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Um. I'm back? *grins sheepishly* LJ is going down tubes again, so I'm backing my original fiction over to DW again over the next few days. Ah. Apologies in advance -_-;
Title: Shadows Behind
Rating: PG-13/R
Universe: Dak Territories
Characters/Pairings: Beren, Shaiar, mention of Zen
Summary: The saviour and the God of Death. Beren and Shaiar's first (proper) meeting
Wordcount: 1829
Warnings: Death, lots of, in the lead up. An epidemic and primitive disease control do not a happy backstory make ...
Notes: Critique again welcomed. For the prompt: Shaiar and Beren talk
Claimer: Mine
Shadows Behind
Death followed him. It had followed him all his life, since he was a child.
Which was an ominous thing to say, perhaps. An unhealthy notion to take into your head, Zen would say. Zen said a lot of things. Not much about ... about that time, though. Never that. Zen felt ... far too guilty, about that. Occasionally, Beren would feel bad for reminding him of it, for mention his grey shadow, reminding his cousin of the scythe that, inexplicably, had once spared them both, taking everything else that had mattered.
He hadn't known to at the start. A grey, silent child, pulled alone from the burnt-out embers of what had once been his village. Pulled from a sea of corpses. Not all killed by the disease itself. Some caught in the blaze set by over-zealous soldiers attempting to halt the march of the plague. Uselessly, for the plague was god-sent, but no-one much had known that. No-one much knew it now.
He'd been the sole survivor. Zen, his cousin, had been spared by his apprenticeship, down in the Kainordak and untouched by the epidemics. Beren ... he had been there. And he should not have survived. And he had not known, not understood, that he should not have attempted to explain the reasons why he had.
He shouldn't have told them about the red god, the thing that walked among them and sowed the fever in their veins. He shouldn't have tried to warn them, at the time, shouldn't have tried to explain to the soldiers afterwards what it was he had seen. He shouldn't have told of the grey god, the cold, clean touch of him, the exhausted smile, the strange conflict in stern, black eyes when Beren reached out to touch his hand, and murmur cracked thanks. Nor too the bright lady, face lined and such pain in her eyes, who took him gently from the dark god's hands, and set him back among the living, the fever purged from his body, the pain brushed from his heart.
He shouldn't have told Zen, in those months afterwards, that he sometimes saw the grey god still. Shouldn't have told his angry, desperate cousin, his brother that flinched so guiltily from the shadows of a death so narrowly avoided, about the dark eyes that followed him still. He hadn't understood, at the time, the fear it caused Zen, the pain.
It had been Shaiar himself who explained it to him, in the end. The God of Death who had, at last, stepped somewhat hesitantly from the shadows of a sunny day, and sat down beside a confused but welcoming twelve year old boy.
{He fears me,} the Death God had told him, gently. {He fears my presence means I will harm you}
Beren had thought about that. Not very clearly, but he had. He had turned it over in his head, vaguely confused by the thought, sitting calmly on his tree stump beside the god of death. Shaiar had let him, a silent presence at his side, watching him with dark eyes that were ... almost wary. Almost fearful. Beren hadn't really understood that, at the time.
"You won't, though," he'd said, with slow confidence. Not in judgement, not out hope or any thought of the future whatsoever. Out of memory. Out of knowledge.
He remembered. Even still, he remembered. She'd been so small. His sister, the littlest of them. For some strange reason, despite the fragility of her, the one who'd lasted longest, besides him. The one who'd stayed with him, for so long, for so many endless, searing hours, while they curled together in what was left of their home and watched the fires on the edges of town creep closer. Amara. Her hand tiny and pale and searing in his. Her breaths tiny, desperate pants that wanted to be sobs, maybe screams, but she hadn't the energy left. Hadn't the ability.
Beren had watched him take her. Had watched Shaiar reach down, at the end. Pull her ... pull her away, carry her up. Hold her, briefly, in his arms, before ... something. Something Beren hadn't seen, couldn't have understood even if he had. Shaiar had held her, for that brief moment before she was gone.
