Chapter 20 The Voice of Death #2
Was I truly having a conversation with a shadow?
Perhaps this was the fever’s final gift—a companion in my last hours, even if it was one my mind had conjured from delirium and darkness.
Or perhaps I had already died, and this was some aspect of what came after, this voice in the dark, this promise of an end to an ending.
“You do not fear death,” the voice observed. It wasn’t a question.
I considered it anyway. Did I fear death?
I had spent the past weeks surrounded by its promise, in the festering wounds that throbbed with each heartbeat, in the fever that burned through my veins, in the slow weakening of my body as it consumed itself in the absence of proper food.
No, death was a welcome companion, far more reliable than any human connection.
“I’ve been expecting you,” I answered truthfully. “Though I imagined you differently.”
“How do you imagine death?” the voice asked, and I thought I detected a note of amusement in its ancient tones.
I closed my eyes, summoning the image I’d carried since childhood.
“I thought you would be beautiful,” I admitted.
“Terrible, yes, but beautiful—like the last light of sunset before night claims the sky. I thought you would have eyes that reflected all the lives you’ve claimed and hands that could both wound and comfort. ”
My hand drifted to my head, remembering the weight of my mother’s crown. “I thought you might wear a crown of stars.”
The shadow rippled, stretching along the wall until it nearly reached me. “Perhaps I do,” it said. “Perhaps you simply cannot see it.”
This struck me as funny, though I couldn’t say why. Another laugh escaped me, softer this time, almost fond. “Perhaps,” I agreed. “I suppose I’ll see you in the afterlife. I will let you know then if you meet my expectations.”
I wondered if I should be more concerned my mind was lost, instead of this feeling of weary acceptance. I did not dwell on it. What was the point?
Death would take me regardless of sanity.
“Will it hurt?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could reconsider it.
My harbinger was silent for so long I thought he might not answer. When he finally spoke, his voice had softened, losing some of its unearthly resonance.
“Yes,” he said simply. “But not forever.”
For some reason, the honesty of this answer touched me more deeply than any comfort could have. I felt tears prick at my eyes.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
We sat in silence for a time, Death and I, neither encroaching on the other’s space.
Outside, clouds must have passed over the moon, for the shaft of light through the grate dimmed and then brightened again.
I found myself wondering about the world above, if the stars were visible tonight, if a breeze stirred the trees in the gardens where I used to weave fairy crowns.
“Are you real?” I whispered, breaking the silence, wanting to know if I’ve gone mad. “Or have I finally lost my mind completely?”
Death seemed to consider this. “Does it matter?”
I thought about this for a moment, then laughed again—a genuine sound this time, without the brittle edge of hysteria.
“No,” I admitted. “I suppose it doesn’t. Real or imagined, you’re here, and I am grateful for it.”
“You are not afraid of death,” my harbinger said, “but you fear dying alone.”
The observation struck home with uncomfortable precision. I’d never admitted this fear, not even to myself, but the shadow had named it as easily as breathing.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“You are not alone,” Death said.
Strange comfort from a stranger presence, yet I found myself believing it. Whatever this entity was—hallucination, specter, or something else entirely—it had breached the isolation that had been my truest torment.
“Will you stay?” I asked.
The shadow pulsed once more. “I am here,” it repeated, and this time, I understood it as a promise.
I closed my eyes, suddenly exhausted beyond measure. The fever still burned beneath my skin, but it seemed more distant now, as if a cool hand had been laid upon my brow. I wondered if this was how death began, not with fear or pain, but with a gradual easing of burdens, a soft surrender.
“My harbinger,” I murmured, the words slurring slightly as exhaustion began to claim me.
My thoughts grew fuzzy, disconnected, floating away from me like leaves on a stream.
“Rest,” the shadow said, and it might have been my imagination, but I thought I felt a cool touch against my burning cheek.
I surrendered to the pull of exhaustion, letting my head fall back against the stone wall. The silence returned, but it was different now, not the oppressive weight it had been before, but something more like a blanket, wrapped around me with unexpected tenderness.
As consciousness slipped away, I thought I heard the shadow speaking again, words in a language I couldn’t understand. A benediction. A eulogy.
I closed my eyes against it, letting the darkness press in like that lover’s final kiss. Cold and intimate, the last caress before the long goodbye.