Chapter 10 - Death does not bargain

Once upon a time, in the midlands of France, in a small village surrounded by green hills and lush grasslands, there lived a man without a name.

He hadn't been born without a name, of course. But even as he grew famous and moved to the city of Avignon, he was known to everyone just as the man from that village. He was, in fact, not merely just a man. He was a surgeon. He had dedicated his life to helping others, his time to mending flesh and bone. This, everyone also knew.

What everyone did not know, was that he was also a sorcerer. He did not like to brag about it, because his goal was not to merely be seen as the person helping people. He wanted to heal as many as possible, save any life worth saving. And he was, after all, just one man. So instead of using his power to heal people, he used it to study. He wanted to understand, to find out why people were dying, and not just wave his hand to heal them, but find out what exactly needed to be done so others could do the same.

He was one of very few who held his kind of power, yet the responsibility of healing everyone was much vaster than he could ever hope to manage by himself.

And so he studied. He learned. He experimented. Every day he spent fighting the sickness and ailments of the townsfolk. When someone was beyond saving even for him, he would rend their bodies for all the secrets they held, hoping to learn something that would allow him to save the next person instead.

And save the next person, he did. A young woman of northern heritage, golden hair and a smile as beautiful as the sun even as she lay dying on his table. It had been love at first sight. Her name had been Elizabeth.

Their love had been fast, overwhelming, magical, perfect, and short.

Out of all the ailments, injuries and sickness he could cure, death had never been among them. Once it had set its sights on someone, Death would not let go, and Death would not bargain. Not even magic could change that.

So when the love of his life had been stabbed to death in front of him, he had been able to do nothing but watch the life fade from her eyes.

He had tried, of course, both with all the knowledge of medicine and magic combined, and it had been for naught. Death had claimed her soul as its own. So in the end, he turned his efforts towards the one thing standing in his way. Death itself.

He remembered the songs sang by the Keeper of Tales.

Death was an elusive creature. It would only show when people died, and mostly, only to them. Only when large numbers of people died would it show itself to others as well.

Only then you could make a deal. But even then, it would not bargain. The only terms it couldn't refuse was the price of a soul you had claimed as your own. But the only thing that price would buy was a Name of your own.

But a Name would not help in bringing back his loved one. So he set out on a quest to find the old man again, who had originally sang his tales of wisdom in his old village. And after years and years of wandering the woods, crossing the grasslands, and foraging through towns, he finally arrived in a clearing, in the center of a forest, where he heard the familiar song of the lute.

"Oh Keeper of Tales, grant me your wisdom," he said, once the aged man had concluded his song. "I have travelled far and wide, but I need to know."

"Why do you seek Death, young man?" the Keeper asked, his voice rustling like the leaves in the wind.

"I seek to bring back my beloved," the man replied, his voice thick with sorrow. "I would bargain with Death itself to see her smile again."

The Keeper of Tales nodded slowly, as if expecting this answer. "There have been others, you know, who have sought to bend Death to their will. Would you like to hear the tale?"

The Keeper smiled a knowing smile and, with a twinkle in his eye, began to strum his lute, plucking out a melody that danced like flickering firelight. His weathered voice wove the tale into a tune, as though each word was a note in a song of old.

"In days of yore, when men sought more than names, there lived a king with fiery aims. Alaric, bold, with sword in hand, led his troops across the land. Through blood and bone, through night and day, he pierced the heart of Rome's decay."

The lute's chords grew fuller, majestic, like a hymn to celebrate the march of an army.

"When Rome did fall, and Romans wept, it was Death who in the shadows crept. But Alaric, with a heart of steel, struck a bargain, made Death kneel. No name he sought, no title claimed, but the power of the Empire slain."

The melody swelled, filled with equal parts glory and sorrow.

"A wand he bore, of elder wood, In it, the power of empires stood. Imbued with might, unmatched, untamed, yet even so, Death's toll remained. For Alaric fell, as all men must, and his wand, it passed like whispered dust."

The lute's tune softened, its notes taking on a more somber, reflective tone.

"But heed this well, for there's more to tell, of another tale, of Death's own spell. A cloak there was, as dark as night, a shroud of shadow, void of light. Invisible to the keenest eye, even Death, they say, passed it by."

The melody turned eerie, haunting, as though the very air grew colder.

"Some say it came from Atlantis' fall, a city lost, beyond recall. No trace left of a world once great, and though we can't be sure of its fate,they say the cloak alone remained, a relic of a world, unstained. But if it's true, as whispers say, then Death itself was there that day."

A final, distorted chord rang out, sending shivers down the man's spine.

"So, seek you treasure or seek you name, remember well this ancient game. For Death, it watches, patient, still, and bargains made are Death's to fill."

The Keeper's voice trailed off into the silence, leaving the man alone to ponder the words, and the cold truth that lay beneath.

With the song long since faded, the man finally gathered his resolve, and met the Keeper's somber gaze. "Tell me, Keeper, how can I make such a pact?"

The Keeper of Tales sighed deeply, and his voice turned serious. "To claim power over Death, you must be willing to undo the good you have done, to tear down the very fabric of life you would usually work to preserve. You seek power over Life and Death, so demonstrate exactly this you shall, once Death comes to your door. And in exchange for a soul, you shall trade a name. But beware your words, for Death does not bargain."

And the man without a name understood, that if there was any way to pierce the veil of Death, to bring back a soul from even underneath its watchful eye, it would have to result from a deal with Death itself. And it would not suffice to simply trade a soul. He would need to create an artifact of his own, one that wielded the power of Death itself.