And the sobbing had stopped. Her pain had stopped. For that one tiny moment, while he lay there in the dirt, with her slack, empty hand in his, Beren had watched the Death God hold her, and he had understood she was safe. That all of them were safe. He had seen her pain stop, and understood ... the nature of it. The nature of the hands that reached for him, next. The nature behind black eyes that were so tired, and a smile that cracked in exhausted wonder when Beren took cool hands without fear.
"You don't hurt people," he'd said, quietly and simply, those months later with the Death God, the most feared god in all the worlds, by his side. "Why should Zen be afraid of you?"
Shaiar hadn't answered. Not for a long time. Sitting beside Beren, just out of reach, just beyond touch. Simply watching him. Somewhat ... bemused.
{Perhaps ...} the god said at last, oddly cautious, oddly reticent. {Perhaps he fears that I will take you from him, and he will have nothing left to love?}
And later, Beren would realise that the explanation was offered ... not quite in good faith, that the god had chosen those words, that logic, perhaps more for his own benefit that for Beren's. Maybe, perhaps, Shaiar had thought him too young, or too slow, to understand the revulsion and fear that followed Death wherever he walked. Perhaps. Or perhaps ... he had wanted to maintain some hope of welcome. Perhaps he had wanted ... not to risk, just yet, something he hadn't ever expected to have. But at the time, it had made as much sense to Beren as anything, and perhaps more than most. He did, after all, love his cousin. He did, after all, want to be there for as long as possible, to keep him safe.
"Then maybe ..." he'd offered, slowly and a little warily. He'd had some sense, even then. If not much. "Maybe you could tell me? When you have to take me? And I could tell him that he doesn't have to worry, until you say so?"
Shaiar had stared at him, stared down at him, and Beren wondered, later, what the god had heard, then. How many sly and desperate dealings, how many bargains struck to keep him back as long as possible, to ward Death off for as long as they could. He wondered how many echoes Shaiar had heard in that so innocent question. How much suspicion he'd tried not to nurse, how much his heart had sank.
"Then," he'd continued, faltering a little in the face of the grey god's silence, suddenly somewhat desperate to explain, to halt the vague flinch he'd sensed in his companion. "Then you wouldn't have to worry about hiding, when you visit. Because ... he wouldn't be afraid of you ..."
Shaiar ... looked at him, then. Fully, completely. Almost startled into touching, a cold hand raised in sudden confusion, stopping only at the last moment. {When I ... When I visit?} he'd asked, in a tone Beren had never been able to decipher, then or now. {When I visit?}
"Um." He'd faltered, uncertain now. Wondering if he'd misread his companion. Worried, foolishly enough perhaps, not that he was in danger, but that he'd offended. The gods, after all, might not have time for mortal men. But he'd thought that was what the shadowing meant. He'd thought ... There was tiredness in those dark eyes, and he'd thought, maybe hoped ... that the god had followed him because he made it less, somehow, the way he had, for so many weeks, followed Zen, clung to his cousin's presence where the memories seemed less powerful, and the fears held somewhat at bay. Shaiar had been there, he'd thought. Shaiar had seen what he'd seen. Why shouldn't the god want someone to hold onto too?
"Didn't you want to?" he'd asked, hesitantly, in a voice little louder than a gnat. Turning in his seat, looking up into the grey, stern face. Reaching, very slowly, while the god stared at him, to touch the hovering hand, to rub small, questioning fingers over cool, grey flesh. Shaiar ... had shuddered. Had flinched, minutely, and caught with sudden desperation to his hand.
No-one touches Death. He hadn't known, then. He had been dying, when he'd first held those grey hands, and that had been the proper way of things. He hadn't registered, in that strange half-way place, that Melae, when she claimed him back, had taken care not to touch the Death God's hands. He hadn't known that the gods, Death's own kin, shied from his touch, the revulsion of what he was, to an immortal being, too powerful to overcome. And humans, mortals ... the touch of Death was death. So elemental a conclusion. Because when else did Death touch them, save at the moment of dying?
