Chapter 2 Mara
Life is much duller than it was when Death once possessed it.
This saddens her slightly. She was hoping to be impressed by mankind.
Alas, with a disapproving drawing of breath (it tastes of smoke and the decaying leaves crunching beneath her boots), Death follows the scent of a soul eager to meet her.
Her lungs have no need for air, but some habits—a body reflexively drawing breath, desperate to provide its host with life—die hard.
You see, Death takes it upon herself to appreciate the things humans fail to, and breathing is certainly a thankless phenomenon.
So, with damp air filling useless organs, Death strolls across the castle grounds with all the confidence of a royal.
There is a distant familiarity here, no matter the blandness that has now blanketed this kingdom. The trees are gnarled, bowing beneath the unforgivable hand of Time. Even the sky hanging above seems bleached of its usual vibrance as Death drags her fingers along the castle’s chalky stones.
Yes, much duller than she remembers.
Guards pass in a lazy procession, ignorant to Death’s watchful gaze.
She doesn’t mind their lack of recognition—or anyone else’s, for that matter.
In fact, she has grown to enjoy the quiet pocket from which she observes the living.
Death is a demanding role, as one can imagine, but she finds the trivial troubles of mankind to be a delightful distraction.
A human fussing over a blemish on their skin. One begrudgingly eating a bowl of oats they believe is beneath them. Another arguing with their lover over a quite obvious misunderstanding.
Apparently, these are the things worth living for.
And Death finds that most amusing. Her favorite pastime—between gathering souls and acquainting them with a maddening solitude—consists of what most would wrongly identify as spying.
No, her acute observation is a manifestation of curiosity.
Research to aid in her occupation. A passion for the mundane (humans) and the tragic (their tedious lives).
You see, Death is much more than her namesake. She is a lady, after all (that fact alone should be interesting enough). Can she not have hobbies?
Death takes her time roaming the countless castle corridors.
She is in no rush—not like the living. Besides, there is hardly anything new to explore.
Time has left this piece of the past perfectly intact.
It’s quite haunting, but not in the way Death can usually appreciate.
You see, she does not enjoy having a tangible reminder of her greatest mistake.
Nestling into the folds of her cloak, Death weaves between the puddles of sunlight soaking the plush floor.
That tugging in her chest grows stronger with each step, and she eagerly carves a path toward the soul at this tether’s end.
Because in all of Death’s years, she has never known an Azer to so willingly part with their power.
Dying is hardly something kings do gracefully.
For that very reason, Death so enjoys her time spent with royals.
Even when looking up at her from the Mors’ muddy floor, they still unflinchingly command.
It’s intriguing, watching a powerful human slowly recognize what they have become—nothing more than a stranded soul caught in Fate’s web.
“With all due respect, Your Majesty, you do know that this is still insane?”
This polite disbelief drifts from the dim room that summons Death.
The soul within calls to her, fraying beneath the weight of some irreparable decision.
Her tie to this human runs deep, as though their veins are knotted together, hearts humming the same tune.
Though the organ is long cold in Death’s unmoving chest, it recognizes itself in the one that pumps borrowed time, mere steps away.
This soul is foolish enough to hope.
And a lifetime ago, so was Death.
“I’m aware,” responds a different male voice, this one far smoother. He doesn’t sound like a man who wants to die. “But it needs to be done. Can I count on you?”
Death pauses in the hallway, awaiting her entrance and the confrontation of her curiosity.
There is hardly any need to startle the dying soul in front of another.
She is not a monster, after all. Her connection to this man allows physical contact, the ability to behold.
But Death is unused to being seen by the somewhat living.
This oddity will be a first for the both of them.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” It’s the first voice. Death notes that it sounds like he is accustomed to curving each sentence into something comedic, as though he can hardly take himself seriously. “You can count on me. I only hope I, uh, live to tell the tale.”
This comment, combined with that incessant curiosity, has Death stretching a strand of her power toward the man. His soul is not marked for the Mors. In fact, she can see his sprawling lifeline clearly—it is long and happier than most.
