"Death´s Tears Parts 7-10" by Leigh *Shwin* Erickson

“So these threads, these woven strands, these are all that holds a soul to its body?” Garnor lifted a pale hand and brushed his fingers against the dim fibers lining the room. As he did so he felt a distinct chill, a kind of unsettling... something. He frowned, pulling his hand back from the knotted tapestry. The sensation had reminded him of when he had fallen only to be burnt by Life. It wasn’t a memory he cherished. It made him feel very uneasy. He hated it.

Alranos watched him, dark eyes veiled in shadow, a slightly detached concern playing across his face. In the past few days Garnor had learned so much. They had spent much time in conversation, building Garnor’s knowledge so that it would be adequate for when he took over as Death. It was nearly time. He shook himself from his thoughts, remembering Garnor’s question suddenly. “Oh, yes. Yes, they are.”

Garnor shook his head, looking about the room, “Amazing,” he half laughed, “to think just yesterday this was just a jumbled mess of knots to me. Now,” his right hand trailed along a single thread, following it in its intricate path, “I see it, their connections. How this thread here is related to this one; how this soul is the sister to this one; how this one,” he frowned, his hand resting on a particularly dark thread, “she thinks she’s alone.” He cocked his head to one side, crouching down to the base of the thread in his hand. He traced the path of the thread, brushing across many connecting fibers. “Strange though that there are so many who are connected to her. So many would suffer if she were gone.” He looked up at Alranos, question in his eyes, “Why doesn’t she see that, Alranos?”

“I can’t answer that, Garnor. There were many who were affected by your own death that you’ll never know about; why didn’t you see them?” He raised an eyebrow. Garnor was still so innocent, so naive to all that went on in this room, in these rooms. He looked at the young, questioning face in front of him and then sighed. “I know it though. We’re strange creatures in life, some of us thinking the whole world would mourn our passing yet few threads are shaken when we are taken, others thinking nothing of ourselves yet the whole tapestry shudders with our passing. So strange,” he mused. He stretched out a hand and brushed it along the intricate fibers surrounding them. “But you do see, Garnor, how every thread is connected somehow.” He pointed to where two threads crossed. “These two are friends, if one thread were severed, the other would be affected in its pattern, and then the threads touching the one still living, and so on in ripples that grow ever more subtle.”

Garnor was still staring at the thread he held, his eyes half closed as if listening to something faint, barely discernible. He frowned and shook his head, gently dropping the thread. “She’ll live again.” He stood and looked to Alranos who nodded. Garnor seemed to have a deep interest in the stories behind the threads. It would cause his pain to be greater, Alranos knew, but also, he wouldn’t be alone. “So what next?” The question was voiced carefully.

Alranos knew Garnor feared his response, feared what the answer to this question would be. He watched him silently, careful not to show any emotion. It was all too easy. His existence was centered around not showing emotion. “It’s not what you think. You don’t have to sever a thread right now if you don’t want to.” He saw hope light the young dialos’ eyes once more. “I- I’d like to offer you a choice first.”

“A choice?” The eyes filled with a green losing its battle against a mournful grey pierced his soul, a sensation he hadn’t felt in quite some time.

His breath caught in his throat. Garnor’s gaze was unnerving and he closed his eyes, nodding, “Yes, a choice. You don’t have to die yet Garnor. I- you... you never lived. You never were able to really live. I don’t know that I could live with myself, however much of a paradox as that may be, if I let you die before you had a chance at knowing life.”

Silence.

“Garnor?” Alranos turned to see the young dialos staring at the floor very intently. “Garnor?”

He shook himself and looked up, eyes dark... even hard. His face betrayed that he was searching for words, but he found them soon enough. “True I have not had the chance to live, true that I never was able to experience life in its true form, always bound to my fate to be Death’s heir and thus Death himself. But how is that different from anyone else? There are people who live bound to death, maybe not as literally as I was and am, but they don’t get a second chance. Why should I be any different?”

Alranos didn’t know how to reply. He hung his head, feeling estranged from the dialos in front of him. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to go, I just thought I would offer.”

Garnor closed his eyes, exhaling sharply and shaking his head, “No, I’m- I’m sorry. You’re right. I should go, shouldn’t I. I don’t deserve it and I feel incredibly selfish doing so, but I’ll go.”

