's machines code.

"What happened?" Angie asks. "You went-" the woman wiggles her fingers by her eyes, "-loopy."

Peggy shakes her head. "I don't know." then she rests her head in her hands. "I don't know."

"Stop."

The man looks up at her, his expression hardens, "do not interfere."

Peggy looks over at the young girl who is at the moment asleep, maybe twelve. "You can't. She's too young." He glares at her, a truly imposing look, he still looks like walking- her brain stutters, "death." She whispers out gasping, "you're Death aren't you?"

He takes a deep breath, "I go by many names."

The thought is terrifying. But her brain is focused on something else. "Leave her be."

He shakes his head slowly, "that's not how it works."

"Pick someone else." Peggy growls. "People who have lived their whole lives. Not her."

His aura shifts, a sense of fear thrills her as the room darkens and he seems to glow, "That's not how I work!" He growls out, "I'm impartial. I don't choose."

"You're choosing her!"

"No." He shakes his head, "No. She's dying. Therefore I am here. She summoned me."

Peggy is speechless. Then she feels panic, "you can't do this. I can't know when everyone is about to die. I can't handle that! You have to stop this."

His aura fades, and he seems to try to exude calm again. "I don't understand why you can see me. This has never happened before. I don't know how to keep you from seeing me."

"Can't we figure out something else?" She barters, "a way you don't have to take her?"

"When I don't take the souls I'm supposed to take…" his face grows reserved, "there are consequences."

She frowns, "consequences?"

The man's face shifts and she sees the flicker. His skeleton shimmering behind his almost translucent skin. The deep hollows of his eyes, his sharp nose flickering. He nods.

"Consequences for who?" He ignores her, turning to the girl and going to reach for the girl, presumably to wake her. "Stop!" Peggy says, "please."

His hand stills, his eyes lids slowly over to her. "And what am I waiting for?"

"Uh-" Peggy wracks her brain for anything. "Her parents. They had to go grab things. They don't know how serious of a condition she is in. You have to wait for them to come back, so they can talk to her. Say their goodbyes."

His lips purse together in thought, and she thinks he may ignore her. But then he nods, "fine. Just till then." He straightens, drawing his hand back, "then I must do my job."

Peggy nods, "alright."

She's lying. She runs to the nurses station and looks at Angie, "I need your help."

As they're wheeling the girl back towards the OR for an experimental surgery and procedure that she'd gotten the parents to okay, she turns and he's standing there, in the middle of the hallway, arms crossed over his chest and looking at her with an angry expression. She won't admit it to herself, but betrayal and hurt are there in his eyes too.

It's more than a year later that she spots him again.

Except it's not him. It's the flickering ghost of him. Just the skeleton is visible, with the flicker of a face wavering over the skull. Black robes drape over his large frame. He's in his massive form, but he's barely there. She can almost see through him.

Before he can get to a room, she runs and stops in front of him. His skull tips down towards her. The barest flash of blue eyes are there before she's staring into dark empty pits where his eyes should be. "Why are you back?"

He does not answer. He simply steps to the side and begins to walk around her. She reaches for his robe but he turns quicker than possible, keeping it out of her reach. His head shake is slow, the flicker of the face a bit stronger, the blue eyes flashing a warning before disappearing with a flicker again.

Her hand retracts quickly, like it's instinct. Then he's walking again. Instead of trying to stop him, she follows him slowly.

"English? What are you doing?"

She waves at the nurse to shush and follow her.

"What's happening?" Angie whispers, but Peggy waves for her to be quiet.

Peggy knows what room he's heading towards before he turns to enter it.

The man who had overdosed and hadn't woken up. They were hoping with dialysis and time but… she sighs, apparently not.

The man walks over and rests a hand on the man's. The man sits up and stares at the terrifying creature staring at him.

The man begins to hyperventilate, practically yanking himself backwards and out of Death's grip. "No-" the man whispers, "no!"

Death nods, reaching out another hand, the skeletal fingers frighten Peggy and it's not even reaching for her.

"I'll stop!" The man exclaims, "I'll quit! I promise!"

And even though she can't see his face, she can picture the expression. Extreme sadness floods out from Death. But the hand reaches further, wrapping his fingers around the man's wrist.

With all the wailing and screaming, Peggy looks over at Angie, expecting her to be able to see and hear what's going on. But Angie is studying her like she's a lab experiment.

"You're not seeing this…" She rasps out, "are you?"

Angie's eyes widen, "see what? The man sleeping on the bed?"

Peggy looks back and Death has gotten the man off the bed, dragging him as the man tears at the hand on his wrist, crying, pleading, bargaining. "I have family!" the man cries, "I need to go to them! I need to tell them something! Please!"

Peggy's blood runs cold as Death passes her and his eyes flicker at her briefly, a bit of accusation there. But then he's passed her and the man's cries fade.

"You're shaking." Angie cuts through her thoughts. She feels a hand press to her neck, "holy shit your pulse is racing! Sit down right now!"

She's pushed into a chair and being handed a cup of something.

But her mind is replaying the screams. The pleas.

The cup gets pressed to her lips and she obeys, swallowing the grape juice each time it's pressed to her lips.

When she finally blinks back into the present. She looks down to see Angie kneeling before her, eyes wide in concern and fear, "what happened?" The woman asks, "what the hell happened!"

Peggy sinks, shoulders sagging and head almost touching her knees. Angie thinks she's passing out, trying to catch her. "I can see him." She whispers out. Her body shaking as ANgie holds her shoulders tight.

"Who?"

"Death." Peggy rasps. "I can see Death."

And the man begins to code.

After the confirmation of the man's passing, Angie hauls her into a supply closet, has her sit down on the floor, grabs a bucket, turns it upside down, and sits on it herself. Then gestures to Peggy. "Explain."

Peggy starts at the beginning, explaining everything she can think of. She tells her the details about the skateboard boy. About the twelve year old girl they saved and then about today.

She finishes explaining how she watched death drag the man from the room.

Angie is silent the whole time.

And she is silent at the end.

The only sound is the patter of feet and carts being wheeled around outside the door.

"You're insane." Angie finally says calmly, "you've gone insane."

"I agree." Peggy says softly.

"But I believe you."

She looks up in surprise. "What?"

"I don't know if it's real. But it's real to you." Angie shrugs, eyes sharp "my grandma taught me never to doubt or make someone feel bad about something I couldn't definitively prove was wrong. So I believe you."

Peggy feels the sob rise, and she chokes out a "thank you". Before the tears start to flow.

Peggy straightens, "he's here."

Angie sits up, "what? Where?"

Peggy waits, and then she turns, seeing the figure in the room of a mother who had just given birth and had lost too much blood. Peggy's chest aches. No…

She runs over, hearing Angie follow her.

"You can't."

The skeletal eyes look over at her. His vacant eyes search the room and land on the tiny baby. And that same extreme sadness floods the room, so strong it knocks Peggy back a step. And she knows with certainty that he has no wish to take her. "He needs his mother!" Peggy cries, trying to bargain, "she has another child! And a husband!"

His head bows, but he reaches his hand of bones out towards her.

"He's not here!" She shrieks, Angie is watching her, but saying nothing, "you can't take her when her husband is not here!"

He pauses and indecision runs over him.

"Just wait." Peggy gasps, "just wait. I won't-" she chokes out the words, "I won't try to save her. Not this time." She turns to Angie, "Angie, call the husband, NOW." she turns back, "please, please wait till the husband and child get back. They were just running to grab a few things. Please!"

His hand retracts and he nods slowly, stepping back.

Every instinct tells her to run her to someplace, to try to save her, but she doesn't think that trick will work twice. She turns, Angie is already on the phone.

The woman is not nearly as hysterical as the overdosed man was. She's more desperate to hold her baby. She begs and asks and pleads.

Death shakes his head 'no'.

The husband is inconsolable. Holding her dead body and begging her to come back.

The aura around Death is blacker than she's experienced. Radiating guilt and depression and an existential horror of a mother being separated from their child.

Peggy vomits into the small trash bin outside the door.

Angie watches her carefully. Always having some high sugar content available on hand and a soft reassuring touch. Somehow the incident solidified in her head that while the situation was insane, Peggy most likely wasn't.

Peggy watches as Death takes the crying boy down the hall and she does nothing.

Angie stands beside her and holds her hand.

There's a duality.

The less she interferes, the more he returns. His skin is mostly solid, only the occasional flicker. His eyes are back to piercingly blue. But still he hasn't spoken.

She doesn't catch onto the correlation until she interferes again.

It's a toddler, waiting for a heart transplant. She begs him to wait. He refuses at first, but she can sense a hesitation. Something about it makes him waver. She latches onto that and pleads, begging. The heart was on its way. It was! He wasn't technically dying! He just needed more time! You must wait, you have to! She used every emotion within her to will him to obey her. To wait.

He does.

The heart arrives, four hours late. If he hadn't waited, the toddler would be long dead.

Just like with the girl, she turns to look back. His face is a mask, expressionless, but his eyes are calm, accepting. He turns his back and something like guilt fills her stomach.

More than a year passes before she sees him again. She gasps, stopping in the middle of the hallway, standing and watching as he- No… it's not a "he" anymore.

There's not even a flicker of skin or a human form. He's completely skeletal, and now it's dripping blood. Out of the eyes and off his fingers. The dark red is trailing behind the robes and there's a permanent sense of dread surrounding him.

She watches as he walks slowly, silently towards a room.

Angie exits a different room and looks at her, then her eyes widen, "is it him? Is he back?"

When I don't take the souls I'm supposed to take… There are consequences.

Peggy's heart pounds and it all clicks together. She nods but then turns to Angie with wide eyes. "He's being punished."

Angie frowns, "what?"

"Everytime he lets me save someone… he's being punished."

She hears the shrieking, the hysterical cries of whoever he has come to collect. Peggy slams her palms over her ears.

I hate dragging people.

Angie's in front of her, saying something but Peggy is blocking it out. Then she's dragged somewhere and left.

When Angie pulls her hands away from her ears, she hears a "I think he's gone."

Peggy's voice is a rasp, "who died."

"The grandpa."

Peggy swallows hard. "Okay…" she whispers out. Even though it's not okay.

"What did you see?"

Angie's asking seriously. After the last couple years, Angie was past even thinking she was crazy. She fully believed her now.

"He's …" Peggy trails off, "he looks like death."

Angie snorts.

She lets out a mirthless laugh, "geez, he was terrifying looking. He's being punished for letting me save lives."

"But he's Death." Angie responds slowly, "who is punishing him?"

"I don't know." She shrugs, "I haven't spoken to him since the girl. He hasn't spoken since."

She shoves her palms into her eyes, "he used to be comforting them. He used to talk to them. He used to look safe. In fact-" she'd already figured it out but it's her first time saying it out loud, "he used to change how he looked to make them more comfortable. Safe. Now he's-" she feels a hysterical laugh bubble out of her and she can't contain it, "a waking nightmare. I bet that's half punishment enough!"

I hate dragging people.

"Oh-" she gasps out, "I'm making everything worse by saving them!"

"You're saving lives-"

"And making everyone else more terrified of Death!"

Angie rests a hand on her wrist, "what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to try to talk to him."

A few days later she approaches the skeletal creature as it walks slowly through the halls.

"I'm sorry." His skull turns towards her. She watches the blood drip slowly. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you were being punished for my actions."

He simply nods and turns to leave her.

She reaches for him but he drags his hands away and shakes his head again.

Instead of following him this time, she walks away to the patient's room she had been heading to.

She doesn't ask Angie who it was this time.

It's a strange horrible vow that she makes, to not interfere. She's not sure she'll be able to keep her own promise, but she tries.

Ignoring when she sees him. Not finding out who it is until it's too late.

People ask her if she's sleeping enough. If she's taking care of herself. She lies and says she is.

Just tired. Just tired. Just tired…

It happens slowly.

His form reappears. At first he's flickering. Then he's the gaunt man, pale and translucent.

Eventually there's color in his hair and cheeks, and soon the blue eyes are back.

He nods at her everytime they pass.

She can't decide if being on good terms with Death was a good thing.

"Thank you."

She spins, catching him standing in the doorway. He's in his black clothing. The turtleneck sweater and the slacks and the shiny black shoes. Hands behind his back.

"You can speak again."

His smile is soft, "I can. Thanks to you."

She frowns, "no, not thanks to me. You lost your ability because of me."

"You didn't know." He answers magnanimously. "But I have been appreciative of your non-interference since."

"I hate it."

His nod is slow, "I understand."

"How can you do it?"

"You ask that as if you think I have a choice."

"Who do you answer to?"

His eyebrow quirks, and for the very first time Peggy is able to appreciate how utterly handsome death is. She wonders is he chose this visage. Or if this is how he actually looks. Or is the skeleton how he's supposed to look?

"I am Death. I answer to the Lord of the Dead."

Her knowledge of Greek Mythology is vast. She'd been fascinated a sa child. "Hades? Seriously? That's real?"

"You accept Death, but not anything else?"

"It's just…" she places a hand to her forehead, "hard to comprehend."

"Well," he bows, which makes him seem so regal it makes her smile, "I appreciate your restraint all the same."

He turns to leave and she steps forward, "do you have a name?"

His expression gets pensive, "I don't know. Perhaps I did at some point."

"Have you always been Death?"

"There is not only one Death." He answers softly. "While I may be in charge usually, there are others who must step in and take my place if I'm otherwise indisposed."

She narrows her eyes, "how would Death be indisposed?"

His voice is so charming, deep and smooth, "this has been a decent conversation." he says with a half smile, "let's not mar it with unpleasantness."

"You're talking so proper."

And for the first time she hears him laugh, a deep rumbling sound that makes her feel a heat in her chest that surprises her, and then he stops and looks at her like he's surprised about it too. She laughs back, "don't laugh often?"

He frowns, "can't remember the last time. Thank you for that as well."

"Stop thanking me," she huffs.

"I'll see you around?" He asks, stepping back.

"You will." she says, echoing his words from all that time ago.

"He's nice." Peggy says softly, catching Angie's attention as they walk down to the cafeteria.

Angie blinks at her, "Excuse me? Now that's the craziest thing you've said so far."

"It's strange." She agrees, "But he came and thanked me for not interfering." She smiles at the memory, "I made him laugh."

Angie grabs her arm and spins her to face him, "you made Death laugh?"

Peggy nods, "I did. He was talking so proper." She frowns, "oh, I guess I never found out why."

"You're insane." Angie huffs, dragging her along, "now it's official."

She's halted, staring at him as he enters her patient's room. He looks apologetic.

"No…" she breathes out. "His prognosis was looking up!"

Death tilts his head, "I'm very sorry."

Helplessness envelopes her, "but if you gave me time. I heard they are developing a new treatment. It's almost to human trials!"

He steps forward, "I'm sorry. Unfortunately it's his time."

He walks over to the man, groggy from all the medications.

"Wait." Peggy says, "can I talk to you first?"

Death raises an eyebrow, "your usual tactic? Wait for me to allow more time and then figure something out?"

She grimaces, "okay, that's fair. But no, unfortunately that wouldn't work here." She points to the man, "but he has a wife. Three kids. Parents."

"And you have?" Death asks. Then he gestures to the hallway, "and everyone else has…?"

"I know everyone has family, or someone but… Why can't you only take those who have lived their whole lives?" She asks again, "why not take the old and let the young live. Why kill anyone younger than 90?"

His face darkens, "I do not kill."

She nods, "right, I'm sorry. I mean… why not just take those who have lived their lives?"

"So…" he nods as if he agrees with her, "so if they're over 90… they're worth less to you?"

Her brow furrows, "that's not what I said."

"You might as well have."

"I just meant they've lived. They've had their chance."

"So you're offering up anyone over 90 on a silver platter?"

"Well why not? It makes sense."

His face is calm as he looks at the man in his early forties. "I suppose to a human it does."

"What's that supposed to mean?" She challenges, "why doesn't it make sense?"

"You're asking Death if one soul has value over another. The answer is no."

"But a child's life hasn't begun-"

"And an old soul has so much to leave behind."

"But they've gotten their time."

"And are therefore no longer special?"

"You know what I'm trying to say!" She snaps furiously.

And the fact that she's yelling at Death should make her pause. But she just stares.

He nods. "I do."

His presence is calm. And she sighs, eyes trailing to the man on the bed. "You're still going to take him. Aren't you?"

"I am."

Peggy frowns and thinks about whether to beg him again.

And he waits. He allows her to decide whether she's going to beg and plead. He would let her. He may even give in…

And he would suffer for it. As would everyone else he would have to take.

"Who takes the dead when you're gone?"

The question surprises him, "gone?"

"When you've left for long periods of time."

"Oh…" his eyes grow distant, "I'm not sure. I'm not told who replaces me when I'm occupied."

"Occupied." she repeats. He smiles at her, a fake one meant to allay concern but missing the mark just slightly. Then he tilts his head, "you mean you don't see them?"

She shakes her head 'no'.

He studies her, "strange." Then he turns back to the man and she leaves.

She considers quitting.

It would be better for her mental and emotional health if she quit. But she wonders if no matter wherever she goes, if there is death… would Death be there?

"Are you everywhere?"

He's walking someone else down the hallway, but she catches him before he leaves.

He turns, just his profile visible, "Death is everywhere."

Not exactly an answer. "Can you come back when you have free time?"

He looks at her with an expression she can't understand. "I'll return." he says simply, then he's gone.

"You had questions?"

She startles, gasping and almost tossing the cup from her hand. "Geez!" she huffs, "warn me next time!"

He bows his head, "my apologies."

"You still haven't started talking normally." She bites out, heart still pounding, "why not?"

"It takes time." He responds, "my appearance settles quicker."

"How long?"

"I'm not sure. Time runs differently for me."

That makes her nod and she gestures to the little plastic table in the break lounge. "Sit?"

He walks and slides the chair out. She has the strangest sensation to laugh at the fact that she's sitting down with Death.

He stares calmly at her, or looks around the room before settling his eyes back on her.

"You had questions?" he prompts her again.

"Are you the only Death?" Then she wrinkles her nose, "I mean… are there multiple of you working at the same time?"

He shakes his head. "No, just me. I'm only replaced if I'm not able."

Sadness grips her. "I'm sorry. That must be horrible."

He simply takes a deep breath and looks at her, "anything else?"

"If I left this hospital…" she asks, "would I see you in other places?"

He gestures to the hospital. "I don't know. I've never had anyone see me. I would suppose so."

"Could we test it?" She rushes out before she can lose courage.

"Where would you like to test it?"

"I don't know." She responds, "somewhere far from here."

He stands, "any place in particular?"

"London." She offers, "or anywhere in England?"

He nods and with a wave of his hand he gestures to a space, "walk." She frowns, but he sighs, "trust me. Would you?"

She wrinkles her nose and then takes a step forward. She gasps as her foot hits the ground. A bustling London Street around her.

Someone bumps into her and she stumbles. But she catches herself. Then she looks around and catches sight of him. He's leaning against one of the classic red telephone booths, eyeing ehr with interest. He looks regal and so handsome. She wonders again about his origins. Was he always Death?

She walks over, and he looks apologetic, "still see me?"

She sighs, "yes."

He grows somber, "my apologies."

"Stop apologizing." she rolls her eyes. And then she's about to say something else but she's bumped into again, stumbling forward. She reaches forward towards him, to catch herself.

"No, you can't-" His voice bites out, a tone of warning. But her hand clasps on his forearm, steadying herself on it.

She straightens, about to apologize to him, but he's staring at his arm, where her hand had grasped him like it was completely foreign to him. Then he looks up at her, "are you alright?"

She tilts her head, "yes, why?"

"I've only touched the dead." He says slowly, "I was told..." His brow furrows, "I wonder if it's because you can see me." Then he looks up at her, the shock still clear on his face, "you touched me," he says softly, looking back at his arm, "you touched me."

She looks down at her hand, half expecting it to be turning black. "Am I not supposed to?"

He looks up at her, eyes studying her. "I am Death." He says softly, "you would want to touch Death?"

Peggy maps his face, emotions she didn't know Death had flickering all over his face. Some of them catch her off guard. Longing, yearning, disbelief.

"I don't think of you as Death." She answers. And the words are suddenly true. He is Death. She knows that. But he is also… something more.

His gaze intensifies, looking at her like he can't believe she's real. An aura, she can't describe what it is, but it's strong, crowding around her and spreading out into the street. Strong enough that people are looking at her. She wonders what they see? A woman talking to a phone booth?

"Come." he orders, waving his hand and gesturing to the air. Then he hesitates and extends his hand, "will you?"

She reaches out, not even hesitating, grasping his hand and nodding. "I will."

The air rushes and then she's standing in her apartment. She blinks. "You know where I live?"

He laughs, a true laugh, just like the last time. "I know where everyone lives."

"Have you been here before?" He looks at the apartment. "Yes." Her eyes widen, and she's about to ask 'when' but he answers before she can ask. "I've collected about five souls from this apartment."

Oh.

Right.

He turns to look at her, "I don't understand."

She huffs, throwing up her hands, "you think I do?"

"I've been doing this for a long time. And I've never encountered someone who could see me."

"How long have you been doing this?"

He opens his mouth to speak, and then pauses, closing it again. Then he looks at her and he frowns, looking down. Confusion and a hint of panic cross his features before he settles it back to a forced calm, "I'm not sure."

"You don't remember?"

"Sometimes my behavior requires correcting. Occasionally that includes removing memories."

She balks, "excuse me? They erased your memories? When?" Then it hits her, "you let me save people and they erased your memories!"

He steps in a circle, "it happens." Then he's studying her refrigerator magnets, "tell me about yourself."

"You're Death and you want to hear about me?"

"I'm not the anomaly here." He responds, his hands ghosting over the postcard from her brother.

"I'm no one." She answers. "Just a girl from Hampstead. Grew up wanting to save people. Became a Doctor to do so."

"Noble." he responds, now studying her mug collection. "I love this place." he points to a mug she'd gotten in Ireland. A mug that had a castle on it, from its gift shoppe.

"You do?" She asks, "I love it too. It's where my father proposed to my mother."

He smiles at her, "smart man."

"You're Death. But you have favorite places?"

His expression shifts, like he's trying not to be irritated for a moment but he nods, "I do."

"Where else is your favorite?"

"Would you like to see?"

She tilts her head, "I know this sounds awful but… aren't people dying right now?"

There's an aura of power as he lowers his chin and looks at her fiercely, "I do not attend to Time. Time attends to me." Then his elegant hand extends towards her in an invitation.

She has no idea what that means. But she doesn't question it. She slides her palm against his and feels the world shift.

Chapter 2

She's pulled through multiple places. She notices that it switches between night and day. She begins to wonder why, only for the answer to hit her. These are his favorite places and times. The grand canyon at sunset. The rainforest during a monsoon. The Pyramids at night. The Eiffel Tower at midnight as it sparkles. Tokyo at night. A beach she doesn't know the name of at sunrise. So many quaint villages, quiet corners, bustling cities and lush forests teeming with…

Her chest aches.

Life.

Somehow the man who is Death loves life.

They're walking around the Colosseum at night. The lights make it seem larger than it already is. "You don't remember your past…" She starts softly, "do you know if you've always been Death? Could you have been something before?"

He shrugs, eyes on the massive structure, "I hope so."

"This place feels familiar," she comments, "but I don't think I've been here before."

"I think historical monuments have that draw." He says, sounding more human than ever before. "Even if you haven't seen it, perhaps one of your ancestors did. Knowledge really does carry through the DNA."

"Thank you." She says, "for taking me to all these places. It's beautiful."

He turns to her, eyes intense, "no, thank you. I-" he takes a deep breath, like he's trying to reel himself in, "I just don't get to have interactions like this.. often."

She hears the truth.

He never has interactions like this.

"Well, I thoroughly enjoyed it." She says honestly. "I'd be happy to accompany you again. If you wanted."

He turns and waves his hand, extending it for her to grasp. She's suddenly back in her apartment and she can tell by the clock it's the same moment they left. "I will take you up on that." he says slowly, "if you mean it."

She smiles, "I do."

He nods, bowing slightly, "then another time."

Then he's stepping backwards and is gone.

Something buzzes and Peggy rips her phone out of her pocket, seeing Angie's number.

"Carter? What the hell? Where are you?"

She laughs alone in her apartment. "I'll be right there."

It's still gut wrenching, whenever she sees him on the floor. His black clothes and aura of finality. But there's a peace to it too. She's spent a few more times with him. While he can seem terrifyingly powerful, overwhelming, or cold and reserved, she knows he is gentle and probably one of the best options she could ask for anyone to be taken to the afterlife.

Angie has so many questions, and she answers them as honestly as possible. It's been months of this. She allows him to work, even when her original human desire is to rail and beg for the young lives they lose.

But she doesn't. She trusts him.

"So there are three judges?"

He nods, "traditionally."

"And they decide where I will spend eternity."

He nods again, "they go over your entire life and then a decision is made." He's watching her stir a cup of tea as they both lean against the counter in her apartment.

"So… Where do you think I will go?" She raises a teasing eyebrow.

He shakes his head, face somber, "no, I don't work that way. The reason I can remain so impartial is because I do not immerse myself in people's lives. I take everyone. The good, the bad, and everyone in between."

"But you do know." She says, "you do care."

"I am impartial."

Peggy would bet he's trying to convince himself the most out of both of them.

They're walking along the Great Wall of China. It's a cool summer evening and they pass tourists and other visitors. She has a jacket, he is wearing his typical garb. Some sort of high necked, long sleeved sweater and then slacks and always nice shoes.

"So you're really old?"

He huffs a laugh. "I suppose I am."

She grins. Peggy always tries to ask the most ridiculous questions she can think of. She adores his laugh. The low beating timber of it makes her feel alive. What an ironic twist.

"Are you required to… work forever?"

He looks out over the darkness and she watches his eyes follow the lights on the towers in front of them. "The requirement to fulfill this position is very steep. I have temporary replacements as you know. But they cannot handle the job full time. Which means even when Hades wishes he could grind my very existence off the face of the earth, he cannot." He tilts his head and gives her a wry grin. "A strange sort of job security."

"What are the requirements to do your job?"

"Let's not mar this pleasant conversation-"

"With unpleasantness." She cuts him off, used to this strategy of his to change topics by now.

He waves his hand and then they're walking along the waterways in Amsterdam. They avoid cyclists and keep walking. It's sunset, the sun bouncing off the colors of the tall skinny houses.

They hear drunk laughter and she turns her head towards it.

"Do you ever run out of favorite places to take me?" She asks, another smile playing on her lips.

"There are too many beautiful places on this earth." He says softly, eyes watching the water flow by, "each place holds a different beauty. Each time of the day changes the scenery. The places to explore are endless." Then he shifts, turning and looking at her, "unless, of course, you have grown tired of it?"

She notices he gets more formal the more nervous he is. She tries not to marvel that Death gets nervous.

"How could I ever get tired of looking at beautiful things?" She asks with a soft laugh, "impossible. I want to be shown all your favorite times and places."

His eyes are soft and resting on her face when he nods, the formal head bow that she's used to, "as you wish."

"You're…" Angie sounds incredulous, "falling for Death."