But Death had sent him back. Shaiar had held him, had held the pain at bay, and let him go. Shaiar had held him, and not taken him. And Beren hadn't known what that meant. Hadn't realised that that was not what should have happened. All he'd known was that Shaiar had touched him, and the pain had gone away. He had not known to fear that touch. And so, had no reason to.
{I ...} Shaiar said. Exhaled, a shuddering breath, and curled his hand around Beren's grip. {I wanted to. Want to. Please.}
"Okay ..." Beren had said, somewhat cautiously. "Then ... do you want me to tell Zen? So he knows not to worry any?"
{I ...} The Death God frowned, hesitated. {I should not ... allow it. I should not ... make such deals. But ...} A frown, then. A strange flare, almost defiance, as he looked down at the warm, pale hand in his, at the fingers laid across his palm for the first time in ... time without meaning. A frown, and his voice firmed. His hesitation fled. {Tell him,} he decided, determination settling in dark eyes as he looked at Beren. As he smiled, with that tired wonder. {Yes. Tell him, then. All else ... we will deal with all else when it comes.} A slow, almost cruel curl of his lip. {If I am to be so feared, perhaps it should be of use to me, after all ...}
And Beren had not understood that, hadn't understood for many years to come, but then ... It had not really mattered, then. Shaiar had smiled at him, had held his hand, and some of the weariness in dark eyes had seemed to fade, just a little. Like the memories were pulling back, just enough, just a touch. He hadn't known what the memories were, what it was that lurked behind the Death God's eyes. It hadn't mattered. He knew what lurked behind his own, the ache of them, the relief at their faltering. It was enough to know he gave that, even a little, the way Zen gave to him.
Death followed him, after that. Death shadowed his footsteps, all his life, ever since he was a child.
And nothing else, in all the world, save his cousin himself, had ever been so comforting.
Title: Shadows Behind
Rating: PG-13/R
Universe: Dak Territories
Characters/Pairings: Beren, Shaiar, mention of Zen
Summary: The saviour and the God of Death. Beren and Shaiar's first (proper) meeting
Wordcount: 1829
Warnings: Death, lots of, in the lead up. An epidemic and primitive disease control do not a happy backstory make ...
Notes: Critique again welcomed. For the prompt: Shaiar and Beren talk
Claimer: Mine
Shadows Behind
Death followed him. It had followed him all his life, since he was a child.
Which was an ominous thing to say, perhaps. An unhealthy notion to take into your head, Zen would say. Zen said a lot of things. Not much about ... about that time, though. Never that. Zen felt ... far too guilty, about that. Occasionally, Beren would feel bad for reminding him of it, for mention his grey shadow, reminding his cousin of the scythe that, inexplicably, had once spared them both, taking everything else that had mattered.
He hadn't known to at the start. A grey, silent child, pulled alone from the burnt-out embers of what had once been his village. Pulled from a sea of corpses. Not all killed by the disease itself. Some caught in the blaze set by over-zealous soldiers attempting to halt the march of the plague. Uselessly, for the plague was god-sent, but no-one much had known that. No-one much knew it now.
He'd been the sole survivor. Zen, his cousin, had been spared by his apprenticeship, down in the Kainordak and untouched by the epidemics. Beren ... he had been there. And he should not have survived. And he had not known, not understood, that he should not have attempted to explain the reasons why he had.
He shouldn't have told them about the red god, the thing that walked among them and sowed the fever in their veins. He shouldn't have tried to warn them, at the time, shouldn't have tried to explain to the soldiers afterwards what it was he had seen. He shouldn't have told of the grey god, the cold, clean touch of him, the exhausted smile, the strange conflict in stern, black eyes when Beren reached out to touch his hand, and murmur cracked thanks. Nor too the bright lady, face lined and such pain in her eyes, who took him gently from the dark god's hands, and set him back among the living, the fever purged from his body, the pain brushed from his heart.
