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Another Death-as-Methos'-father ficlet prompted by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
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"No," said the figure, always before silent. "No," said Death, as he knelt, and cradled the mortal in his arms. "No," said Death, as he held the body of his son.
"It must be," said the Creator, though there was sympathy in His eyes. "You, of all, know it must be. There must be Order. There must be Death."
"Not for him," the Reaper said. Grim and desperate, skeletal fingers tugging dark hair gently from a bloodied face. "Not for my son. I'll not reap him. You cannot ask me that. In all your Creation, only one thing did I create. Only one did I make. You cannot take him from me." Pale eyes glimmered darkly, and Death, for the first and only time, asked.
The Creator was silent. For the longest time. The weight of the future unspooled between them, the knowledge clear in both their eyes. Understanding. Sympathy.
"Yours will choose to die," Death whispered softly. "He will choose it. Mine will choose to live, if you ask him. Over and over, as many times as it is asked, he will choose to live. Give him that choice. For me, brother. Give him that choice."
"... Very well," said the Creator, at last. As breath rattled through the body in Death's arms. As the first immortal drew a desperate, stunned breath, and lightning flashed across his form. "It is done," said the Creator, watching sadly. "But brother ... at a price."
Death looked up at him. Death, with joy in his eyes who had never caused a smile, and grim knowledge that did nothing to stop it. "I know," said the Last. "It is worth it."
"He must never see your face," said the Creator, gently. "He must never know his origins, not until he chooses his final end. He must never remember who ... you are."
Death smiled, soft and sad, and stroked his fingers over his son's brow. "He will not," he whispered gently, and blew softly into his child's ear, passed his hand gently across his child's eyes. "He will not remember me, through all the aeons. Not consciously. But ..." And he smiled, and pressed thin lips to a pale and shuddering forehead.
"... but I will remember him."
"No," said the figure, always before silent. "No," said Death, as he knelt, and cradled the mortal in his arms. "No," said Death, as he held the body of his son.
"It must be," said the Creator, though there was sympathy in His eyes. "You, of all, know it must be. There must be Order. There must be Death."
"Not for him," the Reaper said. Grim and desperate, skeletal fingers tugging dark hair gently from a bloodied face. "Not for my son. I'll not reap him. You cannot ask me that. In all your Creation, only one thing did I create. Only one did I make. You cannot take him from me." Pale eyes glimmered darkly, and Death, for the first and only time, asked.
The Creator was silent. For the longest time. The weight of the future unspooled between them, the knowledge clear in both their eyes. Understanding. Sympathy.
"Yours will choose to die," Death whispered softly. "He will choose it. Mine will choose to live, if you ask him. Over and over, as many times as it is asked, he will choose to live. Give him that choice. For me, brother. Give him that choice."
"... Very well," said the Creator, at last. As breath rattled through the body in Death's arms. As the first immortal drew a desperate, stunned breath, and lightning flashed across his form. "It is done," said the Creator, watching sadly. "But brother ... at a price."
Death looked up at him. Death, with joy in his eyes who had never caused a smile, and grim knowledge that did nothing to stop it. "I know," said the Last. "It is worth it."
"He must never see your face," said the Creator, gently. "He must never know his origins, not until he chooses his final end. He must never remember who ... you are."
Death smiled, soft and sad, and stroked his fingers over his son's brow. "He will not," he whispered gently, and blew softly into his child's ear, passed his hand gently across his child's eyes. "He will not remember me, through all the aeons. Not consciously. But ..." And he smiled, and pressed thin lips to a pale and shuddering forehead.
"... but I will remember him."
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