Death sighs. For the umpteenth time over the decades, she marvels at the self-importance of humans. Every soul believes they are worthy of being stalked by Death. But you see, she is a busy woman. One who doesn’t waste her time on a man’s paranoia of her possible presence.
If you wish to grab Death’s attention, then die.
“Let’s hope Blair’s on her best behavior.” It’s that steady voice again. “I’ll be here if you need anything.”
There is a rustling of fabric before a shadow curls across the carpet.
A man, dressed in a blinding ensemble of white, halts in the doorframe.
His masked face turns back toward the king.
“Not that it matters coming from me, but I think it’s really great what you’re doing for the kingdom.
And Calum is a good man—I hope to help you both in any way I can. ”
How sincere, Death thinks. Though, she sees no point in speaking otherwise.
Death appreciates—expects, really—words that carry weight behind them. The kind capable of welling eyes and softening even the stoniest of hearts. It’s one of the few things humans do right—feeling.
“Thank you, Lenny,” the king returns softly. Death thinks he sounds hesitant. She thinks a lot of things, most of them all at once but never portrayed on her placid features. She carries herself with a stoic sort of practiced professionalism.
Death is quite attentive for someone her age.
This Lenny strolls into the hallway with a fading smile.
Though, he looks rather anxious—an expression that is likely foreign on his freckled face.
Death eyes him closely, tracing the coils of red hair that bounce with each of his lanky strides.
So when his head suddenly swivels in her direction, she is startled half to death (as the living like to say, though it’s a gross exaggeration used without her consent).
Unsurety creases Lenny’s brow. Then his warm eyes collide with Death’s frigid gaze.
She is pinned to the wall like a carcass on display. After living (proverbially, of course) in the shadows for decades, unseen and unburdened by identity, she is suddenly beheld. This boy who smells of starch—a point Death feels cannot go unnoticed—is the first to acknowledge her presence.
She is not sure what to make of this.
Peering beyond this physical realm, she studies his soul. It is like drawing back a curtain to find the next layer of one’s being behind. And this soul is bright—glowing with a yellow sheen. Death predicted as much.
Lenny looks away, shaking his head. “Shit,” he mumbles. “I really am paranoid.”
With that declaration of defeat, he sets off down the hall once again.
Death stares longingly at his retreating form. Then at the wall separating her from that flickering, blue soul within the study.
Her foot taps a steady beat against the floor. On occasion, she pretends the rhythm belongs to her heart. It provides some semblance of comfort, though she doesn’t care to question why.
After much deliberation, Death follows the lingering scent of starch through the castle. She warrants this diversion because no living being has ever sensed her presence.
The mystery of this starchy man is worth Death’s valuable time. Besides, the king will still be dying when she returns.
Death is rather blunt. Sensitivity is hardly in her job description.
The guard leads her out into the training yard, where his white attire only further blinds in the streaming sunlight.
He treads carefully toward a young woman who hogs the little shade offered by a generous tree.
She is sprawled atop the soft grass, strands of striking lilac hair clinging to her slick brow.
It looks as though she has been exercising. What an unappealing use of life.
The woman frowns at the swelling sound of rustling fabric. Then she scowls when the man beneath it speaks.
“Wow, you’re actually sweating. Maybe you are human.”
Death finds this introduction fascinating. Perhaps she can collect some enticing gossip to share with the trees back home.
The young lady’s eyes fly open. Then she promptly sweeps her scrutiny over him. “All that starch much be getting to your head. I don’t think you know who you’re talking to.”
(Death feels strangely validated by her acknowledgment of such an excessive scent. Moments like these make her grateful for the ability to cease breathing.)
That is all the woman deigns to say before settling back into the bed of grass and letting her eyes drift closed. She seems to bask in the quiet stillness, lacing fingers over her abdomen in contentment.
“So, uh, still here.”
Death watches as the woman lifts herself into a sitting position, huffing all the while. “Did I not imply that you should be walking away right now?” Her voice is impressively condescending.
“Trust me”—Lenny lifts his hands in mock surrender—“I would. But unfortunately for the both of us, I can’t.”
“Here.” That alluring hair hardly softens this woman’s sharp features. Her smile is mocking. “Allow me to help.”