He shouldn't have told Zen, in those months afterwards, that he sometimes saw the grey god still. Shouldn't have told his angry, desperate cousin, his brother that flinched so guiltily from the shadows of a death so narrowly avoided, about the dark eyes that followed him still. He hadn't understood, at the time, the fear it caused Zen, the pain.
It had been Shaiar himself who explained it to him, in the end. The God of Death who had, at last, stepped somewhat hesitantly from the shadows of a sunny day, and sat down beside a confused but welcoming twelve year old boy.
{He fears me,} the Death God had told him, gently. {He fears my presence means I will harm you}
Beren had thought about that. Not very clearly, but he had. He had turned it over in his head, vaguely confused by the thought, sitting calmly on his tree stump beside the god of death. Shaiar had let him, a silent presence at his side, watching him with dark eyes that were ... almost wary. Almost fearful. Beren hadn't really understood that, at the time.
"You won't, though," he'd said, with slow confidence. Not in judgement, not out hope or any thought of the future whatsoever. Out of memory. Out of knowledge.
He remembered. Even still, he remembered. She'd been so small. His sister, the littlest of them. For some strange reason, despite the fragility of her, the one who'd lasted longest, besides him. The one who'd stayed with him, for so long, for so many endless, searing hours, while they curled together in what was left of their home and watched the fires on the edges of town creep closer. Amara. Her hand tiny and pale and searing in his. Her breaths tiny, desperate pants that wanted to be sobs, maybe screams, but she hadn't the energy left. Hadn't the ability.
Beren had watched him take her. Had watched Shaiar reach down, at the end. Pull her ... pull her away, carry her up. Hold her, briefly, in his arms, before ... something. Something Beren hadn't seen, couldn't have understood even if he had. Shaiar had held her, for that brief moment before she was gone.
And the sobbing had stopped. Her pain had stopped. For that one tiny moment, while he lay there in the dirt, with her slack, empty hand in his, Beren had watched the Death God hold her, and he had understood she was safe. That all of them were safe. He had seen her pain stop, and understood ... the nature of it. The nature of the hands that reached for him, next. The nature behind black eyes that were so tired, and a smile that cracked in exhausted wonder when Beren took cool hands without fear.
"You don't hurt people," he'd said, quietly and simply, those months later with the Death God, the most feared god in all the worlds, by his side. "Why should Zen be afraid of you?"
Shaiar hadn't answered. Not for a long time. Sitting beside Beren, just out of reach, just beyond touch. Simply watching him. Somewhat ... bemused.
{Perhaps ...} the god said at last, oddly cautious, oddly reticent. {Perhaps he fears that I will take you from him, and he will have nothing left to love?}
And later, Beren would realise that the explanation was offered ... not quite in good faith, that the god had chosen those words, that logic, perhaps more for his own benefit that for Beren's. Maybe, perhaps, Shaiar had thought him too young, or too slow, to understand the revulsion and fear that followed Death wherever he walked. Perhaps. Or perhaps ... he had wanted to maintain some hope of welcome. Perhaps he had wanted ... not to risk, just yet, something he hadn't ever expected to have. But at the time, it had made as much sense to Beren as anything, and perhaps more than most. He did, after all, love his cousin. He did, after all, want to be there for as long as possible, to keep him safe.
"Then maybe ..." he'd offered, slowly and a little warily. He'd had some sense, even then. If not much. "Maybe you could tell me? When you have to take me? And I could tell him that he doesn't have to worry, until you say so?"
Shaiar had stared at him, stared down at him, and Beren wondered, later, what the god had heard, then. How many sly and desperate dealings, how many bargains struck to keep him back as long as possible, to ward Death off for as long as they could. He wondered how many echoes Shaiar had heard in that so innocent question. How much suspicion he'd tried not to nurse, how much his heart had sank.
