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antheap
Rating: Teen and Up Audiences
Character(s)/Relationship(s): Original Non-Human Character(s)
Words: 2526
Warnings: Deities, Shapeshifting, Death, POV First Person, Present Tense
When I first came to Earth, when I was nothing but a newborn, right here was a giant tree. It's my first memory: the trunk extending so widely it could encompass several modern buildings, the branches stretching so high they could have been touching the outer atmosphere. Humanity never got to see a tree so big.
I remember stretching out, touching it with my bare essence made of formless goo, trying to understand what it was. The only thing I knew was how to reap lives. That tree was a life — breathing, growing, reaching for the sky — and yet not one I had any power over. I couldn’t feel it, I could just see it, not unlike an object. As far as I could tell, it would outlive me.
I look upon the same spot now, and the tree has not been there for millennia. It did not, in fact, outlive me. Instead of it, all kinds of things appeared and disappeared, were born and then died, were built and destroyed — all of them fleeting, temporary, just like that tree that looked like it would last for the longest time. Today, an unremarkable group of constructions sits on that patch of soil that once was home to such an imposing being. It’s the centre of a busy city, and the only thing reaching for the sky now is the fumes from the cars, their particulates eating up the oxygen, and the artificial lights coming from countless houses, each one with its insignificant little lives blooming inside it.
It’s dark outside, and the glass of the window acts like a mirror. It shows the reflection of the empty bed on the other side of the room, a soft wool blanket the colour of mint covering the sheets. Its owner is downstairs, sitting on the rocking chair, her eyes blindly staring at the wall, devoid of light, her pupils small black holes in the fabric of her wrinkled face. The fact that she was the last life I ended is probably the sole special thing she was ever part of.
The reflection in the window glass also shows my face, and I raise one hand to touch it, porcelain doll skin with lips like a scar running straight across my face; I like how it hides all the years I existed under the soft, childish cheeks tinted with pink. My image looks like a ghost, a translucent copy of my disguise, whose teal blue eyes return me an unconcerned look.
The plastic clock on the wall ticks time away on a cheap flower motif — pastel pink roses on a green background, a corny, distasteful pattern. I breathe in the still air of the room, heavy with the pungent artificial smell of air freshener. It even covers up the sugary scent of the lemon pastry I bought, the one that's now sitting right in front of me on the desk. I take it between two fingers and a drop of its filling overflows. Yellowish cream bleeds on the dark-painted wood when I bite into it.
It doesn't smell nearly as good as Aion did back then, but I eat it all the same. My teeth sink into the crust until the lemony taste melts on my tongue. Food might be one of the few things I appreciate about humans — that, and their dignity when they lose their short, meaningless lives. The pastry is finished before I get a chance to really enjoy its taste, and I find myself hungrier than I was before. I wonder if the huge tree from a life ago produced fruits, and how they tasted.
A rustling sound behind me lifts my gaze up, and I see something new reflected in the glass. The woman’s dress flutters in the air for a second, moved by an imaginary wind, then falls down on her slim body. Her dark slanted eyes are fixed on me, unnaturally still. I turn my back to the window and welcome her with a sigh.
“What are you doing here?”
She tilts her head to the right and the pitch black hair covering part of her eyes suddenly gets shorter. Her lips are different, thinner, when she opens them to speak. Her whole face shifts into a familiar one, as masculine as the voice she uses.
“I came to visit you.”
Aion looks back at me with eyes once again the colour of shamrock leaves. The dress turned into an overcoat, the sheer tights into trousers and his body is taller than before — it’s like he knows this is my favourite among all the disguises he ever wore.
“You’re a bit late for that.” It’s merely an observation, the natural consequence of time ticking away, but the words have the taste of bitter coffee, of unprocessed cocoa. He sits on the bed; his eyes move around the small room, but they don’t linger on anything but me.