Peggy snorts, but then grows quiet. She looks up and sees the nurse watching her, she grimaces, "I think I am-" She places her hand over her eyes, "how in the hell did that happen?"

"I don't know. When I picture death it's that cartoonish guy with the scythe."

Peggy blinks. She hadn't thought about that. "I've seen him in the black robes," Peggy muses, "and with the skeletal look." Angie is nodding, remembering Peggy telling her, "but I've never seen the scythe."

"Maybe it's a myth?"

Peggy shrugs, "I don't know. I'll ask."

"On your next date? You look tired."

The snort is indelicate as it leaves her. "It's funny… I don't think he realizes that I'm still human." She rubs at her eyes, "but he's so lonely. I can tell. And-" Peggy grins, "usually I'm the one initiating our time together. So I can't blame him."

Angie rubs at her forehead and then sits in front of Peggy. "I don't understand any of this. But I know I believe you. But still…"

"Still…?"

"What is the long game? You're actually getting attached to him. What are you expecting for your future? You can't… love Death."

There are no mean questions from Angie. No biting remarks or slicing accusations. Angie shoots straight for the purpose of clear communication.

"I don't know." Peggy answers honestly. "All I know is that I'm not ready to think about the future. I don't want to stop being around him."

The nurse shrugs her shoulders softly, "okay."

"You look tired."

Death looks up, from where he was staring at a family picture album she'd pulled out from one of her boxes. "Do I?"

"I mean… you do."

His expression is calm and sad, "my apologies."

"You're apologizing for looking tired?"

"I don't want you to think I'm unappreciative of the time you're willing to spend with me."

He says this so casually. Every once and a while he will say something that is so very far removed from humanity that it reminds her starkly that he is Death.

"What is making you so tired?"

He looks up at her and gestures to the TV. "You watch the news?"

"Not if I can help it."

"Wise." Then he leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "But I assume you've heard of the rising conflicts across the globe?"

She nods, "I have."

"So much senseless death. It's not even necessary. It tires me to collect so many souls who aren't actually scheduled."

It hadn't occurred to her. "Why don't you just refuse to collect them?"

"Unfortunately that's not an option." He says with the same deep soothing voice he uses for those he's about to ask to take a walk, "humans have free will. And they can and do use that will to kill others. I don't control the method in which they live or die. How do I explain a man whose brain is splattered in a radius of 50 feet and yet continues to live on? Is that life?" He shakes his head and she watches the golden hair swing softly over his forehead, "Violence, death… it's always been a part of human history."

"So has love, and life." She adds softly. His gaze unfocuses, his regal hand running over a photo of her family in front of a Christmas Tree. She wonders if he's ever celebrated a Christmas… "What about those who aren't violently shattered? Why not allow them to live?" She asks after a while. "Those whose time hasn't come and who could recover given time?"

He turns to her, and his eyes are amused and his smile is soft. "Your answer to everything is that I should let everyone live. If given the choice you would never allow anyone to die."

Peggy shrugs, "I don't see why that's a problem."

"The world would grow quite full."

"Again, take them when they're 90."

"Why 90? Not 100? Not 80?"

"I don't mean any specific time, I just mean… take them when they're in more pain living than dead."

"So young people with painful lifelong conditions… I can take them too?" She narrows her eyes at him but he's not looking at her. His eyes are out the window on the opposite wall, just his profile facing her. She's struck again by just how frighteningly beautiful he is. Death is handsome. Gorgeous beyond all reason. "There are plenty of people in deep emotional pain." He continues, "should I take them too?"

"You shouldn't take anyone who has a chance to get better."

"Ah."

"Everyone should get the same amount of time."

"Equality does not mean equity." his deep voice says.

"I know the difference." She says a bit harshly.

"I'm not sure you do." He responds calmly, "but I understand why it's hard for you to see the big picture."

"And what is the big picture?"

"That everyone must die. Yes… Some die far too early. And on the contrary, some people live for far too long. And yet there is an expiration date for everyone. And immortality does not equal happiness." She knows those words come from personal knowledge. "But also… Life is special because it ends. Imagine a world where you could not die?"

Because she's feeling particularly British today, she settles into her argument, unwilling to yield, "what's so bad about that?"

His head turns slowly to her and the expression wears makes her feel like a petulant child. "I have a first hand account of immortals. I tell you they lose focus, passion. What can you be passionate about forever?" His gaze turns back to the window. "They're restless yet lazy. They believe they have all the time in the world because they do. They don't appreciate anything because how can you truly appreciate what you've always had? They don't have a fire or passion for anything. And they grow bored far more often than you imagine."

"But they get to live."

His eyes grow sad, face somber, "do they?"

"You say that as if you're not also immortal." her voice is softly accusing. "You already have immortality."

And long after he has left, when she's laying in bed thinking about their conversation, his voice echoes in her mind.

"Unfortunately, I do."

Another three months pass by quickly. She and he have a similar debate often. He never seems to weary about her pestering him. And she finds he has deep wisdom even if it drives her nuts when she can't seem to convince him of her side.

There's something else she's noticed… Ever since he discovered she could touch him, he has not asked or even initiated other than to offer his hand for travel. She notices she feels less disoriented when she has her hand in his. Which is why she assumes he offers it.

But as months and almost a year passes, she's noticed that he is very physically reserved. It's silly, and she has to keep reminding herself that he is Death. Of course he'd be reserved.

But she can't get the expression he'd worn that day in London out of her mind. Shock, longing, yearning.

What was it like to not have touched a living soul in how many millennia?

So one day, when they're talking, and he says something that makes her laugh, she reaches out, grasping his forearm as she does so. Causally, easily, without fear or holding on too long. But she catches him staring at that part of his arm often throughout the evening.

"Do you have a scythe?" He grimaces, and she backtracks, "sorry is that a touchy subject?"

He schools his face into something calm and reserved. "I do have it."

"It?"

"Yes," he says slowly, "I have the scythe."

She wrinkles her nose while he's looking out towards the street they're walking on. Guess it's not just a scythe. It's the scythe.

"But I've never seen you with it."

"I prefer not to carry it."

"Why?"

"The sight of it alone makes people afraid." he sighs, hands in his slack pockets, "It's used to reap unwilling or volatile souls." His tone is flat, obviously not a fan of the topic, "I try to never need it."

I hate dragging people.

"What if you do need it?"

"I may not wield it. That does not mean I don't always carry it."

"Oh."

"What if there was a way to save them before they got to the point of summoning you?"

They're in the hospital, and he's looking at the 30 year old with lung cancer from smoking.

Death looks up at her, "and how would you do that? Cure cancer? Eliminate the Tobacco industry? Make alcohol illegal to prevent all the drunk drivers who kill those they hit while somehow miraculously being okay themselves?"

There's a bitterness there that she hasn't heard before. "I don't have an exact method." She snaps back, and then grimaces, "I'm just… I'm tired of seeing pointless deaths. Even if you being here means it's their time."

While his expression is still guarded, he nods, "I understand."

A mother and baby die during birth and she screams at him. She yells that it's not fair. She shrieks at him until she's hoarse and until there's nothing left but her wracking sobs.

He does not argue or give his usual reasons. He simply listens. Later that day she tells him she can't go with him on the evening they'd planned the next night.

He doesn't ask why. He knows.

"You can't save everybody."

She sobs into her hands. Angie is there, but so is he. He's in one of his other forms. Thin and short, much less threatening looking, but still just as handsome. He'd agreed to wait a moment more just for the parents to get there, but even she knew there was no saving this young woman. The semi truck hadn't even seen the motorcycle at all.

He is quiet, talking to the girl who is staring at her own sobbing parents like they're the ghosts.

"Are you ready?" Death asks her, "I'll be with you the whole way."

The young girl looks up at him, "I don't want to go."

"I understand." Death responds, "Unfortunately, it is your time."

Peggy lets out another stifled sound and Angie's gripping her shoulder tighter. She's a professional. She should not be crying right now.

The girl turns to her and tilts her head, "I'm dead… But you can still see me?"

Peggy nods.

"Can you tell my parents I loved them? And that I have a cat. I was going to tell them at Christmas. They always thought I shouldn't get a pet just yet. But I couldn't wait. I don't want her home all alone."

Before she can respond, Death places a hand on her shoulder, "it will be taken care of. We need to go."

The girl accepts his offered arm and walks slowly with him out the door, turning back to watch her parents as they grieve.

"I want to come with you." She scrubs at her wet eyes and stares at him, daring him to turn her down.

"Come with me…?"

"To get the cat. I assume you aren't going to allow me to give her parents a message from the beyond. So I'm coming."

His reserved expression melts a little. "Alright."

Things had been nothing short of icy between them. Or… at least from her. She'd been downright angry at him. Sharp words about what she thought about his job.

He had not argued with her like he used to. He'd accepted her iciness and her withdrawal without seeming surprised at all. But no matter what she felt about him, she needed to make sure the last wish of that dead girl was taken care of.

So she holds his hand tightly as they step into the apartment and settle. It's a tiny place. Pictures and tickets pinned or taped on all the flat surfaces. Two motorcycle helmets adorn the walls. One with half the side scraped off. The other with a shattered visor.

"She's cheated me before." Death says quietly, almost a bit of awe there.

There's a pile of laundry on the chair, an open water bottle on the counter, a lunch packed for the next day.

A life… interrupted by Death.

She shoves that thought away and starts searching. The bowl still has food and water and she starts exploring the one bedroom apartment. "Here kitty," she calls softly. "Come out."

"Over here." He's crouching beside a low odd colored ottoman. "It's frightened of me." The words are said with such immense sadness that it practically cracks her chest. He rises and steps back, giving her space.

Peggy lays on the ground, her scrubs making a soft noise against the old hardwood floors. A tiny nose and two little eyes stare at her. She smiles, trying to exude calm, "there you are, come on out."

It takes a bit of coaxing but eventually she has the tiny kitten wrapped in her hands and holding it against the warmth of her neck.

"Do…" she pauses, the question just hitting her, "do you collect animals as well?"

He shakes his head, "no. No, I'm not in charge of animals."

For some reason she's eternally glad.

"You got a cat?"

"It was the girl's." Peggy responds quietly, picking out food at the pet store on her break. "She asked me to get it so it wouldn't be left alone."

"You took a dead girls' cat because she asked you to."

"Yep."

"Sheez."

"Yep."

She misses him. But she's too stubborn to say so. There's only small nods of acknowledgement as they pass each other in the hallways of the hospital.

His expression is always the same, reserved, flat, and guarded, but his eyes read something different. She does not analyze what.

Someone dies and he's not there. Her confusion about it is a constant buzz in the back of her mind. She keeps her eyes out for him for the next couple days but doesn't see him.

There's a noise and it's waking her up. She's groggy, reaching for her pager. She squints at it, but it's dark. She's about to put it down, wondering if it had been her imagination, but then her phone buzzes.

Three missed calls.

She sits up, and looks at them, two from her mother, one from her father.

Immediately she's dialing back, even in England it's early morning.

"Mum?" she says when she hears the other line pick up.

"Margaret!" Her mother says sobbing, then all she can hear is crying.

"Mum!" She shouts. "What is it?"

The phone makes a shuffling noise and then she hears the calm voice of her father as he takes over. "It's alright, Pegs."

Her concern is ratcheting higher, "what are you talking about?"

"Your brother, he was wounded in action. He's being flown back into London today. We wanted to call you and tell you."

She's throwing on clothes and grabbing her passport and barely thinking before she's heading to the airport.

"He's a very strong man." The army doctor says, looking exhausted and worn out. "I couldn't believe he was still alive when we found him. He must have had a very strong will to get home."

Peggy's entire chest is tight, heart in a tourniquet that keeps getting tighter. "What happened?" She rasps out, "do you know?"

"His unit was ambushed, and he sustained bullet wounds to the chest and the neck." Peggy's glad she sent her parents away. But she'd had to know.

"Neck?"

The man nods, "he was in a pool of blood that might as well have been his entire volume. But somehow he was blinking, conscious. Even seemed to be trying to talk." She covers her eyes. "I'm sorry," the man says, "I can stop."

"No, I asked." She responds firmly, clearing her throat. "Was he in pain?"

"I think he was in too much shock to be in pain."

"Who else survived?"

The army doctor sighed, "just him." He grimaces, "he'll be set up with physical and mental therapy. My expectation will be an immense amount of survivor's guilt… It will be a long journey. I'm not sure about his ability to speak or eat on his own. But we will take it step by step."

"Thank you…" she whispers out. Then walks slowly to the room he is resting in, staring at him like he is a ghost.

She doesn't even know who to beg, but she begs whoever is out there and listening to let him come to her. She has to talk to him, to thank him. But he doesn't.

And she has nightmares about skeletons and dripping blood and silence.

She takes a leave of absence from work, calls Angie often, and is present as her brother starts to regain his life.

He struggles to swallow and to talk, but he is capable of doing both. He doesn't say much at first, and she does not press. She simply helps him eat, works with his left arm that took the most damage and needs to regain muscle memory and skills, and keeps him company.

Her parents are there constantly as well and the doctors are complimentary about their love and support in his recovery.

He suffers from nightmares. She does not begrudge him when he wakes her up by guttural screaming that sounds inhuman since his throat struggles to express the terror he must be feeling.

She holds his hand, tries to comfort him, talking about nonsense and trying to keep him grounded. "You're here, you're safe. It will be alright."

She holds him as he shakes and cries and she grips him tighter.

Michael is honorably discharged and he quietly asks if he can come live in New York.

It's been 8 months since she flew to London and she is happy for him to come with her. She has been torn between wanting to be there for her brother and going to see if he is there.

Their parents fly with them to America. She moves apartments, picking a bigger two bedroom that she can barely afford even on her doctor's salary, but Michael promises that his checks will start coming in and he'll help. She's not concerned.

Once he's settled and a local therapist selected, her parents fly back home with promises to call more often than is reasonable. But neither she nor Michael argue.

It's her first day heading back to work. "You're sure you're alright?" Peggy asks Michael who sits on the couch, a book on his lap.

"Ye-" his throat catches and he coughs, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and grimacing, "yeah, Pegs, I'm fine. Go."

"Alright." she whispers, closing the door quietly.

Angie gives her one of the longest hugs of her life.

"I'm so glad you're back," she says in a rush, "I've missed you so much."

"I've missed you too." Peggy responds, grasping her friend and holding her tightly, "it's good to be home." She looks around, "same old, same old?"

Angie nods, "mostly. Dr. Peterson retired like we knew she was going to. There's a new doctor on the floor, Dr. Hodge, no one's a big fan but he is good at his job, which just makes him more insufferable." Angie grins, "tell me about your brother, how is he?"

Peggy goes into detail as often as they get a chance to speak during their shifts.

"Was it him?" Angie asks, an eyebrow raised. "Did he say?"

"I haven't seen him since before I flew to London…" she admits, "but I think it was." The smell of sanitizer is strong as she passes a nurse rubbing it onto her hands, "and I think he's in trouble for it."

"Oh…" Angie nods, "that's right I remember you saying there were consequences."

Peggy is glad she's called away as the guilt grips her lungs so tightly she can't speak.

She goes running, her senses on high alert as she slams into Michael's room and stumbles over to his bed.

He's groaning, holding his throat.

"Michael!" she gasps, "Michael, it's alright, you're safe!"

The thrashing is minor, but she still dodges a hand or two as he struggles, still making anguished noises.

Then he opens his eyes and starts at the sight of her. His left elbow hits the headboard and he gasps in pain, wrenching it back up against his chest and holding it there.

"Michael," she repeats, "it's alright, "you're in New York, remember, you're safe."

He's panting, nodding, sweat dripping from his forehead.

"Do you want some tea?"

He nods and she gets up to make some.

When she returns, he sips it slowly, and she sits beside him, sipping her own. The warmth and the sugar helps her feel more fortified, and she can tell it's helping him as well. His hands have stopped shaking and he's quiet beside her.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really." He whispers out.

"Alright."

It's quiet for a while more before he sighs, "will they ever go away?"

"Everyone is different." She says, "everyone's healing is different too. Don't rush your mind. It's simply trying to process the trauma you've been through."

He huffs, a humorless sound, "you'd think with the amount of times I've dreamt it, it would be processed by now."

She tilts her head towards him, "it's always the same nightmare?"

He nods, "it's not a nightmare." he corrects. "And yeah, it's mostly the same."

"You've told your therapist?"

"Yes." he says with a sigh, "and she says what you say, it's just the brain trying to process the trauma, and that it's not a memory."

She shifts, angling towards him. "But you think it is a memory?"

"I know it is." He replies, teeth gritted and throat tight, "and I'm not crazy."

"Who said you were crazy?"

"When I tried convincing the army doctors as they were evacing me out, they just kept saying, 'alright mate, whatever you say'." He snorts, "I know what that's code for."

Okay," she says slowly, "can you tell me?" She asks, "I promise I won't think you're crazy."

He's quiet for a long while. Long enough she thinks he may turn her down again. But then he sighs, tipping his head back.

"When I dream it, it always starts the same. I'm already hit. Laying on my back. It's hot, and I'm thirsty, and I can't seem to swallow the saliva I have in my mouth." He turns to her, studying her face as if wondering if she'll regret asking. She keeps her face impassive. "Then I hear a commotion. Someone is there. Someone tall by the way his shadow casts. I hear him talking to my mates, telling them it's time to go. Some of them are quiet. Some of them are crying. Some don't want to go. Go where? I don't know at this point. But he's there and gone and then back and gone and over and over until it's just me."

Peggy's hands are gripping her teacup so tightly.

"He comes over, and suddenly I'm afraid. Where is he going to take me, you know?" Her brother stares at the dregs of his tea. "He looked at me and was surprised, like he recognized me and couldn't believe I was there." He shakes his head, "but the sun was above us and all I could make out was that he was tall and had light hair. He was in black military gear. I felt him check my name on my vest." Then he chokes out a laugh, "I swear I heard this guy sigh. He fucking sighed like he was tired!"

Peggy's eyes are closed.

"So I think he's going to tell me it's time to go, like he did my teammates. But he just sits beside me. Looking off into the distance. I can't talk, you know, my throat's shredded at this point. But he's there, and I feel like I can't go anywhere unless it's with him. I don't know, my brain was in such shock, I was a mess. Then I feel him touch my throat, and my chest. And he just sits there, quietly, waiting."

Peggy's knuckles hurt, her chest aches. He'd waited. He did what she always begged. Just wait. Please wait.

"He stayed with me for a very long time. Almost a day. Or at least that's what I've guessed from the timeline they told me after. He was silent the whole time. Like since I couldn't take he wouldn't. Eventually another unit found us and the man released my neck and chest and stood. Blood was dripping from his hands and he looked at me. And I'll never forget the sound of his voice. 'Don't waste it.'" Michael's voice shivers at the words. "'Don't waste it.' Then he stepped backwards and was gone. I was in shock, not really understanding what was happening. But then I saw them loading everybody's bodies up. But I didn't understand. Hadn't the man taken them all?" He's crying now, "I thought he'd taken them. I heard them talking, crying. But then they loaded up their bodies and it was just me left alive. That's usually when I start screaming." He looks up at her, eyes red and eyes accusatory, "I'm not crazy."

Peggy places her hands around his face, "I know you're not. I believe every word."

He sags, "you do?"

"I do."

He starts to cry and she cries with him.

"Hey Carter. Looking hot."

"Please understand this with the fullest mental ability with which you're capable. I do not care what you think of my appearance and I don't want to hear your comments about it either. Alright?"

"OooOo." Hodge teases, "Ice queen, huh? I like 'em with spunk."

She glares at him and he gives her a condescending smirk as he leaves the lounge. A few people have complained about his behavior, but his dad was someone high on the hospital board.

She sighs and goes about her day.

He still hasn't come back.

And the only thing giving her hope that it's not for forever is that strange conversation they'd had a while ago.

-A strange sort of job security-

So she works and she waits as patiently as she can. Angie's right, Hodge is obnoxious and vile but secretive about it and good at his job. So she tries to ignore him as best as she can.

She almost mentions Death to Michael a thousand and one times. But until he comes back… she won't.

"Angie, we need the IV bags changed in 1128."

"Got it." Then a hand lands on hers, "any sign?"

She shakes her head no. Angie gives her a sympathetic hand pat.

Three long years pass. Michael is as healed physically as he probably is ever to be. His therapy appointments are down to once every three months and he works at a factory, inspecting mechanical equipment and ensuring safety standards.

He has a girlfriend, Lily, and she's lovely. Peggy is very happy for them. Michael asks her why she turns down every date offer she receives. Which admittedly is plenty.

"Just not the right one." She always says blithely, "you know when you just know?"

He always shrugs.

She does not go into more details.

"I know we could have a real good time."

"Like I've said at least seventeen times, no thank you."

"Come on, you need something else in your life besides work."

"Dr. Hodge, I'm perfectly content and not searching for companionship, especially in whatever subspecies you seem to have evolved from."

"Oh, you are too funny." he laughs, "I'll wear you down eventually."

"Please don't try to."

He just laughs which makes her roll her eyes.

Michael is wed and moved into a beautiful town home and she is now in a rather empty large apartment.

The hole Death had created when he left is now gaping. A frightening thought that perhaps he won't return in her lifetime. That perhaps he's saved too many people and it's all her fault.

But then he is there.

The gasp she makes is so loud that multiple nurses turn to her. She's standing in the doorway of a patient's room and he's at the far end walking slowly. Angie makes some excuse and gets the nurses to go back to their jobs.

She knows it's him. But she can't believe it's him. Rotting flesh covers the skeleton this time. Blood and other liquid flow down his frame and trail from his robes. A rattling chain sound is present and her eyes catch on the glinting metal of the scythe as it is carried in his right hand.

Guilt ruptures in her chest and she stumbles forward, yanking out of Angie's grasp. He turns into a room before she can get to him. She waits, not interrupting as she hears the panicked shrieks of the older woman he's come to collect. She can smell him. The stench of rotting flesh and metallic twang of blood fills her nostrils. It makes her want to gag.

But she does not. And she doesn't cover her ears, and she does not cover her eyes. She watches, knowing this terrifying being is here because of her. He would be escorting the woman calmly and gently, but instead he has to drag her because he chose to save her brother.

As he passes her, dragging the older woman behind him. She reaches out, snagging his robe and then hissing, yanking back. Burns cover her palm and she gasps, shocked at the pain. The robe ripples and looks shinier for a moment.

The gaping bleeding eye sockets are empty, and yet, she knows he's looking at her. "I'm sorry." she gasps out, "I'm so sorry. Thank you. Thank you. I can't ever repay you." The skeletal head tilts, almost as if it's confused. "Come back." Peggy says softly, ignoring the woman who is now crying and sobbing, trying to rip her hand free, "come back and see me, when you can, okay?"

The head studies her for a moment more, before slowly turning back to the front and continuing its slow rattling walk.

"What happened to your hand?" Angie asks, grabbing her burnt palm.

"You can see this?"

Angie nods and Peggy's eyes widen, "I touched his robe. It burned me. It's never done that before."

"Uh-oh, he's back in robes?"

Peggy grimaces, "yes, it's awful. He looks even more terrifying." She covers her eyes with her uninjured hand as Angie cleans and then bandages her hand. "He's suffering so much, and it's because of me."

Angie studies her, "you've been screaming at him for the better part of a couple years. And he still chose to save your brother at the detriment of himself…?"

Peggy groans and holds her hand to her chest. "I will make this up to him."

"How do you make something up to Death?"

"I don't know… But I'm going to figure it out."

It takes days for him to come back. He doesn't return to talk to her like she'd asked, but she has a sneaking suspicion that he's not fully himself. He's simply the basest level of Death.

Whens he sees him, she tries not to look foolish when her doctor's coat flaps behind her as she runs to catch him before he can enter a room.

"Hello." His skull dips down, once again meeting her eyes with his gruesome gaze. "You didn't come see me," she accuses.

Again the slight confused head tilt. When she doesn't budge, he leans forward, his aura of Death stronger than she's ever felt it. Like a chill down her spine and ice spreading in her veins. She can't tell if it's an intimidation tactic or not… But she's more sure that since he's at his basest form, he's simply trying to accomplish his job.

"I'm not going to give up." She says, "I'm going to wait. And then I'm going to thank you properly."

And just like Angie all those years ago, he raises a skeletal hand and waves it slowly and she feels the tug, an innate feeling to step aside. She does, and he walks past her.

She leaves before the screaming starts.

The next time she doesn't even hesitate, handing her chart to Angie and following him. She blocks the door and holds up a hand, "why won't you come speak to me?" His eyes silently stare at her. "I'm asking politely."

He is still, unmoving and gazing at her with those empty sockets.

"I'm not moving till you agree to come back and talk to me."

His frame rattles, the stench so strong she probably won't eat for a week.

Then there's a slight nod and she has to believe he understands and will come back this time.

She lets him pass.

She turns around in the lounge, and practically shrieks. He's standing behind her, calmly.

She catches a gasping breath and raises a hand, "I'm sorry. Sorry." She sucks in another breath, "you just startled me, I'm sorry." She eyes the scythe. He has the pole resting on the floor, metal in the air, taller than even he is.

He says and does nothing.

"You can understand me, right?" She asks. Better to check now than make an even bigger idiot of herself.

He nods.

"Do you know who I am?" He pauses, then shakes his head 'no'. She grimaces. But he'd come to see her… that had to mean something. "Do you feel like you should know who I am?"

That gets a nod.

She smiles and steps closer to him, "good, because you do. We're friends." He gives the confused head tilt, "you're my friend. Whether you like it or not."

She's about to reach out to him, burns be damned when Hodge struts into the lounge. "Hey Carter, looking good today."

She rolls her eyes, lowering her hand. "It's unbelievable you passed medical school when you're incapable of understanding basic instructions."

He laughs, genuinely amused, "come on now. Every lady deserves to be complimented. Although maybe you're not such a lady. I'd have to take you on a date to find out, huh? Maybe you're not such a lady in bed."

"I beg your fucking pardon?"

Hodge opens the fridge, not even looking at her, "see? There's a mouth I'd like to put to good use. Nice and dirty."

He's never been quite so vile. "How dare you speak to me that way?"

He stands up, someone else's lunch box in his hands. "Oh come on, don't be so uptight. I'm just messing with you."

"Do not ever speak to me that way again."

His face shifts, a sneer where his smile just was, "oh yeah, and what are you going to so about it?"

She doesn't respond, she's distracted by the black slinking aura that's enveloping her and chilling her to the bone.

But it's only gently surrounding her, it's approaching Hodge in a terrifying manner, and he visibly shivers. "What the hell?"

Then Death is walking towards him, circling him like a vulture.

Hodge looks up at her, panic in his eyes, "what the hell are you doing?"

She crosses her arms, "nothing Hodge, what's happening? You look scared."

Death tilts a bloody skull and waves his hand, a palm pushing towards the door. Hodge yelps and books it out of there.

Death straightens and the aura fades, the room getting lighter. She warms instantly and she gapes at him. "Thank you."

He nods and is about to disappear.

"Wait-" She calls, "come see me, at my house. Can you remember or find out where that is?"

He hesitates, but then nods. And she smiles as he steps back and disappears.

Peggy waits at her apartment anxiously. She makes dinner, drinks tea, showers and gets her lunch set for the next day.