It pained Alranos to see him struggling like this, so alone. “You don’t have to.” He raised a hand, silencing Garnor as he was about to speak. “I- I could let you sever a thread first if you like. That way it wouldn’t fully be life to you... but so long as I’m still here, you couldn’t truly die.”

“As long as you’re still... here?” Garnor’s eyes, which had darkened considerably in the past few minutes, were wide with concern and alarm.

“Yes.” Alranos sighed. Heavily. “Yes, so long as I’m here.” He closed his eyes. “The worst thing about becoming Death, I know it so well, is the moment when it hits you. When you realise what you truly are,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “What you have become. How much you lost... how alone you are... and the guilt...” he trailed off, shaking his head suddenly, “But there is one other thing that must be done regardless. Like every other soul and every other being, Death can die. It is, in fact, the heir’s duty to end their life, if Death’s existence can be called living.” Garnor went very still. “You understand me, Garnor?”

Garnor’s whole body tensed. It seemed that his already pale visage grew even whiter; more ashen; still. He raised his eyes so they were locked on Alranos’. He shook his head. “No.” He could hardly force the words out; they were barely a whisper, less than that. “No.”

Alranos shook his head, “It’s true, Garnor, and it’s something I’ve had to accept. It’s not something that you need to do now, or even in the near future to be sure. But you must know, it has to be done.”

“I,” Garnor shook his head slowly, mouth open as he paused in mid speech, “I can’t! I can’t do that! Alranos, I couldn’t! I wouldn’t!” He had become near indignant, “I won’t! How could you ask me to do that? I-”

“Garnor.” Alranos’ voice was sharp, “Garnor, listen to me. There is no way you could understand this, not until you’ve severed a thread and even then not until you fully become Death. There is no way it will make sense as you are now. Your entire mind is transformed at that point, albeit not a pleasant transformation, but a necessary one if you are to cope. You’ll understand then. I’m sorry I had to bring it up now, but it’s something you’re going to have to eventually accept.” His voice became distant, “It’s something that must be.”

Garnor was silent, his mouth still open from where he had readied himself to speak. He shook his head, but still said nothing. He was stunned. Alranos knew better than to try to reason with him while he was in this state, choosing rather to drift to one side of the room, out of Garnor’s line of sight; where he would hopefully also be out of mind. But he knew it could not be. The subject was painfully uncomfortable and Alranos was worried that he had brought it up at the wrong time. But when would it ever be good to bring it up? He sighed deeply. At least Garnor knew now.

“Alranos.”

But he didn’t hear Garnor’s voice. What more could he ask? It was over with, he had said it. He could wish nothing more. He knew. But-

“Alranos.” Garnor’s voice was a bit stronger now. Alranos turned, realising only now that he had been facing the wall, absent mindedly picking at the threads criss-crossing in front of him. He was afraid of what he might see in the young dialos’ face, so he turned slowly, reluctant to meet his eyes. “Alranos” The voice held a tone of pleading now and Alranos could no longer resist. But the eyes he met were not the cold eyes he had met just moments earlier, they were changed.

He understood.

“I...”

But before he could say anything more, Alranos was beside him and Garnor found himself in his arms. Garnor’s body was as stone, unmoving and taut with a burden too great to be spoken. Alranos knew, and he didn’t want to see the one who he now saw as a son suffer. He couldn’t bear to watch the ice settle into the fading green eyes. “No. You understand, I know this, and that is enough. You don’t have to tell me.” He felt Garnor’s body relax slightly and released the young dialos. “To tell me would be far worse. Don’t voice it.”

“This is all too much.” Garnor’s voice was flat. His eyes were closed, and his face very stiff. He was breathing heavily in measured gasps, using all his will power to control his face and mind. “Too too much.”

“I know, oh I know, Garnor. I have no words to give you, no advice or means to soothe the anguish you feel. The only words I could ever give you would only increase your pain.” He paused, face darkening, “It seems all I can ever bring you is more pain.” He muttered.

They stood there in silence for a good deal of time, each lost in their own whirlwind of thoughts and revelations, each darker than the next, nothing soothing the ache creeping upon their hearts. Garnor’s breathing was quick and sharp as it settled on him. So new to ‘death’ it was an unfamiliar ache- and one he had never even dreamt could exist in such a sharp hurt. Alranos found a twisted comfort in the pain having lived with it so long it was more a familiar friend, the only constant in his death darkened life. After some time, Garnor realised there was no benefit in the silence, that it was only dragging them deeper and deeper into the anguish that threatened to swallow them whole.