“Am I?” His voice and the fog around him vibrate with the low chuckle he hides in his throat. I wonder if he smells like he did back then, the first time we met, and that question guides my body to his side until I sink into the bed, soft in the way only threadbare mattresses can be. I feel worn out like this used mattress too but, in my case, I think time just stiffened me.
“I guess it doesn’t mean much if you live outside of time,” I tell him.
“Oh, Death,” he sighs, and I’m too tired to flinch at that name again, too focused on his smell — sugary with a sour lemony note, almost as if he knew — to shy away from his arm around my shoulders. “Were you waiting for me?”
I don’t answer his dumb question, because I don’t have an answer — yes, no, what does it matter?
His touch has the calming nature of the sea breeze, or maybe it’s the effect of his misty soul enveloping me, and as much as I dislike the intimate contact, it doesn’t feel as overwhelming as I thought it would when I close my eyes. Touching him is bathing in hot water, dyeing the skin red with dilated capillaries, but soothing the mind with vapour and a lavender scent.
“I seem to have disappointed you,” he adds, and his fingers close gently on my shoulder. I shake him away, and I’m hyper-aware of his arm slumping behind me on the bed, the vibration of its thump reverberating loudly in my ears.
“I’m not disappointed, I just want to be alone.”
He’s so close and I just want to forget it all, to finally stop the ticking clock that is my mind, and curiously enough his presence produces a similar effect, sucks my thoughts out as if he was feeding on it and muffles the tick-tock until it’s barely audible.
“Haven't you spent enough time alone already?” he asks.
“I don’t need an audience to watch me die.”
I open my eyes again and his thick fog is everywhere in the room, so impenetrable I only see him sitting right next to me on the mint green matted blanket. His skin is almost translucent and his sweet smell hides an acrid tone.
“I was wondering though,” he says, his teeth flashing white at the edge of his lips. “Who kills a God of Death?”
The question assaults my thoughts with unforeseen power and the obvious answer suddenly doesn’t seem so obvious anymore.
“I- I figured I would have to do it myself,” I stutter, gazing up at his face. His unblinking eyes still seem unwilling to let go of me. I want him to leave, because there’s something about him today that makes me condense my whole being in this small body, compress it as much as possible as if I’m scared of what will happen if it bleeds out. And when I understand, when the awareness clicks at the sound of my last minute, it melts on my tongue like bitter cream.
“I see,” I laugh the sourness away. “You knew from the beginning, didn't you?”
The pressure on my shoulder lifts and I feel light, incorporeal, like I’m the reflection in the glass window, unconcerned and far away. He touches my face and I let him, I let his finger sink in my little smile just as I let my soul reach out for his and touch the fumes of his essence. I should have killed him, after all.
“Are you scared?” he asks, and I have a striking suspicion — as some part of him circles me at a distance, refusing to touch me — that he’s the one who’s scared, he’s the one who doesn’t want me to die.
“Of you? Of course not.” Is light scared of a black hole?
“Of death,” he urges, the baritone of his voice a soft wave crashing on the shore of my ears.
“I am Death.”
Maybe, for everyone else, it makes sense to be scared. But the matter forming my soul is meant to unfold soon, my consciousness is tired and ready to turn off, I’m prepared for nothingness — it won’t be so different from my existence after all.
Aion’s mist pulsates slowly around me and it starts thinning out, and a shiver down my spine makes me realise the room is getting colder and colder. The acrid smell gets stronger, and it’s one of sulfur and ashes, of something inside him burning down. I feel my last seconds slip away and I realise he’s the only thing I’m about to lose — death brought us together and it’ll drive us apart: ludicrously cruel, just like I am.
“I thought you preferred being called Samael,” he murmurs. My name sounds nicer when he says it — he pours molasses on it by just caressing it with his tongue.
“You never call me that anyway,” I reply in kind. The cherry blossom smile on his lips contains all the warmth he sucked away from the still air around us, and what sets it apart from his usual smirks are the dimples at its sides. It’s the first time I’ve seen them, the first time he’s smiles like that, and it’s a pity I don’t have time to study this unusual expression of his.