There's a brief moment of doubt that perhaps he can't even remember to come visit, or perhaps he can't find her, but then he's there, the terrifying looking being standing in her kitchen.

"You came!" she smiles,s "thank you for coming."

She's not sure how a skeleton can radiate surprise, but he does. The smell is so strong, filling her apartment, but she doesn't care. "Come, sit." She gestures to the seat beside hers and he hesitates before walking over.

The rattling of whatever invisible chains bind him, grate at her hearing but again, she does not cover her ears.

Trails of blood and other things she can't describe coat her floor, but she still doesn't care. It will either be gone when he leaves or she will figure out something later.

There's a long pause before he sits. "Thank you for coming."

She can practically hear his confusion. Who thanks Death for coming? Well, perhaps there are a few, she thinks.

"I wanted to thank you." She says, "truly, for allowing my brother to live. I know you've paid the price for it in terrible ways I'll probably never know."

He does not respond, just looks at her while the blood drips onto her couch.

She reaches out her hands, intending to grasp one of his skeletal hands in both of hers. She will figure out the burns later.

He starts to withdraw but she ignores it, grabbing it and holding it tight. It does burn at first, but then she gasps. Heat seers at her, but skin begins to ripple where she touches. He's staring at their joined hands and she slowly starts to run her hand up his arm. Skin flickers and follows. Disbelief fills her, what the hell is happening?

She doesn't stop, yanking her hands up to his face, clasping the skull between her palms. Blood begins to drip between her fingers and down her wrists and arms, but she waits, feeling the burning. There's a chill under her skin, but then his face is flickering, skin shimmering in and out of vision. A flash of blue eyes has her gasping, "come back." She says in a commanding tone, "come back!"

It takes a while, his eyes are closed when the lids form and stay solid. Then she's dragging her hands down and holding his jaw. She groans in pain but runs her hands over his other arm and shoulders, skin rippling and burning wherever she touches.

She's about to yank his robes off his shoulders to access his neck and chest when a soft hand grabs her wrist and she looks up. His eyes are still closed but he gently places her hand on his cheek, palm down, and holds it there. She doesn't move. It's quiet for a long time but then his form ripples with a finality and he sags forward, head bowed and chest heaving.

A chill clutches her insides, like she absorbed his dark visage, but then it fades, seeping out of her skin and disappearing altogether.

Her hand is still on his cheek. His skin is smooth and soft beneath her touch.

Finally he lifts his head and looks at her. The blue of his eyes make her burst into tears. She lets out a sob of laughter and holds his cheeks with both hands. "You're back. You came back."

As if to mirror her own, his hands come up and hold her cheeks. She feels his thumb wipe at her tears and he nods. His mouth parts slowly, as if to say something. But then it closes.

She frowns, "can't speak?"

His smile is soft as he shakes his head 'no'.

She wonders why. Why is his voice the thing stolen from him longest?

Then caution is thrown to the wind. She leans over, wrapping her arms around him and holding him. His large frame stiffens in surprise, before practically melting into her embrace, wrapping his own arms around her.

"Thank you." She whispers, "thank you for allowing him to live. I'm sorry for the suffering you must have experienced."

She feels him nod. And she pulls back, looking into the blue eyes she hasn't seen in so long. She rests a hand on his cheek and he leans into the touch, eyes fluttering closed and her thoughts from all those years again is confirmed. He's so alone. No one to comfort him.

"I can't ever repay you for what you did."

His eyes reopen and he shakes his head, as if to say 'no need'.

"He's here in New York." she offers, "did you know?"

His brow furrows and she remembers that until just minutes ago, he was barely a living thing. "He remembers you." That makes his eyebrows raise. She nods, "he remembers you taking his teammates and then seeing him. He said you looked surprised to see him… You recognized him?"

He stands walking slowly around her coffee table where he crouches and then selects one of the photo albums. He deftly flips to a page and sets the book on the table. A photo of Michael in his military uniform is near the end of the book.

"I can't believe that." Peggy says with wide eyes. "Why did you…" she forces the words out, "decide to save him?"

His eyes, blue and deep like the ocean flick up to her, his expression reads, you know why.

The thought takes her breath away. Even though she knew it, had guessed it, the confirmation in his eyes makes it hard to comprehend.

His gaze follows her as she stands slowly, walking around the coffee table and then kneeling where he's crouched. She gently pushes his shoulders back, forcing him to sit on the ground. He complies, even though she's fully aware he could stop her. Once he's sitting, she pushes his shoulders back so he's laying down. She carefully leans over him, her still barely damp hair hanging like a curtain. Then she slowly leans down and wonders what it's like to kiss Death. And then she does it.

Her lips touch his, goose bumps immediately erupting over her skin. His aura shifts, surprise and disbelief and then what she expects, yearning, longing. She does not stop, angling her head and now allowing the rest of her weight to rest on his massive chest. His arms grasp her gently and he's kissing her back. She runs a hand through his hair, shocked by how soft it is, and then she kisses his cheek and jaw before going back to his lips.

His eyes are closed, as if he's concentrating on every moment to memorize it.

She's resting against him, enjoying the feeling of his arm around her when there's a knock at her door.

"Pegs! Open up!"

She sits up, eyes wide. She looks at him and he also has a surprised look on his face.

"It's Michael!"

He nods and she stands, walking to the door. Death stands, adjusting his robes that are no longer bleeding and dripping.

She opens the door and Michale grins. "Blessed be!" he laughs, "I got off the late shift and wanted to grab that gift you talked about for Lily but then I really needed to take a piss and I figured two birds one stone."

She's about to roll her eyes and rail on him for being gross when his eyes flicker over her shoulder. Her brain rationalizes that he won't see him.

But Michael's pallor drops to translucent, and he lets out a choked gasp.

She turns to see Death staring at Michael as well, looking reserved.

She grabs Michael's shirt and his jaw, yanking it to face her, "Michael, listen to me-"

"That's him! The man-"

"From your nightmares. Your memory. Yes."

Michael's wide eyes find her and he's in shock, "how-" he looks up, "how do you know that!?"

"I knew him… before."

Michael is rigid and terrified, "who is he! How is he here!? How do you know him?"

"I met him years ago." She says softly, "he saved you as a favor to me."

Confusion sweeps through him, "what?"

Death approaches them both. His appearance shimmers and suddenly he's in black military garb, high necked and arrayed with gear.

Michael is too shocked to speak. "He works… a very specific job." Peggy tries to explain, "but he saved you."

"He disappeared into fucking thin air!"

Peggy winces, "yes, he tends to do that!"

There's a long pause where Michael stares between them then his expression shifts, "so I'm truly not crazy…"

Peggy grins, "indeed you are not. I had had my full suspicions about who had saved you when I heard you should have died from your injuries. But when you told me that story, that memory… and I knew for sure."

Michael turns to Death and extends a hand, "thank you. I can't ever thank you enough. I really appreciate it."

Death's eyes flick to her. She shrugs, "I mean… If he can see you… maybe he can touch you?"

Death grasps Michael's hand slowly, and when nothing happens, he shakes it. Eyes wide.

Michale looks between them, "why isn't he speaking."

Peggy sighs and smiles at him, "it's a long story."

Michael startles in surprise when she explains that he is Death. But the more she explains, the more he listens intently. Death sits there, and she can feel his eyes stay on her. It almost makes her want to blush, but she does nothing of the sort.

At the end Michael huffs out a long breath of disbelief but then he nods. "I know it sounds insane, but I believe you. I knew it was real. I knew I wasn't imagining things." He turns to Peggy, "but you still haven't explained why he isn't speaking or why haven't I seen him til now?"

She was hoping he'd forget that by the end of the story.

"He's been gone." Peggy answers slowly. "He's not supposed to save people. And he is punished for doing so. One such punishment is losing the ability to speak." She's now infinitely glad he hadn't seen Death an hour before.

"Oh…" Michael reaches out and rests a hand on Death's shoulder, "thank you. I know I don't even know a percentage of the big picture, but I can be grateful for what I know."

Death nods and Michael stands, "I should go. LIly will be wondering."

She walks to the door with him and as he's leaving he looks at her and searches her face. "This is why you've been turning down other dates." His eyes are in disbelief, like he can't believe what he's saying. "Because of him."

There's no point in denying it. And she doesn't want to. "Yes."

"And how the hell is that supposed to work?" He asks quietly.

"I don't know." Peggy answers honestly, "but I'm going to figure it out. I always do."

They say their goodbyes and Peggy turns back around. She blinks, he's nowhere to be seen.

Her throat catches, sad that he'd left without saying goodbye.

But then the air ripples and he steps into the room, something in his closed fist. She approaches him, "where did you go?"

Of course he can't answer, but he meets her, and hesitates, his hand halting between them. Then he takes a deep breath and opens it to reveal a delicate chain, a small scythe rests at the end of it.

His elegant hand waves in a circle and the compulsion makes her spin, her back now facing him. The scythe appears in front of her and she feels the way his hands delicately close the clasp around her neck. THen he spins her again and picks up the chain, resting it in his hand and wrapping his fingers around it. Then he opens his hands and makes the motion to watch him. She watches his hand, the scythe in the palm and then he closes his fist tightly around it.

He points to her, as if to say 'your turn'.

She places it in her palm and wraps her fingers around it. He nods, a smile and then he holds up a finger, signaling one moment. And then he waves his finger in a circle as if to signal 'again'. Then he steps back, disappearing in a ripple and she blinks.

She waits a few seconds before repeating the process. The scythe grows cold and then he's there, smiling at her.

She looks up at him, realization striking her, "does this call you?"

He waves his hand like she's got it approximately.

And then she fully understands, "It summons you."

He nods, a pleased smile on his face.

She looks down at it and she grins, "you may regret giving this to me."

The amused expression on his face, and the raised eyebrow makes her reach forward and grab his collar pulling him down to kiss him again.

It's not long after she initiates the kiss that she tries to remove his shirt.

He stiffens and steps back.

She blinks, disliking the space now between them. "What?"

He can;t answer. "Do you… not want to be with me?"

His expression gets reserved and he looks down. "It's-" it hurst but she says it, "alright if you don't."

The flicker in his eyes of longing tells her that that's not it. It's something else that holds him back.

"What is it?"

He slowly raises his hand to his chest and then gestures to his whole torso.

Her brow furrows and she steps back closer to him. "I don't understand?"

His eyes close and then he takes a deep breath, turning slowly until his back is facing her. Then his form ripples and suddenly he's standing there, shirtless. She gasps. The skin is mottled. The entirety of his back is riddled with scars. What looks like knives, whippings- her eyes widen, "are those claw marks?" she asks aghast.

His wide shoulders curve and she steps forward, resting a hand on the patchwork of scar tissue.

She examines them each. Her fingers running over the marred and uneven skin. "Who did this to you?"

She grabs his shoulder and slowly spins him to face her. He has a hand over his neck and she's going to ask why but she's distracted by his front. While less chaotic, there are tons of scars there too. Circular, evenly spread out and puckered and red. Like they're newer. She looks up to see him studying her face, wondering what her judgment will be.

His hand still resides over his neck.

Her hand trails up, grasping his wrist. She tries to pull it away but he resists. "I want to see." She says firmly. She tries to pull again and this time he complies.

The jagged slice that crosses the entirety of his neck makes her gasp. She steps back, hands over her mouth. Despair crosses his expression and his visage ripples, back to dressed fully in his usual clothes. Black high neck sweater, black slacks, dress shoes. She sees the way he's about to step back, he's going to disappear.

"Stop." She demands, "if you leave I'll just summon you again."

It does the trick, halting him.

"Show me again."

He frowns, stepping backwards but not away, just further from her.

"Show me." She says firmly, "it startled me. It did not disgust me."

He doesn't. She steps closer and challenges him with her gaze. She runs her fingers around his belt line and starts to pull the sweater from where it's tucked. His hands go to stop her but she glares at him. "I want to see."

Slowly she lifts the sweater up, and he allows her to remove it, pulling it over his head.

The line is pink scar tissue, eye catching against his smooth light skin. It's relatively straight, but there are jagged sections, like whatever caused it wasn't pulled across all at once but in sections.

Her mind thinks back, had he always been in something high necked? As long as she can remember he has, and now she knows why.

"What is this from?"

His shoulders rise and drop. "You don't know?"

He shakes his head 'no'. She points to his other scars, "do you know where any of these are from?"

A nod.

"But not all of them…"

Another 'no.'

She circles him. Whatever happened to cause this was not a one time thing. It was a multitude of happenings.

How does one scar death?

And a thought like a seed sprouts in her mind…

After inspecting him some more, she stops in front of him and pushes him back towards the couch, getting him to sit down as she sits in his lap, leaning forward and kissing him.

He responds, not with eagerness. She's not sure if Death knows what eagerness is. But it's a slow heat, building and rising. She kisses his neck, wondering about its origin and then back to his lips. His large palms cover most of her back and she loves the way he grips her.

She smirks against his lips, in the grips of Death.

He pulls back, eyes wondering about her smile. She laughs, "it's a stupid thought." He tilts his head, asking. She taps his lips, "the kiss of Death."

He makes a sound of amusement, but it doesn't reach his eyes and then they drop to the space between.

"What?"

And before she can protest, he's gently lifted her up and then set her on her feet. He creates space between them and his image shimmers, dressed again.

"Are-" the question comes unbidden, "Are your other forms… the same?"

His now reserved expression shimmers. The child appears, the one she'd seen with the little boy. It eyes her with wise eyes and the shirt flickers, showing clean skin, except the neck. The neck scar is still there.

Then he shimmers again and he's the shorter thin version, clearly a late teenager. Again, his skin is not mottled with scars, although there are a few. But the neck scar is still there, so prominent.

Then his last form, tall as his large form, but skinny like his other two forms. There's a few scars on that body as well, but the neck scar is still present.

"Why is it the only one that stays?"

He lifts his shoulders in the 'not sure' gesture. Then he nods and smiles, although it still doesn't reach his eyes, and he steps back, disappearing.

And she's not sure what she said that made him upset.

She's in a patient's room when the air stills. She feels the hairs on her neck raise and goosebumps on her arms. She steps out, wondering why his aura feels so strong today, only to exit the room and come face to face with something else completely. He stares at her, his eyes widening before he throws up his hands.

A man, tall and lithe, pale as snow, hair so black it's almost blue. Eyes almost completely black, only the tiny specks of light, like stars showing light.

He scoffs, hands on his hips. "Oh, for Zeus' sake!" He exclaims, "not you, again."

Ancient Greece - 418 BC

The large fires and the lighted torches cast their warm glow as she strolls along the street.

The saltiness of the sea breeze flows soothingly back and forth. She swears she can hear the waves even though they're a decent ways from the coast. The Acropolis stands high, glowing against the night sky.

"What has got your thoughts wrapped in the stars?"

She smiles at her brother. "How beautiful summer nights are, of course."

He grins, "of course."

They're quiet for a while although the city bustles around them even in the late hour. She watches vendors cleaning up their shops of carts. The smell of the oil as they pass a large olive press fills the air.

"Are you excited to choose your first?"

Margarites sighs, "I suppose. I know it is expected."

"You are 14 now, it is expected and good practice for your future house."

"I know. As mother keeps reminding me."

They follow the path and walk towards the market square. Usually these auctions were during the day, but due to the high temperatures, it had been moved to the evening to avoid having to stand out in the sun. She marvels at all the bronze pits that had been brought out to light the city. An unusual sight since usually only the temples were lit in the evening.

There's a decent crowd and she allows Mikhael to pull her closer to the front. "Take a look, and tell me which one you want me to bid on," he instructs.

There are six males, naked and in a line. Each has a wooden sign around their neck, with an identifying number. Their hands are tied behind their backs and feet all connected. Her eyes pause on the last one, clearly the shortest of the bunch. His hair is a golden color not often seen among the people. Rare… It's possible he's a prisoner now being sold, not actually Greek. But what was even more perplexing is the cloth tied around his eyes, blocking part of his face.

"Why is his face covered?" She asks Mikhael quietly.

"I am not sure." He's staring at the man too.

"None of the other's eyes are covered."

"I do not know, Margarites," he emphasizes.

She studies their bodies and recognizes that four of them seem incredibly strong, and probably very able. But she's not looking for that. She's looking for a domestic. So her eyes are drawn to the last two. The man with the golden hair, and then a slightly taller man with black curly hair.

"I want him," Margarites says, pointing at the man who is blinded.

"You are choosing the scrawniest one?"

"I need him for my chambers, for messages, for menial tasks. Correct?" she huffs, crossing her arms, "not for labor and working in the fields."

Mikhael sighs, "alright. It is your decision."

When the bidding begins, she hears many bids for most of the men. When it's the blonde man's turn, there's a hesitancy. No one is sure why his eyes are covered. It's an unknown.

"Bid," she urges Mikhael.

He sighs and does so. Once he does, a few more add on their bids, but Mikhael continues to add on until the word "sold!" is shouted and he looks down at her with a grin. "He is yours."

She wrinkles her nose at him, "mine."

At the end, they pay the collector and the man is brought before them.

The previous owner pushes him down onto his knees. "His name is Stephanos. He is 16. Of unknown birth origin. No known illnesses or afflictions except that this ear-" he points to the left side of his head, "-is slightly weak."

Mikhael nods and collects the official parchment of ownership.

"Why are his eyes covered?" Margarites asks. "Are his eyes functional?"

The owner nods. "Indeed. However they are of unusual color and they were frightening the others. So they were covered."

"Unusual?" Mikhael asks for her.

"See for yourself." The man rips the blindfold off and then grabs the man's chin, yanking it towards a torch. The man blinks before his eyes flick up to her face. She gasps, both of their eyes widening.

"They're-" Mikhael is as surprised as she is, "-light?" Everyone she knows has dark eyes.

She bends forward, so drawn to them. He blinks at her, and she realizes she's gotten quite close. Handsome. That's the word she would use to describe his eyes. "They are like the sky, or the ocean."

He's not permitted to speak, she knows that, but the way his lips shift tells her he's pleased with the description.

"You are sure with the strange hair color and eyes that he is not sick?"

The owner nods, "I have worked him for over three years and never had an issue."

"He is mine." Margarites reminds her brother, "mine."

He shrugs, "alright. Let us get him home."

A cloth is given to him, set over his right shoulder and tied at his hips. It covers his front and back but his both sides are on display. She finds herself eyeing the way his skin shifts over his ribs, the joint of his hip flexes, and his leg muscles contract as he walks beside them.

Mikhael nudges her and she looks up at him. His expression is slightly accusing.

She stops staring.

Both of her parents appraise him and approve. He is given permission to speak when spoken to and he nods in understanding. He does not speak. He is led to the small adjoining room where their other domestics sleep. His eyes widen at the sight of his own bed and he gestures to himself in question.

She nods and his eyes alight, that ghost of a smile on his features. He kneels before her, bowing his head in thanks and then waiting.

She looks back at Mikhael who is watching. Her parents were quietly talking behind him.

Margarites takes her small hand and gently grasps his chin and raises his face to meet hers. She smiles at him and then whispers. "Καλορίζικο!"

His eyes soften a bit and the ghost of the smile appears just a little.

She wakes and the pit already has a low fire simmering. There's a fresh jar of water and a stone of fruits and nuts beside it. She quickly brushes and braids her hair back and adds a few drops of oil to her neck and arms before eating quickly and walking to the main section of their villa. Then she wanders outside to the backside of their property.

She can see him at the washing trough. His lithe muscles move as he is bent over and washing linens.

Margarites finds herself smiling at just the sight of him. A strange new sensation in her chest that she's never felt before. He sits on his heels, wiping at his brow and she slips backwards, not wanting to be caught staring.

She's not sure why but he doesn't speak at all. Able to communicate with nods and shakes and gestures. Her mother is thrilled with this as she is a believer of 'neither seen or heard'. Margarites tries everything in her power to ask questions that require more than he can nonverbally answer, but he's just very good at not speaking.

"Stephanos." She calls, he appears at her entryway and she smiles, "I am going to the market tonight, and I will need you to attend me." He nods and she tilts her head, studying his attire. He's been given three robes. Each the same. She notices he's always washing one. He does not like to wear one twice without it having been cleaned. His sides, the exposed skin always makes her blush and look down. He does not seem to notice, thankfully.

Mikhael is far up ahead talking with a friend and she is walking slowly. Stephanos just a few steps behind. "Have you been in Athens long?" She turns back, hoping finally for a verbal answer. He simply nods.

She slows her gait until they are side by side. He eyes her with a raised eyebrow and she pretends not to notice, keeping her eyes in front.

"I wish you would speak to me." she finally admits. "I had heard that domestics could be quite indispensable as companions."

His head dips, eyes on the stones beneath their feet.

He still does not speak. In fact… she can't remember having heard his voice at all in the three weeks he's been hers.

"Can you speak?"

He nods 'yes'.

"Then why do you not?"

She watches his throat bob as he swallows. Then he takes a deep breath and angles his head a bit so he is partially facing her as they walk. "I tend to always say the wrong thing." She blinks. His voice is low. Lower than Mikhael's who is 3 years his senior. And there's a soothing tone in his words. "Better to stay quiet."

"You cannot say the wrong thing to me." she assures him. A smile on her lips for finally getting him to speak.

He huffs out of his nose as if what she said was humorous to him, but he's smiling and she doesn't feel like she's being teased.

"Do you like it here?"

"Here… as in Athens?"

She knows she probably looks giddy that he's speaking but she can't help it. "Yes, Athens. With us."

"I'm grateful for the opportunity to serve."

Something about that makes her frown.

"How did you…" She can't decide if it's appropriate. She's not young, just entering marrying age, but still she senses her naivety sometimes.

"Become a slave?" He asks, guessing her question.

Now it's her turn to nod.

"My mother died in birthing me. I do not know if my father was already dead or if he did not want me. I was found and raised in servitude."

"Oh…" not the story she was expecting. "I'm sorry."

He nods.

"What happened to your ear?"

She's on his right. Has been careful to not speak only on his left.

"I said the wrong thing," is all he responds with.

She doesn't question further.

Several more months pass as she gets to know him and he in turn always seems to pause after his answer, looking at her with a raised eyebrow. He never feels comfortable asking her questions, but she would answer her own after she had asked him. That way he could get to know her too.

It's been almost a year when her brother sits beside her, as she carefully attempts to weave.

"I have noticed something."

She looks up briefly, "oh? Hopefully many things. Are not you always saying you are the wise one?"

He laughs but then turns somber. "You have grown attached."

"You are my brother."

"Not to me."

She looks up at him, his expression makes it clear to whom he is referring and she already feels the blush rising from her chest. She says nothing, going back to her weaving.

"He is not eligible."

She stays quiet, working on the complicated process.

"He's a slave, Margarites."

"I am well aware."

"You do a very poor job of behaving that you are aware then."

"Oh," she huffs, "can we not talk about this? You are ruining my concentration."

"Mother hasn't noticed yet. Father has."

"I am not doing anything wrong!" she huffs.

"He and I share similar concerns."

She stands, glaring at him, "which are?"

"You are not to lie with him."

She gasps, "how dare you!"

"You are marrying age… Your purity must be assured."

"I cannot believe father sent you to speak to me!"

He winces, their plan exposed, "he thought you would take my words more seriously than his."

"Have I given any indication I intend to defile myself? No! I have not!"

"But you have grown attached. And you make rash decisions when your emotions are involved."

She stabs a finger into his face, "I get that from you." She gestures towards the house, "we both get it from them! I do not see them telling you to stop slipping the maidens you bring home in the dark of the night when you think no one knows!" His face pales and she glares at him. "I am not a child. Do not assume to treat me as one," she snaps and then spins away from him, running towards her room.

She's there for only moments before she decides she needs to get out of here.

"Stephanos!"

He doesn't come.

She exits her room, avoiding the courtyard and circling towards the back of the house. She stops, watching him hang her bedroom linens and some of her clothes. His golden hair glints in the sun and her eyes are drawn to his sides as always. The skin, darkened by the sun, makes her throat go dry.

"Stephanos."

He looks over at her, stepping from behind the cloth and standing at attention.

"Come. We're going for a walk."

Confusion is clear on his face, but he nods, stepping and following her as she walks towards the main street.

It's quiet for a long time. They wind their way through many streets and down towards the main part of the city. She isn't supposed to be here without her father or brother. But she didn't want to see either of them. And she had Stephanos for protection anyways.

She can tell he's tense. The way his eyes dart to and fro as if nervous and his shoulders are rigid.

"I just needed space to think." She explains.

He does not respond.

"I'm to be married off. Presumably soon." The surprise is on his features, but he says nothing. "To a man most likely double my age."

This he does not seem surprised about.

"I would rather marry Hades himself." She jests, making his eyes widen in surprise. A cold breeze flickers down her spine and she shivers.

"Do not say such things." Stephanos whispers, "he is known to steal from our world."

She bristles, "I can say whatever I like." Her annoyance at her family bleeds into her words. "I do not need you telling me what I can and cannot say!"

He looks stricken. His head immediately dips and he bows, resting his hand over his heart in a gesture of apology*.

Her own words reverberate in her head. She winces and feels ashamed, "no, my apologies. I should not have spoken to you that way."

He does not straighten. She reaches forward, grabbing his chin and tilting it up, making him meet her eyes. "I am sorry. Will you forgive me for saying such harsh words?"

He simply bows his head again. She sighs, "I order you to stand." He straightens, eyes shuttered and expression an empty mask.

Her heart feels heavy, "I did not mean that. I am simply upset about the fact that I do not have much say in my future."

His tight nod tells her that he understands. But she knows they've just taken 10 steps back in their relationship.

As they begin walking again, she usually insists they walk at the same pace, but as he slows enough to be a step behind her, she does not fight it.

The sun is starting to sink towards the horizon when they head back. She knows he will be behind in his duties and grimaces at her rash actions just to get away. But he does not complain.

He does not speak at all.

When they return, he bows in respect and turns to leave, With no forethought at all, she reaches out, snagging his wrist and stilling him.

His eyes flick down to their contact in shock and then he looks ups, wide eyed. Slaves and their owners were not supposed to touch except for very specific purposes.

"Stephanos…" she whispers quietly, "I do not want you upset with me. My hurt at my family poured out on you. I want you to feel free to speak to me. I was simply upset. Please understand this."

His surprised eyes lessen and his face shifts into a calm expression, but still he nods and slowly withdraws his wrists from her grasp, bows again, and steps backwards, heading back to his chores.

Her mother and father are furious with her for leaving.

"Do you have any idea what people will say! A young woman of your status! Walking unaccompanied!"

She took a page out of Stephanos' book and said nothing.

She was placed under strict restrictions.

Something about his presence soothed her in a way she couldn't explain.

She was to be married soon. A man almost her father's age named Alexandros.

Stephanos would be sold back or to another family.

Her devastation knew no bounds.

But everytime she thought to bring it up, her brother warned her against doing so. "He will only be sent away sooner." He cautions, "perhaps punished if they believe you have grown too fond and he has encouraged it."

She sighs. He hasn't encouraged anything. Though she wishes he would.

Her last view of him is as he is tied to the chariot and led away. His eyes flicker so briefly to hers she may have imagined it, but it catches in her chest all the same. She grips the fabric of her chiton so harshly that she feels her nails dig into her palms.