So one day, when a plague came and ravaged the town, when people began to die in droves, and Death came to watch, he made a deal. Instead of healing the dying man in front of him, he demonstrated what he wanted, the power over death itself. He placed every single curse he knew, every single ailment, all his knowledge he poured, anything he could think of to not heal but instead worsen his condition, all onto a small black stone, and tied it around his neck.

And still, Death would not bargain. Instead, it had accepted. The man, ravaged by the sickness, wasted away in front of his very eyes, his body blackening and crumpling, as Death wordlessly watched.

Once the body was gone, the stone was left behind, free of magic, free of curses, only holding what was promised. The power to bring back the dead. And so he took the stone, and turned it over.

"Death! By the power of this stone, I beseech you. Take my name, but give her back!"

And in that moment, he saw familiar eyes, familiar hair, a familiar face.

"Elizabeth!" he cried, reaching out to her.

It was her, but it also wasn't. Her body was gone, and only her suffering soul remained. Her voice trembled as she spoke, "Who are you? Why have you brought me back?"

"It is me! Your love!" he called out, but unable to recall his own name, she could not recognize him. "Let me rest! This is not life!"

"I cannot lose you again," he cried, tears streaming down his face. "I will find a way to restore you, to give you life once more!"

But no matter how many times he tried, each time he summoned her, she was only a shadow of her former self, a spirit trapped between life and death, and each time, she suffered more. At last, Elizabeth's pleas broke through his grief-stricken heart. "Please, let me go," she whispered, "I beg you."

With a sob, the man threw the stone far away, abandoning it in despair. He took one last walk through the city he had sworn to save, the city that had come to love him, the city he had betrayed for a foolish, selfish, hopeless endeavor. He strode along the path, towards his deathbed, eager to finally join his love in death again, yet he never made it there.

As he wandered the streets he saw sickness. All around, every single one of them. Blackening skin, blistering wounds, coughing, asphyxiation, all bearing symptoms of the very man he had sacrificed.

Death had not bargained. It had simply altered the deal.

He had wanted the power over Life and Death. Not just over a single life. And Death would claim what it was owed.

Wanting nothing more than to finally end his own life and join Elizabeth, he instead found himself turning right back around, re-opening his doors, and scrambling to treat the sick. Yet for every man, woman and child he healed, two more fell ill all the same.

Only when even the last soul in the city had fallen ill did he finally allow himself to rest, and return to his love. Yet he was stopped a second time. News had arrived from the surrounding towns. The sickness was spreading. And it was leaving Death in its wake.

He was not done paying for his hubris.

Gathering his life's work together, he set out to travel to other cities, on and on, treating the sickness wherever he went, studying it and trying to understand it. Trying to stop it. The sickness reflected parts of himself, all the curses he had layered into the stone, all the ways he had altered the sickness, they had spread with it. And it was taking all that he had just to unravel what he had wrought on one person, but try as he might, he had not found a way to stop the unrelenting curse of his own making spreading the lands.

And still, he kept researching, experimenting, documenting. He would not allow his curse to run afoul these lands forevermore. He would find a way to unravel what he had wrought, even if it was the last thing he ever did.

He would never be able to atone, but he would not be able to live with himself if he stopped.

In his despair, he sought out the Keeper of Tales once more. He found the ancient figure in the very same clearing in the forest, standing beneath the boughs of a twisted oak tree.

"Keeper," the man cried, "why does the plague continue? I have thrown away the stone, I have renounced my bargain! Why must they still suffer?"

The Keeper's eyes were filled with a deep, sorrowful wisdom. "You made a pact with Death, yet you seek to cheat it still. You heal those who fall ill, trying to undo the curse you have wrought. But Death does not bargain, and the price must be paid in full. The plague will not stop until you cease your efforts to save them."

The man recoiled in horror. "But if I stop, they will all die!"

"Yes," the Keeper said softly, "and that is the price you must pay."

Horrified, the man realized the truth. He had condemned not just himself, but all those he sought to save. Reluctantly, he closed his doors, refusing the pleas of the sick who begged for his help.

"I am sorry," he whispered to each of them, "but I cannot heal you. Not anymore."

And so, he watched as the plague took its toll, as men, women, and children succumbed to the illness. He tried to make them understand, tried to tell them it was for their own good, but they only understood his betrayal. Their eyes, once filled with hope, now glared at him with hatred and despair. His power, once a gift, now nothing but a curse. The curse of knowing that he could help if he wanted, if not for the others who then would suffer in their stead. They called him a traitor, a monster, cursed him with their dying breaths, but he could do nothing. Nothing but watch. The plague ran its course, and only once it had claimed nearly everyone, the Keeper's words finally proved true. The suffering met a slow, but still steady end, until the sickness finally relented.

Town after town he passed, everywhere he saw the same picture. Death and destruction, all of his own making, the towns getting more and more desolate as he approached his destination. The village, the one he had grown up in, was now left a ghost town. Everyone had perished, nobody even left to lay the blame at his feet. And as he moved on, he found the city of Avignon not much better still. The few survivors that even recognized him now hated the man they once revered. His heart was shattered, and his name forgotten by all, but at last, the time had come for him to join Elizabeth.

He returned to the spot where he had last seen her, at the center of this dying city, his task finally fulfilled. As he lay down on the cold ground, he felt the last of his strength leave him. And a shadow came over him, a figure standing next to his withering body.

"Your time has come," it said.

"Will I see her again?" the man asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"Perhaps," it said, "in a place where Death holds no power."

And with that, the man without a name closed his eyes, his last breath escaping his lips as he finally found the peace he had sought for so long. The village, now a ghostly reminder of his folly, was reclaimed by the hills and grasslands. The town, on the other hand, slowly recovered, the few survivors fighting tooth and nail to preserve what was left, and the tale of the nameless healer and his doomed love faded into legend, a cautionary tale told by mothers to their children in the dark of night.