The last second ticks faintly, so inconspicuous that it’s easy to overlook, especially when Aion’s smile has turned into a soft laugh and the fog around us resonates its echo, fluttering and throbbing. But I do notice, just as I notice the temperature in the room going down a few more degrees.
“Aion,” I call, while his giggle is still halfway up his throat. “What are you waiting for?”
He swallows his laugh, and I hope it’s as sweet in his mouth as it was to my ears, I hope it tasted of chocolate cake, full and mellow. You should be happy, I think, you’ll finally get to touch my core.
“It’s fine, I won’t make a pitiful scene like a minor God would,” I reassure him.
“You won’t get a chance,” he whispers, and if his thoughts weren’t so loud I might have missed it. Around him, clear fog turns into dark smoke, as if something just clicked inside him. I wonder if he wants me to put up a fight. Maybe, just like me, he doesn’t like when his victims just give themselves up, maybe he prefers a pathetic fight to docile submissiveness.
“What do you mean?” I ask, but the most I expect is a practical answer, his whole being piercing me in one direct hit, swift like chopping a human’s head off, quick like the snap of a finger.
The smoke seems made of ashes but is insubstantial to the touch; it envelops both of us, a cocoon separating us from all the rest. I imagined my death would be lonely, but I think I’m okay with him being here, after all.
“I mean I have no intention to kill you,” he says.
It takes a moment to realise what he’s saying — the words from his mind come to me distorted, corrupted by buzzing and white noise. And yet when I realise, anger bubbles up in my core, and I’m sizzling at the prospect of him defrauding me of this once again, removing the floor under my feet when I’m one step from the finish line.
“It is not about whether you want it or not,” I think aloud, and words and images flow out of me aggressively, almost out of my control. He listens, he welcomes me, he blows a space into his steaming soul where I’m free to scream my thoughts with all of my energy. “It's your duty. What are you going to do, postpone it again? Leave me just hanging until you feel like doing your job? Do you have no respect for me?”
His hands grip my wrists, their touch sunlight on my cold skin. He smiles again, with dimples in his cheeks like I thought I’d never see again. His smile is a hungry beast devouring my attention and I sit still, enraptured.
“No, I’m not going to postpone it anymore,” he says. “I’m calling it off.”
Then he kisses me.
I can’t even remember the last time I didn’t have the shape of my soul thought out to the smallest detail, every part of me restricted, bound, my core hidden under layers and layers of energy, matter and disguises. And yet the gaseous essence of his soul caressing me, the shivering contact of his bold lips touching mine, are all it takes for me to lose control.
I am tired. Tired of a life of boring, predictable nothingness, tired of seeing ends upon ends, flames dying out, a repetition of the same desperate moments until each and every one of them started looking exactly the same, no matter the struggle or the lack thereof. And yet right now, as my core melts into me and my form starts losing cohesion, I forget about all of that. If my existence had been full of moments like this one, maybe I’d be more reluctant to leave it behind.
I’m liquefying and the burning core I hid so desperately for my whole existence breaks apart, unfolds, starts dripping out. Aion tastes like the sweetest chocolate cake, soft dough with a hint of lemon in the cream. His soul embraces mine with the warmth of fire and the soothingness of water, an inconsistency I’m glad to breathe in.
My melting hand reaches out for his face and, after I touch him, his mouth becomes hungrier. I wonder if maybe he was lying to me, if maybe he is killing me, devouring me like a ripe fruit, my pulp juicy and succulent. Maybe this is how dying feels like.
A binary star is a star system consisting of two stars orbiting around their common barycenter. A contact binary is a type of binary star in which the uppermost part of the stellar atmospheres forms a common envelope that surrounds both stars. As the friction of the envelope brakes the orbital motion, the stars may eventually merge. |