“Alranos?” Alranos jumped at the sound of his voice after the lengthy silence, coming to the surface of his mind with a jolt. The face, still covered in shadow, looked up towards Garnor, indicating he should continue. “You had mentioned me getting out of here, leaving for a time. What were you thinking exactly? What was it that you had in mind?”

Alranos shifted on his feet, sighing as he pulled himself fully from the maelstrom within. “What I had in mind, Garnor, was that you should leave, like you say, and go out from this place into the world. That you should see people, live with them, if your existence can be contained within the word life, observe. Look for the good in them.” Garnor raised an eyebrow to this and Alranos continued, “You grew up so abused and estranged because of your ‘inheritance’,” he flinched saying this, it was obvious that he still hadn’t forgiven himself for being the cause of this young dialos’ suffering, “that you never understood people. You never can understand them fully, not even those whose lives are perfectly arranged for such a purpose can grasp every aspect of humanity’s culture. They’re too complex, too erratic. But having some understanding of the whims and emotions that dictate the actions of men and elves and all things living will aid you as you bring them into the world of the dead. Otherwise their behaviour will seem strange to you, and only confuse and torment you further. You wouldn’t know what was the cause of their grief. But I’ve said too much, did you understand any of that?”

“I did.” He furrowed his brow, looking as if he was struggling with something, a question whose answer he wanted to know desperately, but was too afraid to ask. Something that had long tormented him, but had not come to surface for reason of fear. Alranos recognised this in Garnor’s eyes and though he feared what that question might be, he knew it needed to be answered. It was the least he could do to permit him to ask and to give him the answer he deserved.

He sighed deeply, but silently, preparing himself. “Ask me, Garnor. I see a question long suppressed in your eyes.”

“You... you do. You’re right.” Garnor, though now with permission to ask, was still loath to present the question to Alranos. He feared its answer.

“The only way to know is to ask. As painful as the answer may be, knowing is better than a blind ignorance where the want for an answer gnaws at you eternally. If it has to do with your position as Death’s heir or about mine as Death, you’ll have to know it eventually and seeing as all answers seem to bring you more and more pain, you might as well get it over with.”

Garnor exhaled sharply, not quite a sigh, more an attempt to rid himself of something embedded deeply in his person. “If I must ask, let me at least ask one question first.” He looked up and saw Alranos’ assent. Lowering his gaze once more he continued, “What more do I have to learn?”

Alranos was silent for a moment. That question had certainly narrowed the possibilities for the true question that was bothering Garnor, and Alranos was not happy with the thought of answering it. But first he had to answer this question, only then could he know if his suspicions were correct, if the dread answer should be given. He gathered his thoughts to him, carefully thinking out his reply. “There isn’t much to learn, becoming Death. You know the basics about the job. Sever threads, weave the fabric from the severed threads, watch over those who should not be dying, the like. You know a little on the other half of the position, but this is what you must learn yet.” Alranos stood, eyes downcast, face displaying the depth of his thought with its stern expression. He shook his head slightly as he continued, “Yes, you are learned now in the physical aspects of being death. But what you must learn now, what you have left to learn I suppose, is what being Death does to you, how it affects you. Would I be right in saying that this is the subject of your question?” Garnor nodded silently, face betraying no emotion except a subtle dread. “Then out with it. I know your question already, you just have to voice it.”

Garnor closed his eyes and shivered, but whether as an effect of Alranos’ words or some mental image was not clear until he spoke. When he finally did speak, it was in a voice that could barely be heard and Alranos recognised the emotion that kept it suppressed to that level. It was dread, dread coupled with a near blinding fear. “Your eyes.” He shuddered violently with the memory, the dark, haunted pools containing a torrent of unspeakable guilt and suffering once more bombarding his memory.

Alranos’ eyes snapped shut, his voice was strained and soft. “Yes, my eyes... What about them?”

“You said, you said I could not know what they truly were until you had explained everything else. Have-” his voice cracked as his fear took hold of him once again, “have you done that?”

