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Two Death-themed ficlets prompted by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
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comment_fic:Death & Lucifer
The summoning should not have called him. Not personally. To call forth a concept of death, easy enough. To call one of his lesser vassals, a shape, a personage of death, all this could be done, and had been done, and would be done, for as long as creatures of some focused will would exist. Such was the way of things, for Life would always meddle with that which is anathema to it. Life was made that way.
But to call him, Death himself, the being, the concept, the totality. To call him, and bind him, and lay a ring upon his finger to chain him to a world ... that should not have happened. That should not have been done. But this child, this Lucifer, this angel throwing tantrums at the world ... This one had bound him. This one had called him, held him, cast him forth.
And still, and yet, he felt nothing. Not for this creature playing games with things it could not comprehend. For others, yes, for life, for the squalling, screaming things that fell into his hands for him to cradle, and soothe, and carry through the pain of passing to the endless, beginningless peace on the other side. Those, he felt for. Those he cradled. But this angel, this Lucifer ... nothing. Nothing at all.
It wouldn't matter much, in the end. This moment of holding, this game of ending. So long, so vast, so complete was his presence, that this roaring child but touched the edge of it. He walked the path set. Why not. But a moment in the fall of time, the spool of centuries, aeons. But a fragment of the game, and swiftly ended, so swift he barely saw, and didn't feel.
Such a little thing, a ring. Such a little thing, a game. Such a little thing, a life. He held them all, was held by all, cradled each and all in turn. In the end, against the fall, they meant nothing. In the end, for him, they meant everything.
Softly, silently, he waited, patient as the fall of ages. Soon, little child, tempestuous one, you will fall too. Soon, inevitable as the darkness, you will wither. And when you do, you too I will cradle, and carry through the passing to the other side.
Soon. Too fast to feel, too swift to note. Soon.
The summoning should not have called him. Not personally. To call forth a concept of death, easy enough. To call one of his lesser vassals, a shape, a personage of death, all this could be done, and had been done, and would be done, for as long as creatures of some focused will would exist. Such was the way of things, for Life would always meddle with that which is anathema to it. Life was made that way.
But to call him, Death himself, the being, the concept, the totality. To call him, and bind him, and lay a ring upon his finger to chain him to a world ... that should not have happened. That should not have been done. But this child, this Lucifer, this angel throwing tantrums at the world ... This one had bound him. This one had called him, held him, cast him forth.
And still, and yet, he felt nothing. Not for this creature playing games with things it could not comprehend. For others, yes, for life, for the squalling, screaming things that fell into his hands for him to cradle, and soothe, and carry through the pain of passing to the endless, beginningless peace on the other side. Those, he felt for. Those he cradled. But this angel, this Lucifer ... nothing. Nothing at all.
It wouldn't matter much, in the end. This moment of holding, this game of ending. So long, so vast, so complete was his presence, that this roaring child but touched the edge of it. He walked the path set. Why not. But a moment in the fall of time, the spool of centuries, aeons. But a fragment of the game, and swiftly ended, so swift he barely saw, and didn't feel.
Such a little thing, a ring. Such a little thing, a game. Such a little thing, a life. He held them all, was held by all, cradled each and all in turn. In the end, against the fall, they meant nothing. In the end, for him, they meant everything.
Softly, silently, he waited, patient as the fall of ages. Soon, little child, tempestuous one, you will fall too. Soon, inevitable as the darkness, you will wither. And when you do, you too I will cradle, and carry through the passing to the other side.
Soon. Too fast to feel, too swift to note. Soon.
Death & Methos
"The world's ending again, I see."
The oldest immortal slipped casually into the booth opposite his father. The gaunt figure didn't look up, bony fingers occupied in dissecting a pizza. Methos shook his head wryly, and waved a waitress over to order a beer.
"The world is always ending," Death said at last, cold eyes flicking upwards briefly, a thin smile curving narrow lips. "Each life its own world, and to each world its own ending. They are never free of me."
Methos mulled that over, mouth twitching around the neck of the bottle. "Not bad," he allowed finally, a small grin flashing. "Might use that, if you don't mind. Pearls of wisdom to spread, proof of my advancing years."
"Not at all," his father smiled, more truly now, Death to Death. "What are fathers for, save to impart wisdom to their sons?"
Methos paused. Looked out the window, out on the world, the warzone, the ending, where angels fought and died, and immortals too, never knowing what they were to each other. "To fight and die," he said quietly. "To play games without meaning, and never know the truth. To abandon each other, and find each other, and play games with sons and daughters for the pieces." He shook his head, old and tired, young beside his father, the oldest and last, but still ancient. Still knowing. His father's son.
"And when they fall, I will gather them," Death said to him quietly. The only real comfort he had to give, to a son that had seen him in all his guises, in all his cruelty and his gentleness. "When you fall, too. Methos. My son. When you fall."
Methos grinned, then. A lightening, a leavening, a flashing hint of mischief. "But not yet, father mine," he laughed, ancient survivor, Death's echo and his opposite, ever in love with life. "Not just yet."
And in response, Death only smiled.
"The world's ending again, I see."
The oldest immortal slipped casually into the booth opposite his father. The gaunt figure didn't look up, bony fingers occupied in dissecting a pizza. Methos shook his head wryly, and waved a waitress over to order a beer.
"The world is always ending," Death said at last, cold eyes flicking upwards briefly, a thin smile curving narrow lips. "Each life its own world, and to each world its own ending. They are never free of me."
Methos mulled that over, mouth twitching around the neck of the bottle. "Not bad," he allowed finally, a small grin flashing. "Might use that, if you don't mind. Pearls of wisdom to spread, proof of my advancing years."
"Not at all," his father smiled, more truly now, Death to Death. "What are fathers for, save to impart wisdom to their sons?"
Methos paused. Looked out the window, out on the world, the warzone, the ending, where angels fought and died, and immortals too, never knowing what they were to each other. "To fight and die," he said quietly. "To play games without meaning, and never know the truth. To abandon each other, and find each other, and play games with sons and daughters for the pieces." He shook his head, old and tired, young beside his father, the oldest and last, but still ancient. Still knowing. His father's son.
"And when they fall, I will gather them," Death said to him quietly. The only real comfort he had to give, to a son that had seen him in all his guises, in all his cruelty and his gentleness. "When you fall, too. Methos. My son. When you fall."
Methos grinned, then. A lightening, a leavening, a flashing hint of mischief. "But not yet, father mine," he laughed, ancient survivor, Death's echo and his opposite, ever in love with life. "Not just yet."
And in response, Death only smiled.
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