"Then," he'd continued, faltering a little in the face of the grey god's silence, suddenly somewhat desperate to explain, to halt the vague flinch he'd sensed in his companion. "Then you wouldn't have to worry about hiding, when you visit. Because ... he wouldn't be afraid of you ..."
Shaiar ... looked at him, then. Fully, completely. Almost startled into touching, a cold hand raised in sudden confusion, stopping only at the last moment. {When I ... When I visit?} he'd asked, in a tone Beren had never been able to decipher, then or now. {When I visit?}
"Um." He'd faltered, uncertain now. Wondering if he'd misread his companion. Worried, foolishly enough perhaps, not that he was in danger, but that he'd offended. The gods, after all, might not have time for mortal men. But he'd thought that was what the shadowing meant. He'd thought ... There was tiredness in those dark eyes, and he'd thought, maybe hoped ... that the god had followed him because he made it less, somehow, the way he had, for so many weeks, followed Zen, clung to his cousin's presence where the memories seemed less powerful, and the fears held somewhat at bay. Shaiar had been there, he'd thought. Shaiar had seen what he'd seen. Why shouldn't the god want someone to hold onto too?
"Didn't you want to?" he'd asked, hesitantly, in a voice little louder than a gnat. Turning in his seat, looking up into the grey, stern face. Reaching, very slowly, while the god stared at him, to touch the hovering hand, to rub small, questioning fingers over cool, grey flesh. Shaiar ... had shuddered. Had flinched, minutely, and caught with sudden desperation to his hand.
No-one touches Death. He hadn't known, then. He had been dying, when he'd first held those grey hands, and that had been the proper way of things. He hadn't registered, in that strange half-way place, that Melae, when she claimed him back, had taken care not to touch the Death God's hands. He hadn't known that the gods, Death's own kin, shied from his touch, the revulsion of what he was, to an immortal being, too powerful to overcome. And humans, mortals ... the touch of Death was death. So elemental a conclusion. Because when else did Death touch them, save at the moment of dying?
But Death had sent him back. Shaiar had held him, had held the pain at bay, and let him go. Shaiar had held him, and not taken him. And Beren hadn't known what that meant. Hadn't realised that that was not what should have happened. All he'd known was that Shaiar had touched him, and the pain had gone away. He had not known to fear that touch. And so, had no reason to.
{I ...} Shaiar said. Exhaled, a shuddering breath, and curled his hand around Beren's grip. {I wanted to. Want to. Please.}
"Okay ..." Beren had said, somewhat cautiously. "Then ... do you want me to tell Zen? So he knows not to worry any?"
{I ...} The Death God frowned, hesitated. {I should not ... allow it. I should not ... make such deals. But ...} A frown, then. A strange flare, almost defiance, as he looked down at the warm, pale hand in his, at the fingers laid across his palm for the first time in ... time without meaning. A frown, and his voice firmed. His hesitation fled. {Tell him,} he decided, determination settling in dark eyes as he looked at Beren. As he smiled, with that tired wonder. {Yes. Tell him, then. All else ... we will deal with all else when it comes.} A slow, almost cruel curl of his lip. {If I am to be so feared, perhaps it should be of use to me, after all ...}
And Beren had not understood that, hadn't understood for many years to come, but then ... It had not really mattered, then. Shaiar had smiled at him, had held his hand, and some of the weariness in dark eyes had seemed to fade, just a little. Like the memories were pulling back, just enough, just a touch. He hadn't known what the memories were, what it was that lurked behind the Death God's eyes. It hadn't mattered. He knew what lurked behind his own, the ache of them, the relief at their faltering. It was enough to know he gave that, even a little, the way Zen gave to him.
Death followed him, after that. Death shadowed his footsteps, all his life, ever since he was a child.
And nothing else, in all the world, save his cousin himself, had ever been so comforting.