Every day leading up to and on her wedding day, she prays constantly to Aphrodite, to spare her womb. To not allow her to be impregnated.

Her tears after her first time disgust her husband. He leaves her crying to go socialize at the baths and drink wine.

She drags herself to the bathing chamber and scrubs at her skin, willing every inch of her skin that touched him to be scrapped off.

Again she prays. "Please dear goddess, I beg of you. Do not allow me to be with child."

She turns 17 and still is not pregnant. Her husband is furious. She hides the bruises well. The servants help clean the blood from her lip and arms.

She is still eternally grateful. She offers sacrifices to Aphrodite constantly. Her husband believes they are for her to become fertile and get pregnant.

It is not.

She's 19 when she is first introduced to the concubine that is to be her husband's. He thinks it will infuriate her.

It does not.

It is a relief.

She welcomes the woman with open arms and makes her as comfortable as she can manage. The woman is confused but happily accepting of her doting. Her husband is furious but says nothing as this had been his scheme. She pays for it that evening. Dizzy as the tile spins under her. Her head throbbing from having come in contact with it. Her fingers drag lazily through the small pool of blood she can't recall being there before. She wonders slowly where it came from.

A week later she walks with a pair of slaves, a male and a female to one of the temples of Aphrodite and offers the largest sacrifice she can manage without seeming insane.

She bows in the temple and sends thanks for the new subject other husband's desire.

On the evening before the Great Panathenaea she spends adequate time getting prepared. She knows she will finally get to see her family after too many years apart and she wanted to look her best despite the fact that she was more unhappy than she had ever felt in her life.

Her bath is long and oils swirl atop the hot water. As she rests her head against the marble she tries to think logically. She knows that she is blessed. She is part of the high class. She always has food and beautiful clothing and a lovely house. Her servants and slaves are diligent and kind, and she is respectful and kind to them as well. She knows they preferred her over Alexandros even though they all technically belong to him.

She has whatever her heart desires.

Except him.

She dreams of him often. His shifting ocean eyes and his golden tanned skin, especially his sides. Now that she is versed in that area of her life, she desperately wishes she'd had the chance to be with him. His long gentle fingers and soft smile and how they would feel against her skin.

She usually dreams or thinks of him whenever Alexandros requires her.

And she does not feel bad about it.

The morning the festival is to begin, she dresses in her best. Choosing a robe that will cover her latest round of bruising. She braids her long hair back and decorates it with a gold headpiece. She rubs sweet smelling oils into her skin and stains her lips as dark as she can manage to hide the newest split in her lip.

Each night she resides beside Alexandros' as they sit at one of the huge banquet tables. The feast begins and there is much eating and drinking. She keeps her eyes out for her family but in the crowds of thousands celebrating in Athens she hasn't found them quite yet.

Servants and slaves are called to and fro and she is lifting her cup to her lips when she freezes, entire body going rigid at the sight of him.

Stephanos. He is bent over someone sitting at a table, being told something before he nods and begins to walk away.

She stands without thinking.

"Margarites?" Her eyes blink back and she looks down. Alexandros is looking at her in annoyed confusion, "what is it?"

"I need to go speak with someone. I'll be right back."

"Why?" His hand grasps her wrist harshly and she resists the urge to yank it from him. "An old friend. I just saw them over there." She points in a different direction than she had been looking." Music is being played loudly and she tries to seem calm as she smiles, "I'll be right back."

She does pull her hand from his then and she walks quickly, her leather sandals quiet on the pathway.

She follows other servants and slaves running back and forth until she finds the concentrated bunch of them, helping at the large fire pits roasting the meat or prepping the fruit, nut, and cheese platters.

They stop at the sight of her. One of the head servants, someone she knows belongs to a government official, approaches her, "are you looking for your servant? Who is it? I will have them sent to you."

Her eyes skim over the crowd of them and she sees him, far in the back, not having noticed her, dutiful in whatever task he had been sent to do.

-you make rash decisions when your emotions are involved-

She's older now. More patient. The consequences would be much worse.

"Never mind." She says easily. "Sorry for interrupting."

Then she winds her way back to the tables, stopping to talk to a woman she's barely ever spoken to except at weddings to make sure she had someone's name to give Alexandros if he asked.

Denai is pregnant. Alexandros announces it to her halfway through the month-long festival.

She offers her sincere congratulations and he glares at her. She keeps her face open and does not waver.

"I'll be bringing her to the banquets tonight."

"Wonderful. I'll be sitting with my family this evening, remember?"

The slap resounds through the chamber. "I do not need you to remind me of things."

Her head is still yanked to the side, facing the floor as she tries not to make any noise of pain. He likes hearing her in pain. It's a satisfaction she won't give him.

He grabs her braid, yanking her closer and pulling it back so she's forced to look him in the eyes. "If I find out you have been ingesting silphium." His fingers scratch at the back of her neck. "Do not disrespect me. You are mine."

Mine.

She remembers the word as she said it about Stephanos. What a different feeling.

"I am not ingesting anything to prevent a child, Alexandros."

His lips are crushed against hers, his tongue forced in her mouth. She tries not to grimace, as his hands rove her body and slide against her skin. He yanks off her chiton and it pools at her feet. She tries not to stay rigid. It's worse for her when he knows she's uncomfortable. He yanks her closer, gripping her tighter than necessary, purposefully causing pain. Still she's quiet. He kisses her again and then kisses down her body.

She gasps in pain, his teeth digging into her side as he bites harshly. He looks up, a smirk on his lips and she swallows her desire to gouge out his eyes with her nails.

Then one hand is between her legs and the other is pulling her down to the ground.

Her only thoughts are silent prayers.

Once he's spent, she carefully collects her chiton and covers herself, hurrying back towards her chambers, trying to pretend the water from her eyes doesn't exist.

"This is increasingly worrying." Margarites turns to see her female servant, Angelos, looking at her with concerned eyes.

She knows why. Her body is on display as she dries off from her bath. The bite mark is prominent, bruising around it. Along with the finger prints on her arms and legs.

"Do not worry for me." She says calmly, resolve in her tone.

Her servant studies her, "what are you planning on doing?"

"What I must."

She forgoes the plan to sit with her family. Once they arrive at the nightly feast, she blithely excuses herself and heads immediately to the servants area. She passes through, feeling eyes watch her.

It takes a few minutes but she locates him. He's barely any taller, but he's tan and golden and beautiful. "Stephanos." She calls softly, getting his attention as he turns. Surprise flickers and he bows, acknowledging her. "Can we speak?" He looks around nervously, but she steps closer, "please? It is important."

Quite a few are watching as he nods and she gestures for them to walk. They leave the main open air pavilion behind and he keeps glancing back, like he's worried.

Once they are far enough away, she can't help it, she immediately bursts into tears. His eyes go wide and he dips his head so they are at eye level, "what is wrong?" he asks, his voice just the same but older. Still deep and smooth and soothing.

"Run with me."

He tilts his head in confusion, "what?"

"Run away with me. I cannot stay here."

He seems stunned, not knowing what to say.

"Please, Stephanos," she pleads, "come with me. I-" her throat is tight, "I've loved you since I first set eyes on you all those years ago. I hated when my father sold you, I hated leaving you and my home. I wanted you. It's always been you."

"I am a slave."

"And what of it?!" She snaps, "I loved you. Do not pretend you did not notice!" He stays quiet. "You are telling me you felt nothing for me?" He remains quiet and the elation fills her. "All those days and nights. You were by my side. I wanted you forever. Now I can have you."

His face grows serious, "what you are asking is impossible. They will hunt for us. I am nothing. A slave. You are a high ranking official's wife." The fact that he knows, that he's been aware of where she went, her life. It gives her confidence that he does want her just as she wants him.

"I've been collecting resources to run." She admits, slipping her hand under her chiton to the corded belt she's tied against her bare skin. The leather satchel there is weighted with many many coins. Alexandros was so confident in his wealth he had not been noticing that she'd been stealing from him for years. Saving to run away for whenever she built up the courage. Seeing Stephanos almost two weeks ago had given her that confidence.

She shoves the satchel at him, "this is enough to travel far, start a new life." He steps back, looking uncertain, overwhelmed.

She tosses it at his feet. His eyes look at the pouch and then look up to find hers.

"You are married."

"To a vile monster."

Again he seems not to know what to say to that. She grabs the satchel off the ground, forcing him to hold it and then grabbing his hand and dragging him further away, towards a torch at the end of the dirt path. She shifts her chiton to show the bruising. "You would leave me with someone who hurts me?" Then she's bold, shifting the chiton part way off her shoulder to show the ugly bite on her ribs, "he marks me as his this way."

Suddenly he's on his knees before her, eyes level with the bite, fingers ghosting it. "Your husband did this to you?"

She nods, "he did. It happens often. He is furious because I am not able to produce a child."

His brow furrows, "do you know why?"

"I assume because I beg the goddess Aphrodite to close my womb almost every second of every day." His eyes widen, the blue reflecting the darkness of the night sky above them. "I will not bear his child." Then her heart is making decisions, not her brain. She shifts, stepping closer, "I would bear yours, if you would let me." With a slow motion, she shifts her shoulder, allowing the shoulder other garb to slink off, revealing half of her chest.

His eyes only dip briefly before he's looking back up and caught in her gaze. "I am a slave, Margarites." He whispers, and she revels in the sound of her name off his tongue, "I would be unable to care for you, take a position. I have no citizenship papers."

"But you would love me."

His eyes close and he sinks onto his heels, "love is not enough to sustain two lives."

She sinks to her knees, grasping his face in her two hands, "love is always enough."

His smile is soft, as he looks up at her. She leans forward, kissing him softly. His lips taste like smoke from the fires and she couldn't care less. He's warm and pliant as their lips move and she finally gets to place her hands on his sides. Feeling the smooth taut skin there. Her fingers explore the grooves his rib makes and then they slide down, taking in the curve of his waist and grabbing his hips.

The sound he makes elicates a feral desire in her chest and she gasps for air before kissing him again.

He pulls away first, face now devastated, like he has to make a difficult choice, "Margarites-"

"No." she says, "I am not going to listen to any of your logical reasons."

"We cannot."

"We can."

He's opening his mouth to respond when a shout is heard.

"There!"

They both startle, jumping back as a small group comes into view. Her heart is in her throat as she stands, trying to arrange her garment. But Alexandros is there too quickly, one of their male servants at his side and two other men she doesn't recognize.

"What in Zeus' name is going on here!" Alexandros bellows. He eyes her disheveled appearance and then he looks at Stephanos in murderous rage. "You, a slave, putting your hands on my wife!"

She's about to argue, to fight back, but Stephanos doesn't hesitate. He steps forward, blocking her from Alexandros line of sight. "You are the slave here. To your belief that since she is your wife you can mistreat her and cause her pain!" He jabs a finger at her husband, "what coward and despicable human being treats their beloved this way?"

The fury in Alexandros' eyes is something she has never seen before. She reaches out to grab Stephanos' robe, to pull him to safety, but it's too late.

"Seize him!" Alexandros bellows, and then his eyes catch on the satchel that's still in the dirt.

She reaches for it, trying to grab it before him, but he's quick, lifting it to the torch and growling at the leather etching, marking it from their household.

He turns to Stephanos, "you attempt to defile my wife and steal my wealth? You will pay dearly for this."

The men holding Stephanos grapple with him as he struggles in their grip. "I have done neither of those things." Even with his smaller size, she hears the strength of those words, deep and forceful.

"And a liar." Alexandros says coldly. He walks over to her, Grabbing her braid and arm, "you must watch." He gestures to the last of the men and the man comes over, holding her the way he was, keeping her in place. She attempts to break free, but his grip is like iron.

Stephanos is still struggling, but Alexandros reels back his fist, slamming it across his cheek and making her shriek out in fear. Then her husband kicks him rough in the chest. "Kneel him down!" he bellows.

"No!" She's sobbing, shrieking out the words. "No! He did not steal from you, I did!" The words do nothing to smother his rage. It only seems to bolster it. Alexandros slides his decorative dagger out from his belt. Her entire body goes rigid. Then she's gasping, screaming, pleading. "No! Do not! I beg of you! Spare him!"

They kick his knees and he cracks to the ground, still trying to get free. They stretch his arms back, yanking them behind his body, the muscles protesting at the angle.

"Stephanos!" she cries, voice cracking. His eyes meet hers, sadness there, but his face is calm, like he's accepted his fate.

"Steady him!" Alexandros moves to stand behind him.

"Please!" She's still screaming, "stop! Do not do this! I will do anything, please!"

Alexandros grabs Stephanos' hair, yanking his head back. So they are looking at each other. Alexandros looking down and Stephanos having to look up. "For your dishonor, I assure you, you will suffer in Tartarus."

Stephanos' throat bobs as he attempts to breathe at the awful angle his head is being forced parallel to the ground, but she hears his soft reply. "See you there."

Alexandros growls in anger at his words and raises his dagger.

And with her voice screaming like a hysterical siren, she watches in horror as Alexandros brings the dagger down, starting to slice a long jagged line along his neck. She uses every ounce of strength, ripping free from the man holding her and slamming into one of the men holding him, trying to free him. But she's kicked back, slammed harshly to the ground. Her dazed mind stares as Alexandros growls, realigning and yanking the dagger's sharp blade across his entire neck.

The blood flows immediately, draping down his neck into his white robe. They drop his limp body unceremoniously and she screams, every emotion grasping in her chest, the noise rending the night in two.

She gets to her feet, ignoring the way the men are laughing. She stumbles, numb with grief and then she's beside him, kneeling down and gathering his body in her arms. Ignoring the hot blood that's already starting to seep into her own chiton.

Her arms envelope him, pressing her face against his chest and sobbing, hot tears soaking into his robe along with his own blood.

Then she's being yanked by her hair. "Get up!" Alexandros is ordering her, "you piece of filth! Betraying me for a slave!" She slams her elbow into his chest, harder than he expects and he releases her in surprise, huffing in pain. Then she's dropping to her knees again, pulling him back into her arms.

And she can't process, can't believe that the lifeless body in her arms is his.

She's clinging to him, unwilling to be separated. Her heart and mind cry out to Aphrodite. Please, please let him live. Please!

But there's no answer and she's being yanked away again. His body ripped from her arms.

Alexandros grabs her throat, "you will not be have this way ever again! You are mine! Only mine!"

He still holds the dagger in his hand.

Resolution fills her.

"No." She bites out, grief, rage, and every other emotion flooding her veins. Her speed surprises him and she snatches the dagger from his hand. Pointing at him. "I am his." Her words are bitten off, "I am his. I have been since we laid eyes on each other. I could never love a monster like you!" He is seething but she doesn't stop. "I kissed him, and he, a lowly slave like you keep saying, fulfilled me more in that one kiss than you have in our entire marriage!"

She sees the way the other men react to that. He won't ever be able to live this down. Hopefully that means he will cast her off. But he just steps forward, like he might take hold of her again. Desperation rises. And that conversation where she'd first heard Stephanons' voice arises. Her eyes look at his body, and her voice gets harsh, drowned with grief. She spits out her next words. "I would rather die than be with you!"

His eyes narrow to slits and he lurches forward, snatching his dagger back and slicing it into her stomach. "And so you shall." He hisses in her ear.

Wide eyes from the other men stare at her as she sinks to the ground.

But as she feels the pain and the shock, she knows there's a smile on her face. Maybe not the freedom she intended, but freedom all the same.

As consciousness leaves her. Her eyes catch a shimmer past the men staring at her in shock. Two beings stand there, one dressed in black robes looking on with a bored expression and the other in the color of the sea. A robe that shifts between light green and deep blues, like the rush of the waves. Her expression is watchful and sad.

Then she knows no more.

Ancient Rome - 267 A.D.

"It is amazing, you agree?"

Margherita stares up at the colosseum, eyes wide with wonder. "It is one of the most incredible pieces of architecture I have ever laid my eyes upon."

Her brother grins at her, "thought so." Their procession was slow. Her father, a man of importance to the Emperor, had added many of his roman legion to guide them to the event. "How do you believe your feminine sensibilities will fair with the brutality you are about to witness?"

He's teasing her and she rolls her eyes, "I witness far more brutality with you as my sibling, Mikha'el."

"You say that now. But I hear tell they have captured lions for today's event."

"Lions!" she gasps, "I have always wanted to see them with my own eyes."

"Well, seems today you will receive your wish."

The guards lead them inside and begin the slow process through the cavea to the lower section where the ruling classes were allowed to sit.

They make the necessary grand gesture to the Emperor who sits on a large red cushioned throne and a laurel around his head. He eyes her with interest. "How does a young woman look upon our gladiator games?" He seems to eye the few women in attendance in their section, the majority of them servants.

"With much interest, my Emperor. I am delighted to witness them today."

"A unique woman, then." The Emperor says with an amused expression. "I shall wait to see if you faint at the first sight of blood."

The men all around chuckle and she bristles at their belittling of her. Enough that her tongue speaks for her.

"I hardly faint at the sight of blood, in case the Emperor has forgotten I bleed between my legs every month, do I not?"

Silence pervades the area. The crowd is still loud and ringing around them, but the purple cloths hung above them to provide shade creates a small area removed from the common folk and it's silent.

Her brother is stiff beside her. He always says she needs to learn to rein in her tongue. Perhaps she hasn't learned that lesson yet.

The Emperor, an older man, but still strong physically and tall, stands and walks towards her. He stares at her for a moment and she chooses to not back down or back away. To stick to her words.

A slow smile grows on his lips, then he laughs, breaking the tension. "You are quite the female." he uses his curled index finger under her chin to lift her head, catching her gaze. "I think I shall take a liking to you."

She smiles back and the area fills with noise again.

Soon the event begins, wine flowing freely and vendors shouting their food wares through the large arena.

A long line of men are walked out, all with leather gear and sandals. Their hands are tied together as they are paraded in a circle so the entirety of the crowd can see them. The cheers and shouts from the crowd get her blood pumping in excitement.

As they finish their parade, they stop in front of the Emperor's section, facing him for inspection. He stands, looking them over and she watches as he considers each one. She wonders who he will choose to be his champion for the day.

"You, bleeding girl."

She turns, surprised by his call. "Yes?"

"Come."

There's no hesitation as she stands, her stolla shifting around her feet as she joins him at the waist high red and black stone wall that he stands behind. "Since you are so excited for the bloodbath. I assume that means you know a good fighter when you see one…" his hand gestures magnanimously to the line of eight men. "Choose wisely."

Her throat goes dry. "You want me to choose your champion?"

"Indeed. And if he succeeds in all his trials today…" he raises an eyebrow, "he shall become your own personal champion."

A gasp is heard from the royalty around them. Something like this has never been done. To be gifted the Emperor's winning Gladiator is a weighty gift.

She bows her head in a gesture of respect, "sir, you bestow upon me a mighty gift."

He nods, "Do not waste it."

He lifts her chin and she rises. He points back to the men and she turns, resting her hands on the stone and leaning forward. Then she turns back, "can you ask them to come closer? I want to study their faces."

He motions the master and he pushes the men forward until they are directly under the wall, looking up at her.

"What matters their faces?" One of the nobles behind her sneers. "It is their body that matters. Their strength."

She turns, glaring at him, "then you and I disagree. For I find strength of heart and spirit to matter more."

She turns back and studies each one.

They all have similar bodies. Tall, muscular, clearly strong. All are most likely trained willingly or through imprisonment through the gladiators' school.

So she studies their faces, searching their eyes and expressions for something more.

Eyes light as the sky catch her attention. A churning in her gut tells her he's familiar, but she can't explain why. His hair is golden like wheat and his skin is browned from the sun. She studies his physique. He is large, imposing, tall and obviously very strong. But it is his face that captures her attention. Brutally handsome, sharp cheekbones and nose and intelligent eyes. But what fascinates her most is that he seems to be watching her back, like she is familiar to him as well.

"Him." She breathes out, "the fifth one in line. With the golden hair and light eyes."

The emperor raises his eyebrow, "are you sure? This is his first event. He has no proven record." He eyes her seriously, "I do not like to have a losing champion."

She turns back to the man and studies him for one more second, and he studies her in turn. She leans, gesturing with her finger for him to come even closer. The master shoves him forward and he's practically against the wall, head craned back to look at her. The crowd is half hushed with buzzing anticipation. She leans over, their faces mere feet apart.

"Are you my fighter?" She asks him.

The question seems to amuse him. "I am whatever you want me to be, Empress."

The title, which is not accurate, flutters something in her chest and veins. A heat in the way he had said it.

Her smile is probably a bit wicked as she turns back to the Emperor. "I choose him."

The Emperor nods. "Then let the games begin."

Chapter 3

Her champion is taken back underground to be prepared. A purple cloak will be added to his garb and the emperor's seal branded on his leather chest plate.

The other noblemen are then able to choose their champion, in order of who is most important, of course. Until there are no more gladiators to select.

Now the real bidding begins. She watches as the entire arena is abuzz with who they think will win and in what gruesome manner.

An anxious knot fills her gut, but Mikha'el rests a reassuring hand on her knee to stop it from bouncing and she nods, grateful.

The first few matches do not include her champion. Two gladiators vs. a larger gladiator. Then one gladiator versus three prisoners. One gladiator vs. a bull.

Then booing from the crowd as prisoners of war are picked off one by one.

Halfway through the event he makes his first appearance. There is a small gasp as he does not have a helmet on. The emperor sits up and looks at him with narrowed eyes. He summons a servant who runs and is back within minutes.

It's said in a whisper but she can hear it from her spot, "the gladiator refused a helmet. Said it impedes his vision and is distracting."

The Emperor glares at the messenger in distaste and waves him away Then he moves his gaze to her and she swallows thickly as he raises an eyebrow at her. She can hear the words, 'his downfall will be on your head'.

But as she turns to the man, standing in the hot sun, looking at his opponents (two other gladiators) the anxious knot unravels. She is not worried.

The man's speed, sword skills, and ability to move in unnatural motions to avoid his opponents blows, aid him greatly. He slashes the chest armor from one, making the man much more vulnerable to any sort of attack. That opponent backs off. Then he focuses on the other who had been haughtily standing by. They trade blows, sword clanging against sword. The crowd is roaring and she can't tell if they're rooting for him or against him. Brutal events like this are a fickle beast. Everyone wants the Emperor to lose, but no one has the guts to admit that.

But today, she wants him to win. She wants him to win. She wants him to be hers.

Their dance leads them closer towards their section and she leans over, watching the battle up close.

His eyes catch hers and she knows she's grinning before she can stop herself. A smile pulls at his lips, sweat and dirt and dust coating him, but it's the most handsomest smile she's ever seen. And then he's gone again, whirling to and fro, his opponent dancing them further away.

He wins that match, knocking one man unconscious and beating the other until he yields. The crowd goes wild and the Emperor nods in her direction, happy with the result.

He's taken back underground where he will be cleaned and prepared for the next match.

Three more times he fights. Each time besting his opponent or opponents in ways that make the crowd roar. While he does smile and nod, he is not one to lord about the arena, running and acting like he is invincible. He simply bows to the emperor, spares her a glance and then disappears back down below.

She catches the emperor's eyes on her a few times to gauge her reaction and she tries to keep the smug grin on her face.

After almost two hours, the final match approaches. And she realizes with a gasp that it will be against the lion. The creature is muzzled and led out into the arena where the crowd goes berserk, screaming and pounding their feet and shouting at the top of their lungs.

The lion looks well fed, so the intent is probably not to have him be eaten, but it also has clear marks of abuse. And it looks angry. Her heart flutters in her chest, unclear what the outcome will be.

The man is staring at the lion with a conflicted expression, but the master off to the side, behind the iron gate, yells something she cannot hear, and the man approaches the lion, sword drawn.

The lion stalks backwards, then slowly starts to circle around him, but he swivels along with her motion, keeping his eyes on her, body tensed.

Suddenly, she's not as excited to see the lion fight.

But when nothing happens for too long, the man who had led the lion into the arena enters through a different gate and cracks a whip. The lion startles as if frightened and then lunges for the man. He barely dodges, spinning and yanking himself sideways. There's no moment for pause as the lion is now on guard, obviously agitated by the sight of her master and the whip. The gladiator dodges, rolls, leaps and avoids at all costs. But she can tell he does not want to kill this lion.

The crowd grows restless, his skills at avoiding the lion are great, but the master keeps cracking the whip when things get slow and Magherita can tell that one or the other will have to give.

When the lion is close enough that the gladiator could swing and damage her, but he doesn't, the crowd begins to boo.

The emperor sighs in discontent and walks over to the wall. "Kill or be killed." He shouts, the crowd roaring at his words.

The man's avoiding the lion, but he glances up, anguish on his face. He really does not want to kill the beast.

She watches in shock as the man throws his sword to the dust. It clatters against the earth and the crowd gasps.

But then he's running, sprinting towards the lion, causing the cat to react, startled. He topples into her and they go rolling. Screams and gasps are heard throughout as it is a tangle of human limbs and of animal. The cat is yowling and swiping at him as his lithe muscles are working to entangle hers from behind her back.

She's never heard shrieks of excitement or fear from a crowd quite like she has in that moment. The lion must land a blow because she hears a loud groan of pain emanate from the pile of fur and skin. And suddenly blood is present, coloring the moving writhing mass in red. The crowd is on the verge of hysterical excitement.

It's several minutes, but she then sees his plan, he's yanked off his scabbard, the leather belt in hand. After several failed attempts, he manages to snag three of her legs from behind, quickly wrapping them in the leather, rendering her rather immoble. The lion is yowling, hissing and fighting against the leather, but he holds her down, his muscles flexed and warring against her massive strength.

After a minute, the cat seems to calm as no further harm comes to it. It struggles once more, but when he bests it, keeping it wrapped, it lies still, panting exhaustedly from the effort.

Slowly the man rises, absolutely covered head to toe in dust, fur, and blood.

He's panting too, his chest heaving, and his eyes meet hers. She's never been so taken in by a stranger. Her blood is heating under her skin. The show of power, and yet his care of the creature makes her want to reachout over the stone wall.

But her eyes flick to the emperor, who is looking at the man with a raised eyebrow.

He stands, the crowd shushing each other and he walks to the low wall. There's silence, only the quiet buzz of thousands of people waiting on bated breath. The emperor gestures to the lion. "Kill or be killed."

The gladiator's face shows distress before he schools it and bows deeply, "if it pleases your honor, to allow me to let her live, to fight another day?" His voice echoes through the arena, his face still pointed at the ground from the bow. She can see the wound on his back, large claw marks dragged through his skin, but he stands there, begging for it's life.

The emperor considers this, and she hopes for just a brief moment he might change his mind, but the nobleman from before, the one who had commented stupidly that faces didn't matter, huffs, "you already decreed 'kill or be killed' who is this vermin to ask for a different decision?"

Margherita knows the gladiator hears those words, as his head lifts, eyes flickering up to the nobleman's. His expression is one of great distaste.

Unfortunately, the emperor nods. "My decree stands. Kill or be killed."

The gladiator's face morphs, shifting to something flat and unfeeling and he rises out of the bow and walks slowly to his sword. His hands grasp the hilt, dragging the tip out of the dust and walking over to the lion who is unmoving.

