The Messenger

William has had enough and wants death, but when Death arrives, what will happen?

Oh, how the man was filled with sorrow, days of his youth squandered in the petty game he played with others of his kind. And how this man loathed the world, and on one such occasion, when the demons filled his very conscious, he decided to make death his own.

 

On the morning of the twenty-third November, in the year eighteen hundred and a half, he was conscious of a presence standing at his windowsill. Silently, he stood there watching shadows prance across the white-washed walls.

 

The figure by his windowsill stepped slowly into the pale moonlight, dressed in a dark, heavy robe, his face shrouded in an oversized hood. In the figures hand he held a long blackened scythe, glinting in the moonshine light.

             

The man, feeling the touch of cold on the base of his neck, watched the fog emanating from the hooded figure made it's way over to tangle itself in tight vines around his ankles, seemingly holding the man hostage in it's tight coils.

 

William, so the man was called, swallowed forcefully against the hard knot of dread forming behind his Adam's apple. His knowledge of the Messenger of Death was limited, but it was obvious who his midnight caller was, his midnight caller standing by his windowsill.

 

Breathing audibly, deeply, the Messenger stepped forward. Invisible wind blew the cloak into liquid darkness, smoke flapping silently around him.

 

The lack of noise, the deafening silence, muted by the presence of Death, made William's innards clench in a mixture of fear and anticipation. Slowly he felt himself being forced down to his knees, his eyes trained to the cold stone floor in the front of him, forbidden to look Death in the eyes.

 

Death, ever present, glided slowly, like the banshee he was, stopped at William's tow-colored crown. A hand, small and gnarled with age and the torture of his duty, rested on top of the soft curls on the man's head. So gently, almost like a last caress in a final attempt at soothing the man's troubled soul.

 

An unexpected feeling of peace bloomed with William's chest, and again he felt a force tip his head up so that he stared Death in the face. Instead of a skull, instead of a face shriveled as expected, the man saw his own visage, gaunt and lifeless, possessed by Death, but also by peace, the conflicts of his life suddenly lifted from his tired shoulders.

 

Death smiled down at William. His smile was melancholic, but his eyes sparkled with a hidden amusement. He opened his mouth to speak, his voice a humble rumble:

 

"William. Will, I am. Am I Will?"

 

Confused, William stared into the questioning eyes of Death. He pondered the words, fragmented from his own name.

 

"Will, am I? Will, I am? Am I, Will?" Death continued.

 

Death's riddle-like babble puzzled the man even more. Shakily he stood, rubbing the sides of his temples.

 

"I am Will."

 

Death cocked his head. "Will, am I?"

 

William shook his head. "I am Will. I am William."

 

Death's eyes flashed as he spoke again, almost urgently. "Will, am I? I am Will."

 

William stared down at the floor, unable to meet the Messenger in the face, unable to decipher his words.

 

"You are Death. The Messenger of Death. I am William."

 

Death frowned, lowering his scythe and setting it at William's throat. His face distorted, all features disappearing into a blank mask.

 

"I AM DEATH."

 

"I am Will." gulping slightly, William brought a hand up to touch the blade at his own throat. The ghostly paleness of his reflection, staring back at him from the surface of the mask, stared at him. William glared angrily back at his reflection on Deaths mask, furious at his own cowardice to accept his reflection.

 

Death jerked the blade from under William's neck and slid the curved blade to the back of the man’s throat, the curve of William's neck fitting against the curve of Death's black blade.

 

"I am Death." he said once more, his voice echoing in from somewhere, and out from everywhere around the empty room.

 

"I am Will. I have Will. Willpower. William." William breathed, closing his eyes gently.

 

Death moved as if to slice into William's neck but froze.

 

"Death have Will? Willpower? Death have Will?" The voice of Death was scared, and also almost hopeful.

 

William nodded, ever so slightly, and Death's features once again began to shift, become recognizable. He developed clear blue eyes and raven hair that peeked out from under the Messengers hood, over into his eyes. His face softened, like an adolescent boy's, almost to manhood, but forever out of reach. His eyes, once fearful, now full of hope, and he dropped the scythe onto the floor. His hand, now smooth with youth, reached up and tore at the cloak, ripping it off and exposing the trousers and loose tunic he wore underneath.

 

"I am not Death." he stated, voicing singing with revived joy. "I am Jason."

 

Glad the boy had been released of such a heavy burden. William smiled and patted the boy's shoulder in congratulations of the boy's reclaimed life.

 

"Hello, Jason. I am Will. Will I am. I am William."

 

Somberly, with a new sense of duty, William took the robe from the boy and put it on in a flash of movement, then leaned down to retrieve the black-bladed scythe lying on the floor. He stood, having finally made Death his own.

 

"I am Death. Death I am."

 

The boy smiled at Death, Will I am, and nodded, turning to escape back through the window.

 

"I am Jason."

 

"I am Death."

Author's Note

Ah hah! Something I wrote based on a prompt in creative writing. Woo! I love it. So does Frank, at least he will after saving the Tangent Universe. Rate and Review!