He stares at the lion for too long. She thinks he must not realize his expression on his face because it is one of extreme anguish and sadness. And the crowd murmurs about it. He looks up at the emperor, and Margherita wonders if he's foolish enough to ask once more for its life.

But the crowd is buzzing and the emperor looks at him stone faced.

No one questions the emperor.

So the man sinks down onto one knee, gently rests a hand on the lion's head, stroking its fur.

She watches him speak something softly to the lion before he pulls back the sword. The lion's body surges in fear, its mouth hissing and yowling, eyes wide and frightened. But it is a trapped animal, and there's nothing to do but watch as he plunges the blade into its heart.

The lion fights for only a moment longer before going still.

The crowd roars, clapping and cheering his success, but the man simply stares at the lion, one of his bloody hands still resting on its fur.

"Rise, champion." The emperor calls, "you have bested man, and you have bested beast. I am sure we will see your face in this arena again."

Then she watches as he rises, bows, and then reaches down, scooping up the massive body of the lion and cradling it gently over his shoulder. The crowd is gasping and murmuring in surprise but he does not react. Just walks out of the arena and into the darkness behind the gate.

The emperor speaks his final words and then the crowds begin to disperse.

A servant to the emperor informs her that she is to wait and she abides. Mikha'el sitting anxiously beside her. "He won." Her brother murmurs, "he won. We have our own gladiator now. Father will be pleased. He won…" She reaches out and rests a hand on his and he turns to her, "how did you know? How did you know he would win?"

She looks out at the arena, now dotted with spots of red earth from the blood spilt. "I do not know. It is like I knew him. Like I knew he was a fighter."

"But you have never met him before?"

She rolls her eyes and glares at her brother. "Of course I have not. I have never been to Rome proper before, much less introduced to gladiators."

"Father will be pleased."

"What entails the ownership of him?" She asks, "do we-"

"Excuse me." A voice interrupts and the servant is back. "The emperor will see you now."

They rise and follow him, out of the arena, out of the colosseum and then up past the forum. They're led to a plaza and then led up great stone steps where a giant cloth is suspended creating a large shaded area. Tables of food, drink, and other delicacies cover the surfaces.

But they are led past that to a large cushioned chair the emperor lounges on. The bow and he nods, allowing them to rise.

"Come, enjoy the spoils of your victory." He gestures to the tables, "and blood girl, I have brought our champion straight from the arena. For your taste of blood I thought you might prefer him this way." He points and she turns, seeing the man led into the same area, still covered in blood and dust. She blinks in surprise and she tries to quell the annoyance she feels at the emperor. Surely he must know the man at least deserves time to clean up.

But she does not miss the use of "our" champion. This was a two handed gift. One to pass to her and the other to hold onto it still.

It's no matter. She didn't intend to win a gladiator today. Whatever she is given is enough.

"Thank you—" she bows, lowly. "Your generosity knows no bounds." She keeps the sarcasm from her voice.

He waves his hand for her to rise again and then waves her and her brother off. They both approach the man who stands silently by a guard.

"Hello," Mikha'el says first, "you fought well." He compliments, "quite impressive."

The man nods, head bowing.

"Might you carry a name?" She asks, "I do not like referring to you simply as gladiator."

"Stephan." He says quietly, head still bowed, "if it pleases you to call me that."

"It does." She grins, "but it does not please me to see you covered so." She turns to a servant, "bring me a cloth, and a bowl of warm water." The woman nods and disappears. "Sit." She gestures to a wooden bench, "this gash on your back needs to be tended to."

Her brother is raising an eyebrow at her but she ignores him. The woman returns shortly and she sits behind him on the bench. "Does it hurt?"

There's a second of pause but then he nods, "it does, empress."

Again the smile graces her lips, "I am not an empress," she corrects gently, wetting the towel.

She sees the hint of a grin from his side profile and an small exhale of humor, "you look like one, if you do not mind my saying so."

Gently she begins to cleanse the dust from around the claw marks. "Of course I do not mind." She says softly, ensuring to clean around the wound with barely any pressure, "how long have you been a gladiator?"

His shoulders stiffen a tad, "officially? Just today. However I have been training for a while."

She blinks. When the emperor said he was untried, she thought he had meant in the colosseum, not entirely.

"Well, what a good show." She affirms, "for your first matches."

"Thank you." His voice catches like he wants to say something else but stops himself.

"Yes?"

He bows his head, as if amused he has been caught out, "why… why did you pick me?"

"Besides the fact that you appear quite strong?"

Again the small grin, "besides that."

"I am not sure. I just looked at you and felt I knew you. You were familiar to me. Does that sound strange?"

His head turns, showing more of his profile as he looks at her, "it does sound strange. But what is more strange is that…" His skin heats, like he's embarrassed, "I felt much the same. Have we met before?"

Mikha'el is watching her closely, and she keeps her hands steady and voice light, "I believe I would remember you. Your hair and eyes alone are memorable enough. But I suppose not everything can be explained."

His head turns back away from her as he nods in agreement.

"Thank you for believing in me."

The vulnerability in that statement catches her off guard. But it endears him to her even more so. Her ministrations grow more soft and she simply rests a hand on his bare arm to inform him he's been heard.

—-

"You will join us for the evening meal."

It is not a question. They should have been on their way home hours ago, but the emperor makes it clear they are expected to stay.

Both her and Mikha'el bow in acceptance.

—-

She is seated across from him.

He's been allowed to clean up properly and change. She can see the slight bulk of something tied around his wounded shoulder, hidden under his robes.

In the glow of the oil lamps, he is even more striking. The blue of his eyes dance in the flame and the night air is almost intoxicating as they speak back and forth. Mikha'el is blessedly distracted by a pretty woman and is not paying attention to the fact that she and this gladiator have become increasingly comfortable with each other.

She reaches past the olive wood bowl of nuts and brushes her fingers over his as she grabs the platter of dried fruit.

His eyes flash to hers and the dancing of the flames makes him look dangerous. Deliciously so.

Then her foot manages to find his, beneath the linen covered table, resting beside it, her ankle touching his. He shifts, seeming about to move his foot away when she runs her sandled foot up his calf and he almost jumps out of his skin. She laughs, covering the motion as if he's said something funny. And then she does laugh, for real. "I did not mean to startle you."

He looks at her rather unamused, "how could you not?"

Margherita frowns, "come now, let's not pretend you don't have—" her voice lowers, keeping her words between them, "—women brushing against you as often as you'd like. I have heard the stories about gladiators."

A real frown crosses his face, "in case you have forgotten, I am rather new at this profession, and I do not intend to 'brush up' against anyone who I have not received in marriage. And gladiators are unlikely to marry."

Her eyes go wide. An unproven gladiator is one mystery. But an undefined man of his age? Unheard of.

And now infinitely more attractive to her. "Why do gladiators never marry?"

"Who would want a broken and beaten man who must bleed to feed their family?"

"Then why did you choose to be a gladiator?"

"Yes," they both startle and look up. The emperor has snuck behind him, eyebrow raised. "Do tell us why you chose to become a gladiator."

His eyes darken in reluctance but it is masked and shoved away quite suddenly. His voice shifts from being open and light to being flat and reserved.

"It was this or death. I chose to fight."

It's well known that gladiators could be lawbreakers, prisoners, or those who owe a great debt. But to hear he was one of them.. she felt her throat go dry.

"Death?" The emperor asks calmly, "for what crime?"

The man looks up, eyes piercing in the glow and his voice is sharp and clear, "for murdering my father."

The table grows quiet and there's a long pause as the emperor and the gladiator stare at one another.

"Did you have reason for murdering him? Or senseless rage."

"I had a reason."

"I see." The silence pervades for a moment more before the emperor grins and he laughs, filling the night air with his guffaws of mirth. He looks down and rests a hand on his wounded shoulder, "the bleeding girl and the bloody gladiator. What a strange pair at my table." Then he turns and gestures grandly, "and now, the music!"

A great clang startles the table and then music begins to play, instruments she doesn't know the name of fill the air with a clambor of melodies.

When she looks back to him, his eyes are cast down at the table and his hands have grown still. Patricide is expressly forbidden. Which means that if he was allowed the choice to live… Those who condemned him must have seen fit to spare him in whatever way they could. She leans back over the table and catches her gladiator's eyes. "Care for a stroll?"

—

A strange sense fills her as they walk the promenade. Large oil lamps and huge metal basins of fire dot here and there. But mostly the full moon lights the way, gleaming off the white stone that surrounds them. The feeling waves over her, like she's walked beside him before.

"What did he mean?" He asks, "by calling you bleeding girl?"

Her laughter echoes softly across the stone and up the walls of the temple they are passing. "He teased me about possibly fainting at the sight of blood. But I reminded him that as a woman I see blood every month. I should not have let him rile me so, however I usually speak before I think."

His soft laughter joins hers. "My mother used to say much the same." He responds, hands resting behind him, shortening his stride to meet hers. "Sometimes I simply choose not to speak at all. Keeps me out of trouble."

Another chuckle escapes her as they make their way around and back up towards the party. Huge gleaming columns, intricately designed carvings and painted frescos surround them.m She's never been in a more beautiful city.

"My family has never owned a gladiator before." She admits, "what is to be expected?"

His face grows pensive, "you place me in matches. Sometimes to settle debts, others for honor. Perhaps if you believe in me enough, you enter me and then bet on me. Hoping to enlarge your purse."

She looks up and there's a grin on his lips.

"Oh, I see. Well, perhaps I should place you in a match to teach you not to tease your mistress?"

He bows lowly, "as you wish, empress."

She huffs in humor and then taps his chin, causing him to rise, "you are going to spoil me, by calling me that, you know."

His grin only widens and soon they're walking again. They've almost made it to the party when a woman steps out from a shadow and saunters over to them. She strikes Margherita as familiar, but it's another memory she can't place. Her stolla seems to shift in the flickering lamps, ocean then seafoam and back, like it is a wave. The illusion of it mesmerizes her.

"I hope you are appreciative." The woman says with a smile towards them both, "but understand my mercy does not come without price. And I am easily bored." She leans towards them, one of each of her hands gently grasping their chins. Margherita feels frozen, like she's being held in place. "I had faith in your story. Take care to not spoil it, hmm?" Then she pats their cheeks as if they're children and she's walking away, slipping back into the shadows and disappearing from sight.

She looks over at him and her brow is furrowed, "who was that?"

He's blinking up at the moon, then he looks down at her and frowns, "who was who?"

She's about to respond. But suddenly she can't remember what she's talking about. There was someone… something?

Her lips purse, trying to grasp at the memory only for it to disintegrate in her grasp. "I'm not sure." She replies, "what were we talking about?"

"You had asked my name," he says quietly, "so you did not have to call me gladiator."

"Oh," she whispers, "yes, what is it?"

"Stephan." He replies, "that is my name."

A smile tugs at her lips, "it suits you."

—

The emperor stops by them again as he continues his royal stroll around the tables. He hands her a scroll, his insignia clear in the wax seal.

"This is the contract of half ownership," The emperor grins. "We are celebrating the day of birth of my middle daughter in 3 weeks time. There will be another set of matches. I expect to see you there."

She's holding the scroll in her hand, the parchment smooth, "of course." She responds. "My father will be delighted." His previous promise of her receiving the gladiator is pushed aside. Of course he would want a champion on his list. She knows she is still quite lucky to be a part of the deal.

"Is he to stay here?" Mikha'el asks. "Or to travel home with us?"

The emperor thinks for a moment, "I will allow him to travel home with you. But then he needs to be here three days prior to the match for preparation." Then he turns to her and then back to Mikha'el. "I will have the proper bonds brought to your wagons so he is properly bound for the journey."

"I will not run." Stephan says firmly, "or harm anyone."

The emperor laughs, "be that as it may. Forgive me for not taking to words of a murderer. Good evening and see you in due time."

Then he's gone and she looks over, slightly confused. "Why would he expect you to be chained if you have been unchained this entire time?"

He points subtly to the dozen guards stationed about. "They do not expect me to try to fight when there are too many and I would be overwhelmed."

"But we strolled?"

"There were at least four guards following us." He says with a confused expression, "did you not notice?"

She frowns, "I suppose I was too preoccupied."

A servant approaches and bids them to follow him.

They walk down to the stables and get prepared for the long journey home. Silently she watches them chain Stephan's hands and attach them to the wagon. It's a stunning and sickening realization that he will be expected to walk the entire way.

She glances over to Mikha'el who looks equally ill about the situation.

Then they are off and the sounds of the city fall behind them.

—

Only about an hour into the journey, she calls for a halt and slips to the ground. She does not pause or hesitate, but walks around the back of the second wagon and by feel, lowers the wooden plank that secures the goods off the back. Then she points to the flat surface, "sit."

Stephan looks on in surprise, the moonlight showing the whites of his eyes. But he does not move.

"I command you to sit." She snaps firmly, "I will not have you walking the 7 hour journey home." She points around, "especially since it is in the dark."

She looks around to see their staff watching her in surprise but Mikha'el is nodding and grinning at her.

He moves, deftly using his chained hands to lift himself and sit on the edge. Then he looks at her, bowing his head, "thank you, empress."

She nods, keeping her face even, walking back around and climbing gracefully into her spot. "Onward."

The wagons start to move again.

—-

They arrive after dawn. She feels drained and filthy.

Her mother and father are anxiously waiting. When the wagons come into sight of the villa, she hears a shriek from her mother. They park by the stables and she's being accosted by her mother, "where have you been! We have been worried sick! Praying to Jupiter that you had not been taken by a band of thieves! What—" her voice dies in her throat as her eyes must catch sight of him. Her mouth forms an "o" and her eyes widen.

"Father," Mikha'el calls, "this is Stephan. A gladiator that is now in our possession."

"Half," Margherita corrects, "we are half owners. The other half ownership belongs to the emperor himself."

Both her parents look stunned and she sighs, "let me explain."

—-—-

After she and Mikha'el have filled in the story, they are sent off to bathe and redress. She stops by the kitchens and procures sustenance that she eats in a less than civilized manner. Her brother appears shortly after, hair still dripping and looking tired.

"Are we to sleep all day?" He asks, voice hopeful.

"I would hope." She responds, rolling the olive between her fingers, "I have never felt such exhaustion."

"Where have they taken him?" He asks, grabbing his own food, "do you know?"

"I do not. I assume the servant housing."

"What is he to do? Toil about? Are we to trust he will not harm us?"

She can tell by his voice that he does not believe that Stephan would. But it is a fair question. "I do not know. That is for father to decide."

—-

"But father—"

"He is strong, capable and willing. That is what he will do."

"It is dangerous—"

"The man fights for a living." Then her father seems to rethink his words, "he fights to stay alive. Mining for ore is not going to be any more dangerous." Then he is snapping at a servant and walking off, his cloak ruffling behind him.

Her father is one of the emperor's largest ore suppliers. But it had not occurred to her that he would be placed to work while he was there. Although the notion that he would have free time is now equally as ridiculous. Of course he would be expected to spend his time in service to the family.

Her eyes travel over the tile on the floor and she sighs, heading back towards the gardens.

—

For the next two weeks she watches him leave and return from the mines. The dust that covers him and the other workers reminds her of the dust after their first meeting.

There are a few opportunities for interaction, but they are brief and he is incredibly reserved. Which she understands.

The servants eat, socialize, and sleep in a separate location outside of the villa.

Her father is proud of their new addition. "A good worker." He comments again and again. "Strong, determined. I should like to keep him through his prime. Then move him to the fields. Or perhaps the olive groves."

Margherita stays quiet.

—

The time to return to Rome approaches. The whole family is attending this time and there are twice as many wagons. The journey is long and hot. They stop several times to drink from the jars and to rest. She is glad her father allows the servants to as well. She knows that is not the case for all masters.

Soon they are on their way again. The roads start to widen. Larger structures start to appear and more and more people stop to watch as their caravan passes by.

—

They bow before the emperor and his family. The Empress is there, fair and reserved. Her oldest son, three daughters, and the youngest son stand there, looking regal. The oldest son's wife, and the okdest's daughters husband also stand beside them. Their purple and red cloaks denoting them as the royalty they all are. Golden circlets lie on their brows and rings on their fingers would be worth enough to feed her villa and everyone of their neighbors for more than a year.

"Welcome," the emperor booms out, "we are thrilled to have you to celebrate my daughter's new year of life." His hand gestures to the dark haired girl in the middle of the children. The girl blushes and dips her head and they bow again.

"Come," the emperor claps her father's shoulder, "you must be weary from your journey. We have much to discuss." He makes a grand gesture to his servants and they start to whisk her whole family away.

—-

She does not see him for the next day. They eat, stroll around the city, and meet more individuals that she can possibly be able to remember.

The daughters of the emperor are Lyra, Satiene and Ferensa. She takes a liking to Satiene and Ferensa. And a great disliking to Lyra. Haughty, prideful, obviously vain, Margherita avoids her as much as possible. She barely sees the oldest son or his wife. And the youngest son is also mostly absent.

The night before the first match, the emperor hosts a celebratory feast which of course they are expected to attend. Her mother braids and wraps her hair up with colored ribbons and she dresses in her nicest robes. Mikha'el looks regal in his robes and they stroll along the tiled walls towards the huge veranda. Musicians play softly in the corner, but what draws her eyes are the boats. Small flat boats float in the large rectangular marble water filled basin. Cushions and coverlets are placed along the edges. Guests are lounging beside the edge, reaching down and selecting delicacies off the little platters. Oil lamps are floating in the water as well and the entire area has a celestial glow.

The emperor is at the far side, the height of his edge allowing him to be "above" all the guests. His family is on either side of him. The youngest daughter waves to her and she waves back. The oldest gives her a glare that she also returns. They're led to his left side and seated. Goblets placed before them, filled with something that smells mulled. The warmth of it and spice sets her at ease a bit.

She wonders if he will be here.

She's missed him.

And he does come, dressed plainly, but looking clean and unharmed. They meet eyes briefly and she smiles at him, and he returns it, but he is led to sit a good distance away from her and she sighs in disappointment.

The emperor makes remarks, makes the guests laugh and his middle daughter blush when he praises her. Then the crowd roars as he announces the games tomorrow will be filled with surprises.

Margherita wonders what that means.

After the meal, guests are left to their own socializing and she wastes no time heading over to him. Her father rolls his eyes but does not stop her. Her mother has a tight expression but it goes ignored.

"Have you been preparing?" She asks, sitting on his same cushion, looking at the pond.

"I have," he responds. "You know…" it takes a second but he looks at her and speaks softly, "I was a prisoner. Expecting to fight until I was unlucky enough to be slain. But you chose me. You chose me as your fighter and now—" he looks around the area at the lavishness and the frivolity, "now I have dined with the emperor twice. I am afforded a different sort of life. I wanted to thank you."

The words bring her pause momentarily. Her chest warms at them and the glow of the evening sets her stomach abuzz. "You are most welcome." She teases softly, "but you're the one who won the fights. Not I."

"I won them for you." His voice states firmly, meeting her eyes, "you believed in me. I wanted to prove to you that your belief was not unwarranted."

"And so you have."

The flicker is again dancing in his eyes and she assumes her own. The heat of the evening makes it seem more intimate, and she has to remind herself not to lean forward and run her fingers through his golden hair.

"What say you of these surprises?" She asks. "Do you know of them?"

His face morphs into half amused half resigned. "I heard the growl of a bear." His sigh is prominent. "I also heard the masters speaking of jars of oil. So I expect there to be fire. That is all I know of so far."

"You will be careful?"

His gaze at her is soft, "of course, empress. Anything for you."

It takes every drop of her barely existent will power to not lean over and kiss him in that instant.

But something prickles at the back of her neck and she looks up. Scanning the crowd of guests as she had felt like she was being watched.

Lyra's eyes are on the two of them, eyebrow raised. The woman leans over and says something to her husband. The man glances at them and takes a long moment to look at Margherita. She glares at him as his eyes rove over her and then he's shrugging, stating something that makes Lyra's expression harden.

"You will be there—?" Stephan is asking.

She turns back to him, "of course I will. I would not miss it."

—-

The matches last all day. It is hot, but no one complains. Food and drink is endlessly served and she sits in her seat not saying a thing about the way her stills clings to her damp skin or the way her sandals have mysteriously come untied.

The crowd is pleased as the celebration means they have the day off of working the fields or in the markets and they are merry with drink long before dusk.

As the sun begins to dip lower, the metal basins are filled and fires are lit. The colosseum begins to glow and the matches are paused as the emperor speaks to the crowd at length about his family and especially his middle daughter. Then he shifts to the might of Rome and there is much cheering and bellowing about the city's enduring powers. The emperor calls for a toast and drink flows through the stadium.

Then, as the last of the rays of the sun disappear, the matches restart.

—

He had fought three matches during the day. All against one or two men and defeating each one.

But this next match, she sees him exit into the arena looking a bit wary.

Five men exit, bows in their hands and a quiver of arrows on their backs.

The emperor claps his hands, "for my daughter. Her favorite event."

Margherita looks over, confused, "what is special about it?"

"The gladiator must outlast every arrow without getting struck. Or he must incapacitate the archer. But he is not allowed to spill the blood of the archer. Doing so results in defeat. Also being pierced by an arrow is a defeat." He's grinning, "Since our man is so far undefeated, this will truly test him."

She looks back and now understands the look of wariness on Stephan's face.

"How often do the gladiator's win?" She asks, still looking into the arena.

"So far, never in the game's history."

If he loses… will the emperor dispatch him? She does not know and the thought terrifies her. He is not to be trifled with and he despises losing. But his eyes catch hers at the moment and she forces herself to smile, expressing confidence. He nods and takes a deep breath, his stance shifting in preparation.

A horn blows, and five bows lift, their strings stretching back.

Another horn blows and the arrows fly.

—

The first volley of arrows misses, and he dodges further away, sword raising and slicing another two out of the air.

She watches as three of the archers break off and collect the arrows from the ground and Stephan watches them, his face shifting into a grim determination. If he is to outlast he must destroy every arrow.

He is able to run or roll or dodge the next volley, but he is quick to dash back, yanking them from the dirt and snapping them. The crowd roars and laughs at the archers' annoyance, but he can't stop to appreciate their cheers because the archers are quick and now shooting to keep him from gathering up their old arrows.

He goes on the offensive, catching one of the archers off guard and slicing his bow before it can be stopped.

The gasp that filters through the crowd makes the hairs of her arms stand up. Bows take extreme craftsmanship and time to make. The way the crowd reacts tells her no one has ever been quick enough, or perhaps cunning of mind enough to think to destroy one.

The archer stares at his bow in disbelief. And the entire group on the arena floor pauses.

They all look to the emperor and he stands, walking towards the low wall, eyeing the group.

Stephan straightens, looking at him in caution. When the emperor says nothing, he bows his head, "my apologies. I was not told I could not destroy their weapon."

The entire place is quiet. But then the emperor smiles, "you continue to impress me." He says, which makes her smile, "however, if you are to employ that strategy, aim for the cord. Would you?"

Stephan bows deeper, nodding.

Then the emperor claps his hands and the game resumes.

—-

Three archers are dispatched this way. The cord split by his sword and bow now useless.

But the other two are quicker, keeping their backs to the wall and not allowing him close enough.

An arrow scratches against his leather chest plate, but since it does not pierce him, he is allowed to continue.

Margherita is able to see the exhaustion wearing on him. Again covered in dust but thankfully no blood this time. Her father is equally as enchanted with him, and he and Mikha'el discuss what a fine warrior he would make.

The fourth archer runs out of arrows and is forced to retire. The last archer has five arrows and is inching towards another two unbroken ones in the dirt.

Stephan's chest is heaving, hair damp with sweat but his sword hacks another arrow out of the air and he charges the last archer, determined to end it.

Adrenaline causes her to stand, the archer aiming at his neck, releasing an arrow so quickly she's worried it just might land, but Stephan whirls, avoiding the arrow and slicing his sword out in an arc catching and slicing the arrow as it flies past him. The whirl also gets him closer to the archer faster than the man can be ready with his next arrow.

Out of self preservation for his bow, the archer yanks it down, spinning it out of Stephan's reach, exposing his back.

Which is his last mistake. Stephan's sword dart's out, deftly slicing his quiver strap, and even a thin line on his leather armor. The quiver hits the ground and Stephen hacks off the feathers of all four in one swoop.

Now weaponless, the archer stares in shock, but Stephan does not pause, quickly dispatching the last two.

Once that is down, Stephan sinks to his knees, palms on the ground, chest heaving and arms visibly shaking.

She's still standing, hands over her heart and eyes wide.

A moment passes before the crowd starts to roar louder than she has ever heard before.

"Rise, gladiator." The emperor calls, but Stephan can't hear. The crowd is too loud. The emperor waves his hands and the horns start to blow, quieting the crowd. Once it's quiet, he speaks again. "Gladiator, rise."

It takes a moment, but Stephan stands, looking exhausted, but calm.

"A feat never before accomplished. You have impressed me yet again. For this you shall be finely rewarded." He claps his hands once then gestures to the master now exiting onto the arena floor. "Go, rest. For you have won a hearty victory."

She's still standing as he is escorted off. A hand tugs on hers and she looks down. Mikha'el is looking at her with a raised eyebrow and she sinks back down.

Another match starts soon after but she can't even begin to care. Her mind replays his exhaustion and then his performance. Such ability, strength, endurance. Such heart.

He has the emperor's favor… Surely… surely that must mean something.

—-

That evening, she walks slowly to the emperor's house baths for the women.

She's covered in dust and wants to clean off.

The Empress is leaving and she bows. The woman nods regally and disappears. Margherita hears voices and knows this will not be a peaceful bath.

The oldest and youngest sisters are there, and the oldest son's wife.

She nods to them in greeting, bowing to the emperor's daughters. "Might I bathe? I can come back if you prefer privacy."

"You are so come to join," the youngest says with a smile, "we do not often have guests like this."

Peggy undresses, resting her stolla on the marble benches and enjoying the steam as a servant pours water over heated rocks. Her skin soaks up the moisture as she slowly enters the bath, dipping past her shoulders and resting against the wall.

"Father's gladiator." The youngest says, "is it true you own him as well?"

She smiles, "indeed. We share ownership of him."

The girl gasps, "how strange. A woman owning a gladiator."

Margherita laughs softly, "I believe your father gave half ownership to my family, and therefore my father."

"But it is true," the wife, named Diana asks, "you were the one who picked him that day?"

"I am."

Lyra rolls her eyes and splashes at the water, pretending not to listen.

"He is handsome," the Ferensa says with a sheepish grin, "is taht why you picked him?"

Her laughter echoes against the marble, "no, I looked into his eyes and felt he was familiar. Which was strange, as I had never met him before. But I simply had a feeling. So I chose him."

"Amazing." Diana says with a smile, "he has done so well. The emperor talks about him at length. I do believe he is regretting splitting ownership after his performance today."

Those words make her skin prickle, bumps rising. "Oh?" Her voice comes out breathier than she wants.

"Oh of course!" The youngest spouts. "He won a game that has never been won before! What a feat indeed! He will want him in more games now."

"I see." Margherita whispers out, "he is quite good…" she trails off, unsure of how to proceed, It is not something she would have the choice on.

"You have fallen for him." Lyra finally speaks, voice biting, "have you not?"

The question stuns her, and the youngest giggles, not catching the vehemence from her older sister. "A gladiator, how romantic."

"He and I have…" she chooses her words carefully, "garnered a companionship since we met. I find him very pleasant to talk to."

"Oh? So he is bright as well as athletic?" Diana asks, looking at Lyra with a questioning expression as if she's trying to understand the woman's tone.

"He is." Margherita answers honestly, "we have discussed much. He is quite intelligent and well spoken."

"Than how did he end up a gladiator?" Lyra bites out, "must have been foolish."

That she does not answer. Not wanting to tell a secret that is not hers to speak on.

Lyra continues, obviously searching for a reaction, "it does not matter. A lowly gladiator is never to be allowed to wed anyone, let alone someone above his station. He will marry some poor wreck and have brutish babies and die in the arena when he is old."

"Lyra.\," Diana says softly, "why such fearsome words?"

The woman does not answer, standing up from her bath and grasping a cloth to dry herself.

Soon she is gone and Margherita looks at the two, "have I done or said something to offend her?"

The youngest girl looks after her sister and then shakes her head, "there is never much reason to her anger."

Diana laughs softly, "that is correct."

—

"I am growing weary."

Margherita sits up, sleep fading quickly as the appearance of a woman sitting on her mattress startles her. "Who are you?" She asks, feeling ill at ease.

"I warned you that I would get bored. You must fight for this. Or I shall have to make it interesting myself. Do you understand?"

Margherita blinks, the woman is gone and she turns to see the oil lamp is now out, even though its glow had warmed the room a moment ago.

She's about to call for help, to find the intruder, when her voice dies in her throat.

What was she about to call for? Her mind grew hazy as she yawns and falls back into slumber.

—

Stephan is brought to the palace the next evening for the final feast. He is dressed much more regally this time, and she grins at how handsome he looks. Something in her heart pounds at the sight of him. Like there is a pressure in her soul to connect to him. An outside force guiding her feet as she approaches him, "I am happy to see you here." The words leave her lips unbidden, but his smile makes it worth it.

He looks well rested and at ease, "I am always grateful for your presence, empress." He adds quietly at the end, bowing his head.

They're smiling at each other and she beckons him to follow her to one of the food laden tables, "how did you fair after last night's match. Your showing was mighty, I could not believe your abilities with my own eyes."

Surprise and then a sort of reserved embarrassment covers his features. "I was truly fighting with bare instinct. It was more luck than skill."

"Come now," she whispers softly, placing her hand on his bare arm, "do not lie to me when I know the truth. Your skill is unparalleled. You would be a mighty warrior."

His eyes flick down to her hand on his arm, and she feels the way his skin heats under her fingertips, as if her touch excites him.

Which excites her.

"I aim to always impress you." He responds finally. "If I am successful in that, then that is the extent of my worries."

"I do not suppose you would sit beside me at dinner tonight?"

He looks about, "I have no idea where I am intended. But do know that I would enjoy your company very much, and would envy any lucky enough to be seated by you."

She draws her hand back, "you find very many ways to compliment me, Stephan. I cannot hope to make you understand my joy of them."

"I shall endeavor you to try." His voice is lower, and eyes more searing.

They both pause, seemingly both caught off guard by their forward conversation. Then her lips purse in amusement and she reaches up, brushing his hair off his forehead, "you are dangerous outside of the arena." His head tips forward, allowing her better reach as she drags her fingers through his hair and then lowers her hand.

He nods, "only to those who would decide to oppose me."

The words and a slight breeze make her shiver, and she watches as the centers of his eyes widen, making her breath catch in her throat and heat rise in her chest.

"I command you to sit beside me." She breathes out, "you are mine, understood?"

His head nods slowly and then she is walking towards the banquet table and he is following her.

—

The emperor enters not long after and his eyes catch on Stephan first and then her next. His eyebrow raises and then he guffaws heading towards the head of the long table. His family follows and she watches as Lyra narrows her eyes at the both of them, then turning away and following her husband.

"I seem to have made her angry." Margherita says quietly to Stephan, "for some reason she is vile to me." She sees a grimace on his face and turns to him, "what is it?"

"That was potentially my fault."

"Oh? And how so?"

"After the match last night, the emperor and his family came to where I am being kept and wanted to congratulate me."

—You will be rewarded finely—

"He did? I've never heard him do such a thing."

"I had not either. I was unaware and still very tired. But of course I stood there as he invited me to this feast and told me to expect new robes." He gestures to his clothes and she nods, still listening, "then most of the family took their leave, but he, his oldest daughter and his oldest son stayed behind. I was not sure the reason, but then he asked me if I wanted to have a maiden brought to my quarters."

Her eyes widen and she sees the wrinkle of his nose in distaste.

"Oh?" She asks, a tease in her voice.

"I refused."

Her heart softens a touch more, "oh…?"

"You know my beliefs on the subject."

"I do. Go on."

"Well, to say he was surprised is an understatement and he pestered me about it." Again the grimace returns, "but I kept refusing. It was unsettling but eventually he asked if I was refusing since I already had a woman in mind."

She watches his throat tighten as he swallows nervously.

Her voice is breathy, "oh?"

"I hesitated a moment too long and he asked me if…"

"If?"

"If it was you." Her eyes widen and he looks at her apologetically, "I apologize. I did not mean to place you in such a position."

Her hand reaches out and rests on his wrist, "no need to apologize. My thoughts have been the same."

His expression shifts, something endearing about it.

"But…" she says, "that does not explain her anger towards me?"

He frowns again, "the emperor was quite gleeful at the revelation, and seemed to take great pleasure in jesting about it. Then he pointed to Lyra and stated, 'this gladiator cares more for a woman he has known less than two lunar cycles than your husband does in total for you.'" She gasps, covering her mouth and he nods, "I could not believe it. She left soon after and I assume that is the reason for her dislike of you."

"Why would he ever say something so… horrible?" She asks, looking over that emperor and his family who are mingling and talking.

"I do not know." He responds quietly, "sometimes I… I wonder if being emperor, and—" his voice gets lower, "and being able to say anything you want without consequence… ends up leading to a…" He seems hesitant to continue, but she can guess his thoughts,

"Lack of accountability."

He nods gravely and she wonders about it.

"I do not pretend to know the inner workings of the emperor and his family. But I must say I am glad to not be a part of it."

He lifts his glass in agreement and they sip at their drinks quietly.

—-

Later, they are still conversing and she laughs at something he says, causing eyes to turn. She quiets her laughter and he is smiling. "You are dangerous outside of the arena." He jests, setting his cup down.

"Oh? How so?"

"You entangle men's hearts too easily. A lowly gladiator entranced with an empress such as yourself. It is not natural."

"Ah," she smirks,"but I am not empress."

"And I?"

"A mighty warrior. Felling man and beast and changing his fate by using his heart."

His face shifts to something sad, "do not speak so. For only if I could wish it to be true."

"What?"

"That I might change my fate. To be a warrior instead of a prisoner doomed to fight and never earn freedom."

The vulnerability and sadness draws her breath to a halt. "You are not a prisoner. You are at the emperor's table."

"Margherita—" her name slips off his lips and she feels her throat go dry. Never has she heard her name in his voice, it sears into her soul and makes her blood pulse, "I am here simply because of my feats. If I ever lose, I will also lose my place at the feasts and tables. I am nothing more than a false showman. A guest of circumstance to be ignored when I am no longer able to dazzle."

"You belong to me—"

'Only in part. And your words speak the truth. I am owned. I am not free to choose."

"I can choose."

"No one will allow me to be an option."

Her frustration grows, "why would you speak to me about your desire for me only to dash it upon the rocks? Do you jest? Is your belief in Venus' power so weak?"

"My apologies, empress." His voice is soft, reserved, eyes on the table in front of him, "my heart spoke before my reason could intervene."

"I am going to ask." She stands, grasping her robes and stalking away.

She walks over to the emperor's chair and waits until her presence is made known. When he turns to her, she bows deeply, "pardon me for interrupting your meal. Gracious thanks for allowing us to be in your presence."

He lifts her chin, "speak bleeding girl, for I know it shall amuse me."

"My heart belongs to our shared champion. His heart belongs to me. Shall I be denied? Shall Venus be casted off as a lesser goddess? I think not. I expect no change in ownership. I require no shift in contract. I simply want him to be pardoned so I may clasp his hand in mine and be one."

He studies her, and she can sense the other members of the family watching intensely.

"You bleed from not just between your legs. But the heart and the head and the mouth." He says calmly, "words and emotions bleed out from you."

She does not respond. Unsure where he is heading.

"What brings you such fire?" He asks, "he is a murderer." She hears his family gasp at the revelation, "a prisoner. He is not free, and you would shackle yoruself by his bonds?"

Her eyes are looking steadily into his and his hand is still cupping her chin. "You speak about his bonds as if I do not hold half the chain." She speaks calmly. "If you so permit. He would live at our villa. He would be mine in love and life. But ours when you deem him necessary for matches or desire his presence. I do not seek pardon for his actions. But I do wish to state my desires. The decision lies with you."

He finally releases her chin and he nods, "I will give it much thought." He gestures to her parents who are staring at her wildly and she does not react to their expressions. She will deal with them later. "And I will speak to you when I have made a decision."

She nods and walks back to her seat. Stephan stares at her for a long moment and then he tilts his head, "have you been overtaken by madness?"

"I am overtaken by nothing." She says firmly, "I asked. He did not say no. I will await his answer. I leave it in Venus' hands."

He looks at her in awe, "you would want me? A prisoner?"

"I would."

"But your parents—"

"Are mine to deal with." Her eyes find them and they are indeed looking at her, expressions reading an argument. But she does not linger on them, turning back to him. "I spoke no falsehood. My father has more than enough wealth. I did not need to marry at all let alone someone else from wealth. My brother is still unwed, able to make a good match. Why should I not be happy? Why should I not be with the one my soul loves?"

The look of adoration that crosses his face erases the last threads of doubt.

—

Blood curdling screams drag her into consciousness. For a moment she wonders if it was a dream, but they pierce the air again and she hears footsteps running along the stone and she stands, wondering who is hurt.

Lights begin to flicker and she follows the crowd through the chambers into the courtyard and then through them towards the emperor's quarters. But in the large hallway outside of his section or rooms is where she finds the crowd gathering.

There's loud whispers and wailing and she pushes through. Her eyes catch on Lyra, hysterical and holding the body of her husband. Margherita' s eyes widen as she sees the large gash in his chest and on his side and the blood spilling onto the white stone.

The woman screams out a wail again and then the emperor is there. "What happened!" He bellows, his wife appearing behind him and gasping.

"We—" his daughter gasps, "we were out for a late night stroll!" The woman shrieks out, "and he—" she chokes out, crying, "we saw him stalking towards your chambers! He had a knife and we knew he was going to kill you! Gregorio tried to stop him and—" her wail pierces the air, "he attacked us! He killed him!" Her shrieks of hysteria deafen the crowd.

"Who?" Her father asks, "who has done this thing!"

Her bloody shaky hand points, "your champion!"

The crowd gasps, turning to see Stephan, bloody and beaten, head hanging low, being held between two guards.

Her heart halts and her mind goes blank.

"What?" The emperor breathes out, "what? How did he get here? He was retained in the gladiators' housing!"

Retained.

He was chained in his quarters.

A sick dread fills her. She shoves through the crowd and kneels in front of him, grasping his face gently, "Stephan? Stephan, can you hear me?"

He groans, but does not respond more. She lifts his face up and gasps. Large bruises cover his face and his nose drips blood, eyes barely open.

"Who did this to you?" She hears herself shriek.

The guards yank him back, out of her reach and she looks up. They stare at her stone faced. "Did you do this to him?" She asks, "did you beat him!"

They don't speak to her and she turns towards the emperor who is staring at his now dead son in law in disbelief.

Lyra's voice shrieks out again, "you must kill him! He killed him, he killed him!" Her wails fill the air as she holds her dead husband's body, rocking it back and forth.

The emperor slowly walks towards her and then he commands the guards to drop Stephan to the stone. His body collapses and the emperor stares down. "Turn him to face me." The emperor commands and the guards do as he asks.

Stephan's beaten face now stares up at the night sky, eyes blinking slowly.

"He did not do this." She hisses out, "you know that he did not do this!"

The emperor looks at her. An observant and unreadable expression on his face. He then crouches, turning Stephan's face back and forth, studying it under the lamplight. "Did you come to kill me as you killed your father?"

She watches Stephan slowly shake his head, "no—" the word is spoken quietly but it is heard throughout the whole courtyard.

"Liar!" Screams Lyra, "he's lying! He held this knife!" She waves the bloody knife, eyes wild, "he killed him!"

The emperor looks down at Stephan and then back at his daughter. Then up to the guards, "you saw this happen?"

"I heard the first scream and came running." Says one. The other does not speak.

The emperor turns, "and where were the other guards? Where were the men guarding my room? How did he enter my palace without being seen?"

There is no response. And the realization grows deeper. More people are gathering. She sees Mikha'el on the edges, looking at her wide-eyed.

The emperor turns to his daughter. "You say he killed Gregorio so close to my chambers without being seen?"

Her face grows enraged, "he was lurking in your palace, attempting to kill you and you doubt me? Your daughter!" Her voice is sharp, biting and hysterical, "you would believe a murdering prisoner over your own daughter who holds the still warm body of her now murdered husband!?"

Her mouth gapes open in disbelief as Lyra's plan becomes clear. She looks up towards teh emperor, desperate to ensure he knows the truth, but the expression on his face is clear. He knows. He understands.

And there is nothing to be done.

Genuine hysteria fills her. A dreaded sense that no. No. This cannot happen. This cannot be happening again.

Again.

The word echoes in her mind.

Again?

"Lift him up." The emperor commands flatly.

"NO!" She shrieks, "no you cannot do this! She is lying! She brought him here! She killed her own husband! You have to believe me! He would never do this!"

The crowd is whispering and gasping.

And the emperor is staring at her with a sad resignation. "Do you have evidence?"

"You know it in your heart! Your daughter is lying!"

"How dare you!" She screams. "I am the emperor's daughter! I will not be spoken to like this by a commoner! Father! Seize her as well! She is probably the one who led him into the palace!"

Rage causes her to act before she thinks, ripping herself off the ground and crashing towards her, slapping the woman, shouting at her, "I would never! You are the liar, the murderer!"

Hands drag her off of the woman who looks stunned and then it shifts to gleeful, "see! See! They wish to hurt us! Our whole family! Her family wishes to overtake us!"

Chaos ensues as she hears protests from her own family, and the loud whispers of the crowd of servants.

"Silence." The emperor bellows, and the crowd falls quiet. She struggles in the grip of two guards but they hold her tightly. His eyes scan the crowd, and she sees the distaste for the whole event.

He knows Stephan did not come to murder him. He can see the bruises are not fresh. Beaten and brought here to be the bearer of blame. The guards are pieces in her game, bribed or threatened to bring him here. To rid Lyra of her problematic husband and her jealousy of another all in one fell swoop.

And there is nothing he can do but allow it to happen.

To call his own daughter a murderer would be unthinkable. It would unseat the royal family, possibly the emperor's power himself.

To have a daughter who murdered her own husband go free? Unthinkable. Unallowable.

Stephan is the only acceptable choice for blame.

"You cannot—" She shrieks out, "please, you cannot! You know the truth!" She struggles in their group, breaths coming in gasps, "everyone here knows the truth! He is innocent!"

"A murderer!" Lyra spits out, "innocent!" Her hysterical laugh chills Margherita to her very core, "you side iwth a murderer! A thief of life!" She buries her face in her dead husband's neck and Mergherita's struggles harder, "please, please, my emperor, you are wise, you know the truth!"

His eyes are reserved as he looks at her, his chest heaves with a great sigh. "I know the truth." He says flatly, "Stand him up."

The guards oblige and tehre's a brief moment of hope where she thinks, maybe, just maybe he will abide by the truth.

But it is short lived.

The emperor grabs teh sword hits from one of the guards scabbards. "For the crimes against my family and myself. You are sentenced to death."

"No!" Her voice cracks, "Stephan!" He looks up, still dazed, and meets her eyes.

A sad longing smile crosses his lips.

A movement from the emperor causes her to squeeze her eyes shut. A sound of pain makes her insides go rigid, and the last thing she remembers is losing sense of what held her to the stone.

—

"Water?"

Her eyes trail up to Mikha'el, holding a clay cup.

Her eyes trail back down to the wooden grain of the bed she lays on by the window.

"You have to drink. You have to eat." He implores, "it's been almost a week. You cannot continue like this."

There's no moisture in her throat left for her to answer.

He tries to press the cup to her lips but she does not open them. His fingers drag her chin down and water enters her mouth.

He waits for her to swallow and she does.

But then she does nothing else.

—

"I do not understand it."

She blinks awake. A woman wearing robes that look like shifting waves of the ocean sits on the end of her mattress.

"Who are you?" Margherita croaks out, throat dry and voice rough from disuse.

"You were doing so well. Asking for his hand was a stroke of courage. You even invoked my name, my very spirit and he listened. I thought for sure you had found your way."

The woman, lit by the moonlight, is beautiful, and looks at her with pity.

"A strange phenomenon I do say. I had to beg. I dislike begging, but it felt like such a special case I had to. So… I suppose I shall say, better luck in your next life. Hmm? Do me proud."

Then she is gone and Margherita is left wondering what it was that she was dreaming about. Something strange. Something to do with the ocean?

Her grieving heart shudders in her chest and she lays back down. Preferring sleep than consciousness.

—-

England 1154 AD

Margaret steps between the trees and follows the path, using her sharp eye to search among the bushes for the particular plant she had been sent for.

Thorns try to snatch at her skirts but she deftly pulls away from them. Her mind wanders in the summer sun and the breeze and the birds make the search a pleasant thing.

A rustle causes her to pause, wondering if it might be a bird or a rabbit.

But another rustle followed by the sound of a voice humming causes her to step back, hiding behind the trunk of a large tree.

"Did you find it?" A voice calls out. She looks around, trying to ascertain the location of the voice, but the one close to her speaks back.

"Yes, I found it! With good sized leaves as well. My ma will be pleased."

"Well, come on then! The sun won't last forever!"

Laughter echoes between the two voices and she peeks around the trunk. Two men, one dark haired, with arms full of firewood and the other, fair with a basket of what looks like fruits and arms full of leaves and other foraged materials, are walking along the path, towards the neighboring village.

"You know Rebecca will be furious we went without her." The fair haired one says, voice full of mirth.

"Then she should learn to sew faster!" The dark haired one responds, "it's not my fault she's ripped both of her dresses!"

The fair haired one laughs and they disappear around the path.

Margaret wonders who they are long after they are out of sight.

—-

England 1155 AD

"The King is coming to visit and survey the region." Her father says, "there is to be a festival held between the two villages to celebrate his arrival."

"How merry!" Her mother comments, "when?"

"In three weeks time! We have much to prepare for."

"Indeed," her mother agrees, "and we shall need new skirts. I will speak to Ana."

She looks over to Michael who looks vaguely interested. "How long will it last?" She asks, "this festival?"

"A whole week!" Her father smiles, "a week of festivities and pay to boot!"

—-

The festival approaches quickly. Her time is spent helping her mother prepare and running errands about the village.

Huge cloth tents are erected near the well that provides water to both villages. Wagons and carts and horse drawn sleighs are loaded with chairs, food, supplies, and more to be drawn to the site.

Flowers, wreaths, and other flora are harvested to decorate the tables, tents, and stalls. She's never seen such a flurry of activity, and she feels a sense of excitement at the prospect. Travel between the two villages is minor even though the distance is truly less than a day's long wagon ride. Shorter on horseback.. Both have agriculture, mining, stone masonry, a healer, and most necessities, making travel relatively unnecessary. So to get the chance to meet so many of the other villagers is a perhaps once in a lifetime opportunity

"Margaret!" Her mother calls, "go collect the eggs before it gets too warm!"

She nods, heading out to the small coop her great grandfather had built many years ago before she had been born.

She steps into the small opening, crouched and squinting to see.

11 eggs in total, a good day for the hens makes her smile as she backs out of the coop and turns.

Only to startle at the appearance of someone.

"She has begged me." The man says, eyes bored and face pale.

"I beg thy pardon?" She stammers out, not recognizing the person before her.

"Thy observer. The goddess who is somehow strangely attached to thy love story."

Margaret has no response. She does not know what any of that means.

"While I appreciate her vigor…" he stares at her then around to their small plot, he looks rather bored. "It is waning. Over 300 reincarnations is far more than I ever expected from this agreement."

Her brow furrows, "I do apologize, I do not—"

"I do have a fascination with thy chosen one." He says, not allowing her to finish. "A man who has not feared death a single time even though he has faced it more than any other human soul I have had to collect and in many many horrific ways. Burned to death? Impaled? Oh… the death by vipers. That—" he shakes his head, "even I grimaced at that one. But it is rather fascinating, his stoicism."

"My… chosen one?"

"You do seem to always find each other," he says calmly, looking agreeable. "I will deign to agree to that with her. Part of our agreement was that it had to be naturally occurring. Too much interference causes issues and the others would complain. As of now, you are just an interesting story. A performance we all get to watch. But I do grow weary. And…" his eyebrow raises, "since you both seem perpetually unsuccessful. I have a new aspiration. Something that will make my work easier."

"I do not understand." She manages out, "who are you? What is this that you speak of?"

"Just… if disaster and his death strikes again. I am not going to reincarnate you two forever. I have better uses for his strengths. Understood?"

"No," she frowns, "I do not understand. You—"

He grins, "you do not actually have a say. This was a proclamation. May the gods be with ye." He smirks as if he has told a jest.

Then he is gone. As if he never existed to begin with. "Mother!" She calls, "father!" She starts running to the house, the basket of eggs clutched in her hand.

She bursts through the wooden door and spots her mother, "Mother!"

The woman turns, "Margaret? Whatever is the matter?"

"There—" she blinks. Her heart still pounding in her ears. "I…"

Something. It was something important. Frightening. Confusing.

"What is it, child?" Her mother huffs. "Did you collect the eggs?"

Margaret looks down, feeling a deep sense of unease in her gut. But she nods, holding out the basket.

—

"Let the festivities begin!" The herald crows, trumpets following his proclamation.

Margaret is grinning at the crowds. Hundreds if not over a thousand people gathered all together to celebrate.

Her eyes rove over the villagers. Each dressed in their best. Colorful skirts, hair done in ribbons, men in finery and children scrubbed clean for the occasion.

"Come," Michael says to her, "let us find the music tent. I want to hear the harpist!"

She nods and follows him. He calls out to their parents and gestures their departure. A loud, "stay with thy brother!" Makes her roll her eyes but she nods and they are off.

—-

After hearing a few songs, they exit and find a food stall. Sugar crusted almonds are sweet to her tongue and she and Michael vie for the last few.

"Oh look!" He cries out, pointing, "blown glass!"

They hurry over and marvel at the little glass ornaments, the large glass bowls and the middling sized glass vases. They rest on soft clothes or are hung on wooden dowels protruding from the vendors walls.

"Incredible." Michael breathes out, "the detail alone."

"Thank you." A merry voice says. They look up to see a young man, perhaps just a bit younger than Michael, looking at them. "They are for sale if you would desire to purchase one."

"Oh…" She responds, "how much is the little ornament? I would love to hang it for Christ's Mass."

The brunette leans over the wooden stall to see which one she is pointing to, "oh, those are a special few. They can be hand painted with names, dates of birth, or a special message if you would like?"

Her brother raises an eyebrow, "for an extra price I assume?"

The brunette chuckles, "never fear. I am not trying to nip from your pockets. The ornaments are a shilling each. To add a name, birthdate, or anniversary is an extra two farthings. To have a plain globe custom painted with a portrait or scene is 1 shilling and three pennies."

Her brother is quiet. It was actually a rather fair price for such workmanship. She expects them to sell well. Glass baubles were seen as the height of extravagance due to their fragility. And at a festival like this with pay to spare? This booth will be in good fashion.

"I think we should get one." She states to her brother, "as a present for mother. She will love to hang it."

Her brother nods, "I agree. What if you got one for her and I got one for father. They would be right pleased and surprised I bet."

Her lips turn up in a smile, "I would bet the same."

The brunette leans on the wooden table, "would you like them as is? Or would you like them with something additional?"

They discuss it for a bit, and decide to have their parent's full names added to the baubles. Harder to steal when the owner's name is painted on.

"Come back in two hours," the brunette informs them. "You will pick it up from our painter and pay then."

They nod and he heads to the back leaving them to wander around more stalls.

They see their parents a time or two, discuss what they have seen and what they hope to do. There is a large painted sign with different performers listed. Most the king brought from his castle and outlying lands but a few of the locals were good enough to catch his attentions.

"They have set up a field and fence for jousting." Michael comments, "I want to watch a few matches."

She frowns, "I will pass. There is nothing entertaining about screaming, horses getting hurt, and stabbing another person hard enough to dismount them."

He laughs at her and then gazes at the sun briefly. "I would reckon it has been about two hours. Would you like to check on the baubles?"

They head in that direction and are unsurprised to see a line has formed. They stand and wait patiently until it is their turn.

The brunette is there again, "go around back. You will see our furnace and artist at work. Tell him your names and he will grant your purchase."

They pay and he points them in the right direction.

They find the furnace easily, the heat making the warm day feel warmer. A thin blonde man is bent over a contraption holding a delicate glass vase. They wait, not wanting to interrupt his work as he seems to be painting delicate flowers.

When he lifts his head to wipe at his brow, Michael clears his throat.

The blonde's head turns to them, strange glass wringed in metal sitting on his face.

"How can I help you?" He asks, standing and setting down his utensils.

"We have purchased two ornaments, painted with names. Harrison Carter and—"

The man nods, "I've got them finished and ready." He heads over to a large trunk that is lined with thick cloth. He searches for a few minutes and then brings over two small thick paper boxes. Cloth rests at the bottom and the bauble rests nestled safely inside.

"See to it that it is what you paid for." He says kindly, "that it is spelt correctly." He smiles, "I do endeavor not to make mistakes but it happens."

She studies the delicately thin lettering, perfectly wrapping around the globe that has a fine elegant pattern painted around the circumference. "Did you—" she has an inkling her intuition is correct, "did you paint all of these. Are you the main artist?"

He laughs, "I am. And I did."

"It is remarkable." Her brother adds. "Finest painting I have seen outside of the royal portrait."

The man's cheeks blush slightly, making his light eyes pop. "Your kindness is touching." The man says softly, "I will not forget such words easily."

"How did you learn such a skill?" She asks, "not many of our villagers can afford to paint."

His eyes crinkle behind the panes of glass, "my mother is a healer. But she also understands plants and how to utilize their pigments with oils and other substances to create a much cheaper paint than traditional oil paints." He points to the globes, "but fear not. Those are painted with a paint that will not wash away or scratch easily."

"That is fascinating." Michael adds, "well, our many thanks."

"What are those on your eyes?" She asks, "I have never seen such a contraption."

He peels them off his nose and gestures to the glass. "They help my vision." He says looking a tad unsure, "the concave structure allows the tiny details I need to see, appear bigger."

Michale balks, "I beg your pardon?"

"It was discovered by accident." He points to a vase, "you have looked through a glass vase and seen the distortion, have you not?"

They both nod.

"We worked on a miniature version of that, and figured out how to ensure that it would not slip off my nose. It creates an enlargement of whatever I am looking directly at. Ever so helpful."

"Amazing." She breathes out, "you should sell those. I know many an older folk or craftsman who would benefit."

He blinks, looking surprised, "truly?"

She nods, "of course. Think of the seamstresses or embroiderers? Other painters or sculptors and letterers. Having something to help see those tiny stitches or any detail would be a wonder."

His eyes are far away. "That is a fascinating idea…" he studies her a bit and then smiles, looking down, "you pay me a most gracious compliment and idea. And I am grateful."

Her eyes catch on the furnace and the way it makes the edges of his golden hair glow, "you are ever most welcome. Thank you for the perfectly painted baubles."

They turn to leave and pause at a voice clearing. She turns to see him looking at her, rather anxious, hands tugging at his apron. "Will you be here, for the rest of the festival, my lady?"

The use of 'my lady' makes her chest heat. "I will."

He swallows thickly and then smiles, bowing his head, "I hope to see you again. If possible."

She smiles and can feel her brother's amusement at her side. "I hope so as well, kind artist. I shall keep an eye out for you."

"And I you."

"God be with ye." Michael says, altogether too humored as they walk away. "Look who has found an admirer." His hisses joyfully at her.

She grins, "one I do not mind a bit."

"Mother and father—"

"Will not hear about a word of it." She snaps, "not for fear of their displeasure. But it makes no sense to stoke a fire when one is unsure of the future. understood?"

He sighs, rolling his eyes. "understood."

She twists the braids of her hair carefully that next morning. Putting a cap on to protect it from the dust of the walk from their tent in the far off fields. Michael raises an eyebrow but says nothing.

They arrive at the festival grounds and she watches a few singing performances, an acrobatics performance, and goes to an embroidery circle where she learns she is woefully under-skilled in the area. But then her mother is engrossed in gossip with a friend from childhood and she takes her leave, roaming about the large festival with impunity. Wandering here and there to decide what suits her fancy. She can hear the king's trumpets at the field and knows Michael must be there watching the jousting.

"He approached you." Margaret startles at the voice, "that is a first. And an exciting shift. Perhaps this is the time after all."

She turns, seeing the most beautiful woman she's ever laid eyes on staring at her with interest. Her gown is strange. Very revealing with her arms uncovered, neck unclothed and full lustrous hair rippling down her back.

"I beg thy pardon?"

"I have grown weary, and he is unwilling to allow me this simple dalliance any longer. So I am hopeful. Perhaps this time." The woman reaches out and gently tugs on Margaret's chin, bringing her face closer, "you are always lovely. Every iteration of you is the same. Unchanging. It is fascinating to me. Especially when he is almost always changing. Small, big, short, weak, ill, unbelievably strong. I never know what to expect of him. And yet you remain the same. Whyever is that?"

"I do not—" she pulls her chin away, "you have me confused with someone else."

"No," the woman says with a smile, "I do not. But I do wish my blessing on this day. This chance. For it will be the last I am willing to beg for." The woman brushes a caring thumb over Margaret's cheek and then pats it. "Make me proud this time, hmm?"

Margaret is about to protest when a loud shout and blare of trumpets causes her to startle, looking over her shoulder at the vibrant tents wringing the jousting field. A roar from the crowd echoes through the festival and she winces at the noise.

She turns back and sees no one.

Her mind races… Something, someone... A lightness in her chest as her heart pounds tells her something was just amiss? But what?

"You are here."

She turns, seeing the artist a step or two away, smiling at her.

"I am." She responds, feeling that strange excitement and nervousness creep under her skin. "I promised I would be."

"I am glad." He gestures to the festival. "Might I… escort you around? Perhaps?"

"I would like that." She answers honestly, "but first…" She grins, "I must learn thy name."

He blinks, as if surprised then chuckles, "my sincerest apologies. I… I did not realize I had forgotten my manners." He bows his head in a show of respect. "My name is Stephen Rogers."

She curtsies, bowing her head as well. "My name is Margaret Carter."

His smile is lovely as he looks up, "a lovely and fitting name."

"Thank you." She looks about the festival, "you wanted to walk?"

He laughs, "I do. Come this way."

—-

She learns about him as they walk and he asks her many questions in return. He is one and a half years her elder. His father is gone but mother is alive. He is less wealthy than she but seems to do just fine. He states that his painting and glass work have allowed him to gain a steady living and even to save for the future.

This comment does not slip past her ears with ease. She can hear the simple implication. He is able and willing to marry.

He is about her height, thin in a way that makes her think food is not a priority to him. But his clothes are well made and his kind and thoughtful demeanor speaks volumes. He is an avid listener as she describes her childhood and her life.

"And what is it that you would like to do in your lifetime, my lady?" He asks. "Do you aspire to keep a home? or perhaps a vocation?"

"I am not sure," she answers honestly. "Some days I think that taking care of a home is time consuming enough and therefore should be my only thought."

He lets the silence pass for a moment before he says, "and yet?"

"And yet I hear of the lands beyond ours and I want to see them, explore them. I hear tales of the orient* and the spices, fabrics, languages, and arts that seem otherworldly to ours. I long to know it all."

He says nothing and she looks at him out of the corner of her eye, expecting judgment like her mother gives her when she mentions her dreams. Instead she sees eyes wide with wonder and admiration. "An intriguing and delightful aspiration." He says softly, "I find the same topics as alluring and would love to hear your tales should you ever return and wish to spare them."

She frowns, "oh? Only when I return? Would you not be willing to join me on such an adventure?"

He blinks, "you…" he turns, stopping and then grinning, "you would invite me to participate in such a dream?"

"I would. I find you a frightfully delightful companion. And I think of all the mischief we could get up to." Her lips are pursed in amusement, "does not that sound rather tempting?"

He stares at her in awe, "tempting." He repeats quietly.

—-

Two days later, and they have spent the majority of their time together. She watches him work when he needs to and walks about with her when he is spared.

Michael takes a liking to him and she even plucks up the courage to introduce him to her parents.

She expects the worst. However, her mother knows someone who knows and speaks well of his mother. That softens the introduction and his ease and kindness works on them.

When he leaves to go back to his stall, her mother eyes her. "He has spoken of his financial situation to you?"

Margaret gets nervous but she does not let it show, "in a way."

"How so?"

"He makes fine money and has extra to spare. I have not asked for details."

"You are interested?"

"I am."

"Do not wait." Her mother says with an eyebrow raised, "a good man of good means is difficult to find."

She is left stunned as her parents make their way back to their wagon.

The last day of the festival dawns cold but sunny. She finds herself elated to see him again, and concerned that it will end without having begun.

She wears her best dress, and a deep red ribbon in her hair. They attend the final morning proceedings as the King speaks for one long hour. It is eloquent and kindly, but she has a hard time focusing as her eyes scan the crowds. There are a decent amount of fair haired people, and she cannot seem to locate him.

But as the musicians play and the crowds are dismissed, she knows exactly where she is headed.

A hand grabs hers and she turns back to see Michael smiling at her, "good fortune."

She grins back, "I do not believe even the fates themselves could keep me away."

His laughter echoes behind her.

His crisp shirt and nervous hands are what capture her attention first.

"Stephen," she curtsies, "you look well."

He bows back, "and you, my lady. A good evening?"

"Indeed it was. And yours?"

"Quite well." He answers, looking about at their vendor stall that is half packed away. "No shop today?'

He seems to relax at that. "We've sold all but three items of our inventory. Rebecca will watch the stall today. But even if they do not sell, we could not be more elated. Quite a successful and profitable week."

Margaret smiles softly, "I am glad for you. What a blessed feeling that must be."

He nods, "it is." Then he seems to bolster his courage. "As it is the last day of the festival, might I entreat you to accompany me about? I have heard tell of a few new performances and booths to celebrate the finality. Would you be willing?"

She takes his outstretched hand and bows her head, "I would be willing, and excited as well."

His eyes are bright as he leads her out of the vendor stall and out towards the main thoroughfare.

A quiet 'meow' catches her attention and she gasps. "Look!"

She points to the new booth, set up strangely with perches, wheels, and thin gangplanks set upon it. Felines of every color and species roam about, meowing, walking, stretching and the occasional playful swat at their brethren.

She turns to see Stephen looking at the warily. Her brow furrows, "what ever is the matter? You do not like cats?"

He sighs, "I like them just fine. They, however, do not like me."

She laughs, "oh surely not. Not every cat can have a distaste for thee. Come now, let us go give it a try."

He shrugs lightly and allows her to pull him forward in the crowd. The merchant selling the creatures holds one in his arms and another rests on a shoulder like a parrot. "They are a necessity for any household!" he crows. "The perfect mouser, rat chaser, and fox deterrent. They sit on your lap to keep you warm, they are an investment!"

She stares at the felines in wonder and watches as people crowd, reaching out to pet the pliable things. Purring from the cats and laughter from the villagers fills the atmosphere around them.

Eventually they make their way to the front of the crowd and she reaches out a hand, petting the fur of a gray and brown long haired friendly feline. The cat is perfectly happy at her ministrations and she turns, Stephen a foot behind her. "Come now, this one is perfectly agreeable."

He looks reserved and hopeful as he approaches, and at first she's about to chide him for his silly belief, but the cat suddenly glances at him, and terror fills its eyes, its back arches and it hisses wildly, siddling backwards away from her hand and out of reach. Leaping to a high perch and staring at him like he might jump up and grab it,

"What is this?" The merchant walks over, "did you pull its tail, lad?"

Stephen looks stricken, "I would never-"

"He did no such thing." Margaret states firmly, "the cat simply got scared. I am not sure of what."

"Of me-" Stephen sighs. "Ever since I was a boy, cats have not wanted a single thing to do with me. Not a single one."

The merchant laughs, "surely not every cat!"

Stephen nods. "It is true sir. Every cat. Dogs, horses, any other farm animal, I have no problem with. But cats? They flee at my presence."

The merchant seems as dumbfounded by this as she does.

He turns, looking through the two dozen cats to reach out and select a fat lazy looking thing. He holds the cat in his arms and turns. "This is Saturn. King of the cats. A right lazy lout but a fine companion. Not easily swayed one way or the other."

He steps up to Stephen, "give him a chance to smell you, then give him a pat, eh?"

Stephen looks cautious as he raises his thin fingers to the feline's nostrils, allowing it to smell him. But the cat takes one sniff and snaps out, tiny sharp teeth latching onto his fingers and making the merchant yelp. Stephen yanks his hand back, holding his fingers to his chest. But he does not look in pain, just unbearably sad. "See?" He says morosely. "Every cat."

The merchant looks perturbed as he stares at Stephen. "Well, I have never seen such a reaction in my entire years. What must you have done to them in another life to make them behave this way," he shakes his head. "Whatever it was, they have not forgiven you."

Stephen's eyes are wide with disbelief as the merchant moves onward to a new customer.

"Do not-" she says, grasping his hand, studying the tiny marks and drops of blood, "-pay a word to the man. Past lives. Stuff and nonsense." She hisses out, "a bunch of rubbish."

Stephen sighs, retracting his hand. "It is a better explanation than any I have been able to come up with."

They find the well and grab a drink of water. Stephen uses a bit of it to clean off his hand. Then they peruse more booths and his sunny demeanor returns throughout the morning. They eat at the food tent. Huge spits of meat, large cast iron pans of roasting vegetables and hot loaves of bread fill them. He pays the shilling and six farthings for her meal which makes her giddy in a way she cannot explain. They purchase two mugs of mulled cider and take to strolling again.

After a poetry reading, a sword fighting exhibition, and a flame dancer which leaves both of them in wonder, the sun takes a turn towards the afternoon and she knows their time is short. She's only known him for six days and yet it has felt like a lifetime. She will never be the person she was before this festival and he is the reason for that.

"Margaret."

She turns, pulled from her reverie to see that he has stopped and looks as nervous as he had that morning. Excitement fills her. "Yes?"

"I would, if you are amenable, like to converse with your father..."

Her heart glows, the smile lighting up her face, "about?"

"And discuss the possibility of…" He looks positively ready to crack from nervousness and she steps closer, grasping his hands and hers,

"Marriage?"

He nods, wincing, "if you would consider me-"

She laughs, "I would!" Then, propriety be damned, she steps forward, kissing him lightly before pulling back, feeling the blush on her cheeks. "I would be delighted to be your bride."

His entire face is aglow as he asks, "you would?"

She kisses him again.

They are wed in the fall at the same well where the festival had been. Many villagers from each side attend and the occasion is a joyous one.

He looks handsome as a summer day with his fair hair and light eyes. And she, in her best dress, enjoys stealing kisses whenever she can. Her mother cries and his mother comforts her.

Two people she does not recognize, a beautiful woman and an annoyed looking man stare at them from behind the large group who are ringed, hands clasped as they dance in a circle around her and Stephen. The woman smiles at her, glowing with pride that Margaret cannot fathom. The man looks annoyed and turns away quickly.

Before Margaret can ask Stephen if they are from his village, she hears a cheer and forgets what she was going to ask.

They decide to live in his village, as that is where the blown glass shop is already established.

It is a tearful farewell as the wagon takes her and her belongings away from the only place she has ever known. But the kind and loving man beside her, hand in hers makes it all worthwhile.

She will not say life is easy. They unfortunately do not have the funds for their exotic adventures. But it is wonderful to her in every way. They have a small cottage of their own, enough food (especially since he forgets to eat rather often) and a community of people around them who love and care for them.

She becomes fine friends with the entire Barnes family. They are over often, always bringing fresh bread, apples from their orchard, and candles. Mr. Barnes is the candle maker, supplying the village with long lasting light and utilizing his son James' blown glass to refract that light and make it brighter.

She always catches herself staring at the specks and flecks of light at night as they dance across their white washed ceiling. Mrs. Barnes is a masterhand at fabrics. She teaches her daughters and sometimes Margaret how to fabricate wool, linen and other materials, how to repair rips, embroider, and stitch to fix any flaw.

She enjoys her daily life. Cooking, cleaning, helping Stephen collect plants and minerals to use for his art. She carefully learns the process of drying the leaves, petals or stems to ensure they crush into a fine powder and mix properly with his oils and liquids to ensure a beautiful product. Gardening becomes a great skill of hers and she designs and commissions James to create panes of glass for a wooden structure that allows her to capture the sun's light without the bitter wind ravaging the plants. Soon multiple houses have them and the Barnes' wealth grows exponentially. The contraption she had urged Stephen to sell, is widely popular as well and provides extra income to grow her garden, purchase a wagon and horse and stone a new hearth when theirs cracks.

Mrs. Rogers, Margaret's favorite person in the village outside of Stephen, is a healer and is widely renowned. Along with collecting plants for paints and pigments, she learns what plants to collect for wounds, illness, and other maladies.

And that is when she realizes.

"By the fates!" She cries out, staring at the large forested section besides the large field. "It was you two!"

Stephen, arms full of Anemone nemorosa, turns to her, a bit of dirt scrubbed against his chin, "who was who?"

"Two years ago-" her eyes rove the area, "I had ridden my father's horse all the way out here as it was the only source of wild garlic that I could find. I was out here foraging and so were you and James! I heard you speak of Rebecca… I knew you were from the other village since I had ridden so far but I never realized." She laughs, "I thought about you more times than I can count before I had even met you!"

His eyes widen, "I remember that day. Rebecca had ripped a large hole in her skirts and Winnifred would not let her out of the house until she fixed it so we took the wagon without her…" he looks up, "you were there?"

She nods, pointing at the clump of trees, "over there. I only caught you as you were leaving, and was too afraid to say hello. But I remember you."

He gently sets down the flowers in his arms and walks over to her, gathering her up as gently as he held the flowers, "the fates were too early. But bless it that they let me meet you anyways."

She smiles and he kisses her, making the fair spring day warmer as they embrace.

She lays resting in his arms, staring at the candlelight that dances through the small bedroom. "Stephen?"

"Hmm?" His voice is sleepy and she smiles at the sound.

"I want…" He's too sleepy to ask what, but by the way his fingers trail up her arm she knows he's awake enough to hear, "a child."

His hand stills and then he's awake, resting on his elbow and gazing at her, a glow on his face, "with me?"

She laughs, lifting her head to kiss his neck and jaw before settling back on the straw mattress. "Yes, with you, you glorious man. Whoever else?"

"I want one with you." He breathes out, sinking gently back and pulling her closer. "I want whatever you want. I just always want you."

She smiles against his warm skin and nods in agreement.

A large sale to a traveling merchant, means they have enough for a Christ's Mass feast. She and he sip on warm stew and fresh bread and eat sugared berries.

That morning she had found an intricately shaped glass rose in a clay vase in the kitchen window for her. Painted to look real and blooming. She had marveled for hours at its artistry and even now her eyes flick back to it. She had given him new brushes for his work. It had taken a while to finagle with the man who supplies the horsehair and the man who binds them but eventually she believes she'd bartered a decent price and he had crowed about them all morning long as well. It is a joyous day and she is alight with the season even as the air is bitterly cold.

They exchange small gifts with the Barnes' and his mother, and she vows to bring her parents a gift next time they travel to her village.

Winter starts to fade away and try as they might, and they do try, each month passes with no sign.

Dismay fills her as she bleeds each month, and Stephen is quick to hold her close and whisper that the time will come and not to fret.

"I would give anything for a child." She whispers to him late one night. "Why must one be kept from us?"

A strange flicker makes the candle stutter but then settle and continue to glow. Stephen gently holds her chin, "do not worry so. My mother says worrying can keep you from allowing a child. Just-" he kisses her cheek softly, then her brow, and then her lips, "be patient. Our time will come. And soon you will be wishing for days of quiet."

She laughs softly, "I know. I know. It is… it is simply that I want a piece of you and I together. That will make our love permanent."

He nestles his nose against her neck, "our love is already permanent." His voice tickles against her skin, "there is nothing on this earth that could keep me from loving you." She feels his lips press against her neck and she sighs in contentment, "no matter what, no matter how long we will live. I will always always love you. Do you understand?" He pulls back and looks at her seriously, "nothing could change the way I love you."

Her gaze softens, taking in the serious expression and adoring nature of his words. "And I you. The fates themselves could not tear us asunder."

He nods, "the very fates would not dare."

She leans in and kisses him, and he kisses her back just as eagerly.

Three wonderful years of their marriage pass. But no sign of a child.

Her mother and a few other women in both villages offer her their advice, but nothing helps. Stephen is as assured as ever that it will happen, but she doubts a bit more each month.

She is out picking onions and roots from their garden when she decides she is thirsty. She stands, holding an apron full of vegetables and walks towards the house only to see the Barnes' wagon in front of her cottage.

"Hello?" She calls, "James?"

No one responds until she hears a rustling in her home.

She enters the door and stops. Seeing Rebecca and James at their shelves. "Hello?"

Both startle as if spooked by lightning and they turn, looking guilty.

"What, pray tell, are you doing in my house uninvited?"

They scooch closer to each other, blocking her from seeing something. "Nothing." Rebecca says calmly, "just stopping by to say hello."

"Without knocking?"

James frowns, "Stephen said you were out collecting and foraging."

"I was…" she says slowly, "I found what I needed and came back early to garden. What on earth are you hiding?"

They cram closer together, "nothing!" Rebecca claims and then jumps forward, grabbing Margaret's hand and twisting her back towards the door, "let me see that new bed of flowers you planted. You promised you would show me!"

She frowns and pulls her arm away, turning back to James who is now standing central to their shelves. "Tell me what on earth you are up to!"

There's a long stretch of silence before Rebecca grasps Margaret's shoulders and turns her to face her directly. "We just want to help."

"Help?"

James sighs and moves, showing cleverly arranged pantry shelves. With much more food than they usually have.

"What is this?"

"It was something Mrs. Rogers said." Rebecca responds slowly. "It struck us a few days ago that perhaps… your lack of child is not due to you but-" she cuts off, looking at her brother. Margaret goes still.

"What are you saying?" She frowns and starts to get angry, "what are you saying?"

"When Stephen was young, he was very ill. He stopped growing, grew weak and ill and we thought he may not live through the night." He sits on one of their wooden stools, "that was when he got out of the habit of eating normally. So used to feeling ill in the stomach that he could not bear the thought of sustenance."

Rebecca holds her hand softly, a comforting presence. "But thank the fates." She says, "that he was allowed to live. He grew stronger once again, started to get taller, and began to live as normal. We thought all was well."

"But?"

"But we wonder if perhaps…" Rebecca looks at James.

"He still does not eat nearly enough." James says firmly. "Perhaps he is not unwell in the traditional sense where it is visibly obvious. Perhaps he-"

"You blame him!?" She asks incredulously.

"This is not about blame." James says bitingly, standing and looking at her. "I watched him almost pass from this world. He could barely open his eyes, move, breathe-" He places his fists against the table. "He is better now. But I wonder if he eats enough. Every day I notice his thin stature. I worry. He hates that we worry but I do, damn it. He needs to eat more. If he eats more and nothing changes, then fine." He turns towards the shelves, "but if we can help, we will. And we can. You must try to get him to eat more than he usually stomachs. Understood?"

Margaret stays quiet, processing all that they have said. But in the end, she nods. "I understand."

Thus begins a strange one sided battle. It is not that Stephen is hungry and denies himself substance. It is that he simply does not feel hunger the same way she and most villagers do.

So she finds trickery and her wits as her best weapons. Nuts crushed and mixed with oils and sugar (that the Barnes provide graciously) to spread on his bread. Accidentally breaking an extra egg and begging him to eat it so it will not go to waste. Splurging on cheese from the neighbors cows, and ensuring there is either always a meat or a root vegetable involved in a meal. Grapes resting in the small depression of her stomach does not harm her attempts either. He smiles devilishly up at her as his teeth gently bite on her skin before snapping the fruit up.

Whatever she can do to delicately and subtly increase his portions, she does.

He does fill out. She notices it in the shape of his cheeks and the slope of his shoulders. She celebrates quietly and with glances towards James and Rebecca during one dinner together who look equally as elated as she.

And she notices that she has to try less and less. That he picks up the habit of eating more as he eats more. It's a lovely thing to see him look healthier and nourished each day. Not that she had thought poorly of him before. It was simply an observation of change.

The Barnes still provide subtle supplies here and there, but she has also been trading vegetables from her glass garden for other items which has helped.

"Shall I take your monthly garments?" Stephen asks, gathering up the rest of the clothes and items that need to be cleaned.

She stops, heart suddenly pounding in her ears. What day was it?

Her eyes flick to the parchment nailed to the wall. She had not even thought… It had been almost four years… It had not been on her mind as the last month of gardening had been so busy.

"Margaret?"

"I did not bleed."

"You did not…" his voice trails off and she turns, catching wide blue eyes, and her voice cracks with joy and emotion.

"I did not bleed!" She drops whatever was in her hands and bounds over, wrapping her arms around him as he returns the motion, "I did not bleed!"

He laughs, hugging her fiercely and then kissing her so thoroughly she wonders if she can remember how to breathe.

"Gah-" her cry of pain cuts short as the kick to her lungs takes her breath. "Unbelievable." She mutters, rubbing her skin. "He will not stop moving."

Stephen laughs, "you do not know it is a he. It could be a she. Which seems more likely since her lack of patience seems to come directly from you."

She laughs, and then hisses in pain as the child twists inside her again. Or that is how it feels.

"Should we really be traveling?" He asks, looking at the loaded wagon. "I fear-"

"It is two months before the baby is expected." She says firmly, "I have not been well enough to leave the house much less the village until now. I simply want a quick visit and then to tell her when she should come to us to be here for the birth."

He keeps his opinion to himself even though she can tell he wishes she would stay home. The pregnancy has not been easy. Unable to keep food down. Weakness, shakiness, lightness of head. All things that plagued her for months. But slowly she had started to feel more normal and able to move about. Stephen had fretted over her for months. Running himself ragged and ensuring she did not need for a single thing. He had lost a lot of the weight he had gained in his anxious state, but it was not something she could combat at the moment. She would do that when the fates allowed her to be back up on her feet with a child in her arms.

The visit with her family goes well. Although a roiling tumbling feeling in her gut makes her unable to do much. Stephen frets constantly, worrying about the wagon ride home.

She gently chides him that she will be alright. They had created a soft bedding for her to lay flat in the back if necessary. She would be alright.

The day they leave dawns bright and sunny and she says many a farewell to her parents and to her brother and his bride. They have a little one and Margaret promises to return with her cousin.

Two hours into the journey, her stomach starts to churn, and she ends up expelling over the side which causes them to stop and rest for a bit. He urges her to turn back but she refuses. Begging for a bit more time before they carry on towards home. He offers food but she wrinkles her nose at it. She lays in the back of the wagon, staring up at the sky as they roll along.

They make it about an hour further into the ride when the sky darkens. Stephen watches the clouds with anxiousness and she keeps reminding him not to worry. It was only a few hours more.

It was actually many many hours more. But she was not about to complain when she was the one who had insisted they leave the comfort of their home and then the comfort of her parents.

Rain starts with a mist, then a patter and then a pour.

They pull off to the side and find shelter in a grove of trees. To quel the shivering, Stephen tries to wrap her in any blanket or cloth they have to spare, but teh cold chills her to the bone anyway.

An unnatural rain pours for the better part of two hours and they are exhausted and drenched the whole time.

Finally Stephen shakes his head and starts to stand. "I'm going to pull the wagon around and create a shelter underneath it for you. It may not be dry but it will keep the rain from your face."

She watches as he starts to pull on the reins but an almighty crack causes her to start as the wagon wheel, now sunk in mud, fractures and leaves part of itself behind. The wagon rolls a couple hand lengths forward then cracks to a stop on the broken wheel.

Her wide eyes watch Stephen as he stares at it in disbelief.

They had just had the wagon seen too. It should not be broken.

A sharp pain in her stomach makes her gasp.

Cold hands grip her face, "Margaret? Margaret, are you alright?" She had not even seen him return from the road.

She cannot answer. Another stabbing pain in her belly that makes her cry out.

Then warmth between her legs.

"No-" she gasps out, "not now!"

She doubles over, crying out in pain and blood and liquids seep down her legs and skirts.

"Stephen," she gasps out, "the baby-" she groans again, "he is coming!"

Suddenly she is on her back and she feels her skirts being lifted. A sound of despair exits his throat and he leans over her. Eyes wide in terror.

"Do not leave me." She whimpers out, "do not leave me."

He shakes his head, "I am not going anywhere. I am right here, hold my hand, squeeze through the pain-"

Her cries echo through the rain and she loses track of time.

Stephen stares at his bloodless wife, her moans of pain now barely whimpers. Blood pools with the rain and his tears.

"No," he begs, "please, Margaret, stay strong. You can do this." His thoughts race to his own bloody birth. His mother had barely survived and she had been safe at home with another healer and supplies.

He does everything he can think of. His basic supplies in the wagon do not help much but they are something.

But still not enough. The baby is not born, and his wife's energy is gone, muscles limp and eyes glazed.

"Margaret," he calls, holding her in his arms, "come back to me, do not-" his voice chokes out. "Do not leave me!" He holds her, crushing her to his chest, "I will do anything, please, come back." He lifts his face to the sky, "please! By the fates you cannot do this! You cannot take her from this world-" Anger and desperation rages, "please! I pray to whoever listens, do not do this!"

"Are you willing to bargain?"

He startles, looking up to see a strange figure, clothed in black, barely visible in the pouring rain.

"Who are you?"

"Someone who is listening."

Fear is unbridled under his skin. Whoever this is is a force of nature. The rain bends around him, leaving him dry.

"You…" he swallows, blinking out the rian, "you can save her? And the child?"

"I can."

"Then please!" He begs, "please do!"

"And what will you offer me in return?"

Stephen cannot think of anything he owns that is personally as valuable. "Anything." He chokes out, "you can have anything."

"Your undying service?"

Stephen is taken aback, "service?" The heat is fading from his wife. Her moments are short. "Serve you? As your…?"

"As my collector." He stares at the sky and then the wagon, "Your choice. But you better make it soon. If she perishes, I will have to collect."

"If I agree to serve you, you will save her?"

"I will."

"How can I be sure of your promise?"

"Do you agree?"

Stephen pauses, looking down at the now blue lips of his wife. He kisses them softly and nods, "I agree to serve."

"You agree to serve me forever."

Stephen does not even comprehend the words. But he cannot lose her. So he says them. "I agree to serve you forever."

The man grins, "and so it shall be."

Chapter 5

Stephen feels the earth start to rise. Or perhaps he starts to sink. He watches as color floods Margaret's face, and he can't understand it but one moment she is pregnant and the next there is a baby, swaddled in her limp arms. Now his torso is in the ground, legs and arms trapped by the soil and the realization and fear sink in. Panic overtakes him, not knowing the full extent of what he'd just promised.

"Margaret!" He calls, fear clouding his voice, "Margaret wake up!" His eyes flash to the baby's face, barely visible beneath the cloth. Is it a boy like she'd believed? Is it a girl like he'd hoped?

His neck is now in the earth and he knows his seconds are few. "I love you—" his tears choke his voice, "I love you both. Please—"

And the earth closes over him.

—-

Margaret wakes, feeling strange and energetic. Her arms go rigid with surprise as she realizes she's holding something. Her eyes sink down to the sleeping baby wrapped in a silky black cloth.

Confusion and instinct war within her. She can't remember the birth, but something deep in her gut says this baby is hers. She looks up, expecting to see Stephen somewhere, perhaps getting supplies from the wagon.

It hits her then that the storm is gone and the wagon is fixed. The ground is dry and… Stephen is nowhere to be seen.

"Stephen?" She calls, shifting, wincing at the pain between her legs. "Stephen?"

But he does not appear.

She manages to stand and walk a few steps gingerly, "Stephen?"

Margaret walks around the wagon and then in the surrounding areas. The baby only wriggles once and she bounces gently, shushing and rocking it back to sleep.

Her mind can't comprehend what is happening. How does she have a baby without remembering the birth? How long has she been out that the sky is clear and the ground is dry? But most confusing, how is the wagon fixed and where has Stephen gone?

Stephen stares at the inky black river. It flows silently past and yet he swears it echoes with groans and pleas of mercy.

"This way," the man calls smoothly. "The process is painful, but I've seen you endure much worse, so it should be a breeze."

Stephen still feels his own tears flowing like the river. His own groans of misery as strong and silent as the river beside him.

"What am I to serve you for?" He asks, his voice husky with emotion.

The man stops, turning to him, and eyeing him studiously. "I am Hades. Lord of the Dead."

True fear strikes Stephen's heart, "what?"

"I rule over the dead and ensure they are placed and kept in the afterlife according to their merits. I have Charon, who helps them pass over the River Styx from the side of the living to my underworld realm, but I struggle to ensure the souls make it to the River in the first place."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Unsurprisingly, many are unwilling to die or more accurately, unwilling to accept that they've died. I've tried fear, faith, and everything in between to coerce them to come along, but they always resist. They don't understand that we have rules and protocol."

"I still do not—"

"You are to serve as my reaper."

Stephen stays quiet, not understanding.

"I use my father's scythe to reap the souls. Sure, it's powerful and does the job, but I still have to drag them here." He gestures to the River. "You are someone who faces demise without so much as a shiver. I am selecting you to take over one of my jobs. I need you to become my reaper of souls." Hades steps closer, bringing his hand up to Stephen's neck and using one finger to drag his collar down. A long suffering sigh is heard. "I am lord of the dead. But even I cannot erase the mark of first death."

Stephen frowns, "what is first death?"

Hades grasps his right hand and brings it to his neck, where a strange uneven ridge of skin hits his fingers.

"How you first died."

"I do not understand. I've never died—"

"Ha!" The man barks out a humor filled laugh, "that you remember."

"I think that I would remember—"

Suddenly Hades' pale hands are clutching his face gently, forefingers pressed against both sides of his temples.

Images flood his brain, bronze bowls filled with fires. A beautiful woman smiling at him in the moonlight, a knife cutting across his neck. A lion looking at him fearfully, a man looking sympathetic as he draws a sword back, then more and more visions. Some moments seeming just a moment before death.

He gasps out and the hands retract, leaving him panting in fear.

Then the fear morphs to confusion. His heart rate slows… Why had he just been scared?

Hades looks at him with a plain expression, "it will follow you no matter what form you take. Now we must go before my niece figures out my treachery." He laughs as if he's told a funny jest.

The Barnes' and Stephen's mother cannot make hide nor hair of it either.

She tells the story over and over again. But they stare at her like she has drunk too much wine.

"But he cannot just be gone," Mrs. Rogers says again. "And you with no memory?"

Margaret clutches the baby tighter to her, "I have told you all I know. I had hoped he may have come this way to find help."

James sits beside her, "neither of you have been seen since you left for the other village. Perhaps he ran back towards your parents?"

"Perhaps—" she chokes out, holding onto that hope. But something, something terrible sits in her gut. A fierce feeling that the world is not as it should be.

That evening, as she lays in their small bed, the baby asleep beside her, she cries silent tears, hoping and yearning for Stephen to reappear to make this horrible nightmare come to an end.

Mr. Barnes had taken James to the other village to see if he was there or perhaps been waylaid along the way.

But even without evidence, she knows what they will find. Nothing.

The thought of him abandoning her is unthinkable. He would never.

"It's true child," She sits up with a start. A woman, in strange robes of ocean blue, and sea green swirl in the candle light. "He would never."

"Who are you?"

"I have been your biggest champion for over a thousand years."

"I beg your pardon?"

"We have both been cheated by that underhanded corpse. And I will not stand for it."

"Cheated?"

"I cannot believe this. It took over a thousand years for you two to manage to actually get your happy ending and he decides to steal him out from under our noses? No." The beautiful woman's hair shifts in the candlelight as she shakes it back and forth, one second appearing light, then bronzed, then like a copper kettle and finally black as night. "He will rue this day."

"Madam—"

"Goddess."

"Excuse me?"

"I am a goddess not a madam."

Margaret blinks, "you are a goddess?"

"I am indeed. The goddess of love."

Her throat constricts, but something about the woman's presence makes her believe it. "Aphrodite?"

Her eyes soften, "yes. And I have not heard my name upon your lips in many many moons. But I have not forgotten the hundreds of prayers and sacrifices you made to me. I was willing to accept if things did not work naturally. I am not willing to accept being cheated out of my prize."

"Prize?"

A soft hand touches her chin, "when two people are as in love as you and Stephen, I am strengthened. I am given purpose and meaning. I am not a silly irrelevant goddess they believe to be an ancillary being. I am powerful. One of the most powerful forces in the universe."

"Universe?" The words are new and strange but she shakes her head, "you know of Stephen?"

The woman's face darkens. "He has been stolen."

"Stolen?" Her voice is shrill and the baby begins to wriggle and make small sounds. She picks her up, and cradles her, "shhh, shhh."

"My unfortunate relative stole him." The woman says, laying a hand on the baby and sighing deeply, "so I must ask you… are you willing to be patient?"

"Patient how?"

"Every deal can be broken. But first I must figure out how. I have no human concept of time to relate to how long it might take. Are you patient?"

"If I am patient… I will get to see Stephen again?"

The woman's face is tight. "I will do everything in my power to hope so."

"Then yes," Margaret says softly, "I would wait forever to have him again."

The woman leans down, kissing her forehead. "And so it shall be."

New York - 2023

Peggy tilts her head at the strange looking man, "excuse me?"

He glares at her, shaking his head as if he is annoyed he's been tricked by something.

"I should have known." He looks at his watch, "I suppose Love is Patient is a rather well known phrase, that little minx."

Peggy pulls off her latex gloves, throwing them in the trash and coming out to the hallway. "Who are you and what are you talking about?"

"Smart of her. Putting you here with so much death—"

Her eyes widen, everything he's saying now settling in, "this is about Death…"

The man gives her a short and unamused smile, "I should have known something was off when he kept returning empty handed. At least so consistently. It hadn't been like that since the beginning and I was busy, just figured he needed motivation to remember how to behave—" the words make her angry.

"You've been punishing him for saving lives!"

His brow puckers, looking at her like she's a spoiled rotten brat, "there are no lives worth saving." He holds up a pale hand, flexing his fingers and then curling his fingers into a fist. The lights flicker and she hears the machines start to beep. All of them, all the patients' machines start to go frantic like all of them are going into distress at once. Then he uncurls his fingers and the lights go steady and the machines grow quiet. "No soul is worth more than another. The earth cannot sustain immortality in humans. You already raze your resources and hoard them amongst the rich." He raises an eyebrow, "are those in power, the greedy and selfish, worth saving less than the poor hungry mother?"

"Yes," she snaps out the word. "You can take those bastards all you like."

He laughs, "funny how someone like him could have loved you. You were always the rash and brutal one, such a contrast to his calm and even."

She pauses, "excuse me?"

"The ways he suffered at your hand—" he laughs, "I did him a favor by saving him from you."

"I don't—"

"Sure it took a while to train him but I was right. He's the perfect servant. Eventually he saw the benefits of heeling like a good dog." He gestures to the hospital, "don't make me remind him why it's better to behave than to listen to you." His hand raises and makes the air shiver. Then he's stepping backwards and is gone.

"Angie!" She cries, "I—" her mind fights it, the memory slipping away already. Something about what she just saw was important, "he's—"

Angie leans over the nurses station, eyeing her with a curious look, "yes?"

"He's—" but it's gone. "I'm—"

Her friend walks over, "you alright? Was the power surge Death?"

She blinks, trying to grasp at anything. "I don't think so. I don't see him."

"Everything alright?"

"No, I think somethings wrong… I just don't know what."

Her fingers raise to her neck and she drags out the little silver scythe. "What's that?" Angie asks, her curious eyes on the charm.

She closes her fingers around it and waits.

It only takes a second but then he's there. In his smaller thinner stature, a black silk button up covering his neck but rolled up to his elbows. Dress slacks and shoes make him look regal and handsome. Questioning eyes meet hers, and she steps forward, wrapping her arms around him.

Angie's shoes squeak, "is he here? Is the air you're hugging him?"

She turns, smiling at Angie, "yes, it's him."

Angie nods and smiles and backs away, giving them space.

"Can you speak?" She asks, but he shakes his head, 'no'.

She sighs, "I don't even know exactly why I called you. I just know something is wrong. I don't know what, but something is wrong." He gestures to the doorways and she shakes her head, "no, not with the patients or hospital, with you or me, or us—" he frowns, confused, and she sighs, "not something wrong with us like that, I just mean…"

His head tilts, waiting.

"Nothing," she finally admits, "I guess I just had a gut feeling but I don't know why."

He nods, not seeming annoyed at the call. He looks about to leave when his head turns, eyes narrowing.

Peggy turns to see Dr. Hodge standing behind Angie, crowding her space intentionally. Hand on her waist, dropping lower. Angie's valiantly trying to pretend she's busy. Peggy's about to call out, to yell at him for being an ass, but there's a cold shudder in the hallway and she shivers.

Her eyes blink and suddenly he's there, looming over Hodge, eyes no longer blue but radiating tendrils of inky black smoke, his form growing bigger and more menacing as he gets closer.

The temperature in the hallway drops significantly and it makes her breath puff out in a visible cloud.

A low throaty growl of annoyance exits Death and Hodge's spine goes straight. He turns around, as if he could see Death but he must not because his eyes dart around.

Angie has turned now as well but her eyes are widening, and not in confusion.

Hodge starts to back up, scared, pushing Angie back up against the desk. And Peggy watches Death lean in closer, exuding such a terrifying presence that every hair on Peggy's arms raises in fear.

Hodge yelps, like he's been shocked and then he takes off, heading towards the doors to the waiting room.

The temperature rises instantly.

Death shrinks, returning to his slim stature and the black smoke dissipates.

"He is real." Angie whispers out. "I mean… I believed you. I did, but now-" her hand reaches out and gently rests on Death's chest, her hand recoils, "is this him? He's cold." Death's expression turns amused and softer. "Thank you," Angie breathes, her guess on where his face is a bit off, but her tone is genuine, "thank you for scaring him off."

Death nods, bowing slightly and then he's gone with a shimmer of the light.

Peggy walks over, "you felt him?"

"Impossible not too. That aura was terrifying, powerful."

"He dislikes Hodge."

"Don't we all," Angie mutters, "you were saying something earlier?"

"I don't know. Something important but I can't remember. Maybe it will come back to me."

Angie nods and takes off as another nurse calls to her.

Peggy is sleeping when a soft hand wakes her. She shifts, dragging her consciousness up and she almost expects it to be Death. Who else would be in her apartment in the middle of the night?

But the soft smiling face of a beautiful woman makes her sit up in alarm.

"Who are you-" she croaks out, her voice unused in sleep.

"Peace, child. I mean no harm. It is good to see you."

The woman's tone speaks of familiarity. "Excuse me?"

"I have kept away from you all these years since I did not want to draw attention to you. But now that he knows you exist, I am here to advise you."

"Advise me?"

"Do you have a pen? A paper?"

Peggy shakes her head, the sleep still clinging to her, "how did you get into my house?"

"How does Death?"

That makes her senses prick. "You know Death?"

"Of course I do. And so do you."

"I don't understand."

"You and Death have spent over a century together. At least, you've tried. You have shared over 300 past lives. Each one ripped away by his death-"

"But-"

"Hush child," the woman says. "My time is short." She smiles at her, "you and he are so intertwined. Some of the strongest soulmates I've ever encountered in my thousands of years of existence. You must remember."

"Remember what?"

"The lord of the dead has claimed Death as his servant. But he was your love first. If you can remember, you can break the curse he has wrought on your life."

"Remember what? I don't understand-"

"Names are very powerful, child," she says her voice growing softer, "if you can remember his, you will have a power unlike any other. The power of true, first, real love. Not even Hades can deny it."

"A name? That's it?"

"Names are not to be scoffed at. You called mine and I listened. To acknowledge another is to bestow humanity." The woman taps her wrist. "Write it down. You humans are very forgetful beings when it comes to the celestial. Write it down."

Her mind is still whirling, but the power in the woman's voice is undeniable. She reaches for her phone, opening the notes app. "What am I writing down?"

"Remember his name. Then he will return to you."

She types it out and looks up, ready to ask more questions, only to find the woman gone.

Her eyes flick down to her screen. Remember his name. Then he will return to you.

Remember… whose name?

Whose name has she forgotten?

But the reminder is a strange one. Strange enough her thoughts turn to the only person she knows, but does not have an actual name.

Death is not a name.

The second part confuses her though. Then he will return to you…?

It doesn't make sense. She lays back down, phone lit dimly lighting the small area and she wonders about it until sleep over takes her once more.

"Hello."

She spins, finding Death standing behind her, a hesitant and unsure smile on his handsome face. "You can speak!" She exclaims, "finally!"

He nods.

"I've missed hearing your voice."

He looks surprised, "you did?"

"Of course, I did. It's lovely."

She had no idea Death could blush. But he does.

"Are we still on for this evening?" She asks, "I wasn't sure, I hadn't seen you recently."

He tilts his head, "my boss… he was acting strange-" he huffs a small laugh, "at least, strangely for him, and he was hesitant to allow me here. He had one of his other collectors working this region. But eventually he has allowed me to return."

He's mentioned this before, his boss' preference to his work, and her curiosity almost gets the better of her, but she dips her chin, "well I'm glad." She'll ask him later.

"As am I." He looks about to say something else when a beeping from the nursing station starts to peel through the hall.

His expression shifts to sad, "my apologies. I need to go."

And she watches as he enters the room of the father who had fallen off a ladder. Her stomach turns at the thought of his high school senior daughter and freshmen son. How they'll never get to hear or see their father again. But she does not fight or argue. She watches as Death walks out into the hallway, chatting amiably with the man who follows after him sadly.

The man pauses, looking back into the room where his broken body lay and he heaves a deep sigh.

And Death smiles sadly at him too. His face is the perfect picture of remorse, understanding, and sympathy. And he extends a hand to the man, a gentle offering, not a forced expectation. The man looks back at his family one last time and whispers something Peggy cannot hear. Then he clasps Death's hand and begins to walk alongside him, hand in hand until they turn the corner and are out of sight.

Remember his name. Then he will return to you.

She sits up, heart racing and tenses, the presence of someone making her defenses flare.

But when she turns she sees Death, crouched besides her large sitting chair, his closed fist hanging guilty by his side.

She rubs at her eyes, "what time is it?"

"A quarter past 11."

"Eleven!" She exclaims, "I thought we planned on 9!"

He smiles, leaning back onto his heels, his fist still closed, "we did. But when I arrived, you were asleep and I didn't want to wake you." His eyes are soft, "I left and attended-" his voice cuts off and then he frowns, but doesn't finish, "when I came back, you were still asleep." His voice trails off again, like he doesn't want to explain what he was just doing.

"And what is it that you've got in your hand?"

He crinkles his nose, as if he's been caught, and he opens it slowly. A few cat treats in his palm.

"Oh," she laughs, "I'm surprised she didn' chew off your hand trying to get them from you."

His face goes to something infinitely sad that she can't comprehend, "what?"

He straightens, dropping the cat treats into her palm, "that's not how it works, I'm afraid."

"How what works?"

He sits beside her, staring at the blank TV. "You asked once, before, if I take care of animals and the answer is no. I don't. Animals can sense death. They are always shy or hesitant of me. But cats…" his frown deepens, and shame crosses his features, "they are something else. They cannot stand me, cannot even bear to be in my presence. They flee if able and defend themselves if not."

Peggy looks at his immeasurable sad expression and her heart squeezes strangely in sadness for him, "why?"

He shrugs, "I do not know. I've never been able to understand why. They just-" he swallows hard and looks down, his hands clasped together. "-hate me."

She frowns and goes to the chair, stooping down and dragging the little gremlin out from her hiding place. The cat, whom Peggy has named Artemis for her prowess in hunting down every bug that's dared step into this apartment, immediately hisses at the sight of him and clings to Peggy's clothes, nails sharp grating against her skin and making her hiss in pain. "Ow! Artemis, stop that!"

Death stands, making Artemis positively feral with fear, pupils dilated and fur on end. Death backs up, giving the cat space, "let her go, it's no use."

Peggy winces at the sharp nails scraping against her and she releases the cat, watching in shock as she leaps away and disappears with a crash into the bedroom, probably deep under Peggy's bed.

They both stand in stunned silence but the cracked expression of grief on his face makes her have to do something.

She steps forward gently resting her hands on the sides of his cheeks, "it's alright."

"It's not," he replies softly, "I can't explain why but I know it's my fault."

"How could it be your fault that cat's hate you? Other animals don't have that fierce a reaction, do they?"

He shakes his head, "no, just cats."

"Then I'm sure there's a reason. But it cannot be your fault. Especially if you do not collect them."

Death looks calmer for a moment and she's about to bring up the note on her phone when he stiffens, eyes going wide, then he closes his eyes and sags, face pressing against her palms, "I have to go. I'm sorry."

Then he shimmers and disappears.

The next morning, she turns on the news as she makes breakfast and stares at the horrific footage.

"A 7.3 magnitude earthquake rocked the small island, leaving devastation in its wake. High rise towers have crumpled on the tourist side, and small villages were flattened on the other. The death toll is unknown at this time. To donate to the Relief Aid call or text-"

Her hand is over her mouth and she can't stomach a single bite.

She does not see him for three weeks. A few patients die in his absence, letting her know that someone else is attending her hospital. She wonders how that works. How many collector's did his boss have? How many of them worked at once?

But mostly she wonders… where is he? Is he alright?

Then one night she wakes, and something tingles at her neck and she sits up. A soft glow is coming from her living room when she knows full well she turned off all her lights.

Silently she slips from her bed, grabs the cricket bat she always has beside her bed and creeps out to the living room.

But, as she partially expected, and mostly hoped, she finds Death sitting at her windowsill, staring out the glass at the rainy night.

Somehow she knows he knows she's there. She sets the bat down and stays still, quietly watching him.

He's in his slimmer, shorter stature, and his clothes seem off. Like they're not solid. Almost flickering in and out, deciding whether to fully materialize or not.

She can only see the back of his head but his neck is paler than usual and his hair has lost a lot of its color, almost white in the dim glow.

"Death?"

His head turns slowly and she gasps. Eyes filled with inky blackness, leaking those soft tendrils of black smoke away from his gaunt and tired face. His skin is an unnatural pallor and the scar is a striking red slash across his neck, almost like it's fresh.

Equal parts fear and concern grip her. But fear wins, not allowing her to step closer. She can see his cheekbones straining against his skin and the black aura radiating from his eyes make the contrast even starker.

As if he can sense the fear in her, he looks back down at his hands and nods, then he shimmers and is gone.

His absence leaves the apartment warmer and she sucks in a deep breath, hands shaking.

He'd always been Death. Always held a radiating power. But this… this had been like staring into the depths of her own finite soul. Like he'd been a black hole and she'd almost sunk into it.

Distress sinks in, "no-" she chokes out, "wait, come back!" realization that he'd been at one of the lowest points she'd ever seen him and she'd left him alone, stayed her distance out of her own fear. Even in his punished states, he'd been unsure of who she was, and therefore not affected by her fear of him, but this… this… he knew who she was. Knew to come to her house and she'd treated him like he'd expect to be treated by everyone else. With fear and hesitation.

Her fingers stumble and clasp the little charm around her neck. "COme back-" she whispers, "please come back."

But he does not.

Another week passes and she does not attempt to summon him again.

The death toll from the earthquake had continued to rise as new bodies were discovered in the cleanup and others who had been trapped finally succumbed.

And so she waits until the number does not budge for at least a week and then she grasps the scythe and tries again.

The temperature drops and she turns, seeing him at her front door, as if ready to exit at a moment's notice.

"Death-"

He winces as if struck and she apologizes, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry- I don't know what else to call you."

His voice is quiet, almost as if it's gone hoarse from shouting, "it's fine. It's my name."

She frowns. Remember his name. Then he will return to you.

Something in her chest stirs. "No… I don't think it is your name."

His tired eyes, now thankfully back to blue, look up at her, dark circles ringing beneath, "what do you mean?"

"I can't explain why, but I have a feeling I'm supposed to figure out your name." His expression is perplexed but at least he does not evaporate, so that is something. And she decides she must address the elephant in the room. "I'm sorry," she apologizes again, "I should not have been so afraid of you when you last came. I wish I hadn't been. I should have comforted you."

His head shake is slow, "I should not have come. I'm the one who should apologize."

That makes her step forward, closing the distance between them. He's in his largest form now, the one where he's over head and shoulders taller than her, wider shoulders than her door frame. Able to probably crush her with his bare hands.

But the fear that was there the last time is no longer. Gently she presses herself against him. Not with anything but comfort. Slowly she slinks her arms around his middle, resting her head against his chest and shivering at the cooler temperature he exudes.

It takes a moment, she can feel the hesitation rolling off him. But she can also feel the desperate desire for affection.

And eventually that desire wins. His large arms wrap around her, holding her to him and his cheek rests on top of her head.

And they stand there in that embrace for a very long time.

Something between them had cracked. The initial flirtation and intrigue and then the cautious uncertainty and vicious arguments (mostly on her side) and then just the hesitation as they circled each other unsure what was meant for this strange uneven relationship had given way. Now it was different.

Later that night, she is curled up against him, sitting on her comfy couch and the TV playing softly in the background. His chest rises slowly and sinks even slower. She has a blanket thrown over her to combat the chill.

His initial hesitation has faded, and it's turned to a quiet exhaustion.

"Do you sleep?"

She feels his head shake, "no."

"But you feel tired?"

There's a long pause. "I don't know what it is that I feel. But I would describe it as a weariness more than a need for slumber."

Her lips purse in amusement. Occasionally he will say such an antiquated word it makes her grin.

"Do you eat?"

She tips her head back and waits for his answer. His eyes flick down from the tv where he had been staring, not watching, and they lock with ers. "I do not feel hunger."

Liar.

The thought comes unbidden. He may not feel human hunger for food. But he feels hunger in a more visceral way. Like the way his hand is thrown around her and resting gently on her knee. Like he's done it a thousand times before and he needs to have it placed there.

Or the way his fingers stroke her hair. Or the way his nose presses to her temple and breathes her in when he thinks she's dozing.

Remember his name. Then he will return to you.

His eyes are still locked on hers and something deep and soul anchoring fills her.

Remember.

That means she's known his name before.

She can see him when no one else can. Except Michael. Her family. His hand on her knee feeling so familiar. A gesture of something he's done.

Back when she knew his name.

Then he will return to you.

He was hers. Once upon a time.

And he will be again.

"You belong to me," she whispers out. "Somehow, back before this-" her fingers gently caress the scar on his neck, "somehow long ago you were mine and I was yours." He's staring at her, eyes wide in surprise but he says nothing, "you feel it too, don't you? Our strange connection? Like we've done this before?"

He shakes his head, breaking their eye contact, "everything about you is strange. I've known no one like you in all my years of service."

"Service?"

"Yes."

"To your boss?"

"That is the word humans would use."

"And what word would you use?"

"He is my master."

"So you are a slave?"

"I owe a debt."

"What sort of debt?"

"I am not sure. But it is a lifetime of servitude."

"And you're immortal."

"Yes."

"So that is not one lifetime but thousands!" Her anger on his behalf is sparked instantly.

"Yet it is still only my lifetime. I assume eventually I will fade and he will have to replace me."

"Why would you say that?" She rests a hand on his chest, the nonchalance in which he says he will fade leaving her slightly on edge.

"I am not a god," he states simply. And while I am immortal, and my death will not be similar to human death, it will eventually come to me and I would welcome it."

His eyes flick back up to the TV where news footage of some other tragic disaster reflects in them and she feels her throat get tight. He is weary. Weary of leading people to their final place of rest.

"I'm going to figure it out." She says softly, getting his attention. "I'm going to figure it out. Whatever it is. Your name. I'm going to figure out your name."

He gives her a smile, but it does not reach his eyes.