“I have” The last word came a considerable time after the first, as if Alranos was fighting with what was left of the life he once held to spit it out.

“Must I then... must I... Must I see?” The pale visage of Death’s heir became even more pale, his face a perfect blend of dread and apprehension.

If anything, Alranos’ eyes closed even tighter, and he hissed, not in anger, but in remorse, “Yes, you must.” Alranos turned and opening his eyes where Garnor could not see them, walked over to the bench before the loom and sat, closing his eyes once more as he faced him.

“Then-”

“Don’t!” The sharp edge to Alranos’ voice surprised even himself. Garnor was looking at him, shocked to silence and sorely confused. “I am sorry Garnor. But, don’t... don’t be hasty. Let me, let me tell you something before I show you.” Before I ruin you more like he thought bitterly. Why did he have to be Death? His suffering was one thing, but to make this innocent elf endure the same thing was more torture than anything he had ever been through in his long years of life... if it could be called that.

“Please... please continue.”

Garnor’s soft, quiet shaken voice brought Alranos from his bitter reverie. “Yes...” He shifted positions on the bench, again preparing himself for the words he had to say. “Well.” He swallowed nervously and suddenly felt Garnor’s hand on his, in an attempt to comfort him. Bless the boy he thought he tries though he knows there is no means to comfort me. Giving up he sighed heavily and began. “What you saw was just a shadow of what lies within my eyes, Death’s eyes. What is really there,” his hand strayed to the fabric hanging over his face, veiling his eyes from view, “is,” he yanked the black cloth from his face, though still keeping his eyes tightly shut, “much, much worse, more, oh, concentrated for a lack of better wording. Just... just know that. And also... also... oh Garnor I’m so sorry. So sorry.” The eyes were taut, it seemed there would be tears, but none fell. Evidence of tears was even lacking, no shine was seen about the closed eyes. “Now,” Alranos’ voice was soft, “I... I will show you... I will show you the bane of Death’s existence. Just... just be warned.”

With those words the dark eyes were opened, though with much sorrow and dread. Alranos’ apprehension of the situation just as deep as Garnor’s if for different reasons.

And the heir gazed into the very eyes of Death... and he screamed. Under the full power of Death’s gaze there was no mercy, there were no safe places. There were no words to describe just what was contained within those fell eyes. It was a pain that could kill, a remorse that could murder. Only the heir or those born a Death could withstand the gaze. But being able to endure it did not mean that bearing it was not painful, and Garnor was speechless, truly unable to say anything. He was unable to move, frozen, as the torrent of guilt and agony and every other negative bitter emotion ever carried by Death washed over him in an intense, sickening wave. His hands flew to his throat against his will and he could only choke out broken sounds, pleading with Alranos to make it stop.

For one final moment, Alranos did not break his gaze, wanting to burn into the mind of his heir the anguish he would be facing, not in malice, but as a warning. But then the dark eyes closed, the veil was re-affixed, and the torrent of suffering was stopped. Garnor fell back, as if he had been physically attached to the burning gaze and had just lost his support. He lay there, breathing hard on the floor, shaking with uncontrollable spasms of horror. He had been shocked into silence, unable to speak, unable to move, only to just lie there, shivering.

Alranos wasn’t much better for the experience either. His breathing was slow and measured, very controlled. It was obvious that he was doing everything in his power not to break down. He pressed his hand to his chest, trying to dull the ache that had erupted within his heart. It felt like there was a stone in its center; a sharp yet dull, ache-making one that froze his blood and tried to bore its way through his chest. He could hardly stand it and it was only from millennia of built up endurance that he could bear it, but still then only just.

He was just beginning to get his breathing under control when there came from the form on the floor a series of moans and “Why?’s.” It was muffled and timid, more muttered mumblings than anything. But he knew it wouldn’t be long, he could only hope his emotion was at least somewhat under control before the dialos erupted. Thankfully his breathing was becoming more and more even and the rock in his heart slightly less in size. But still, few things could prepare him for the reaction Garnor was certain to have. And sure enough the young dialos was regaining his control, his mumblings becoming less coherent and raising in volume until he was shouting.

“Why?” Garnor looked wildly up, simply the memory of the agony had been nearly too much for him to bear. But having just seen the full power of the eyes, he was nearly in hysterics. “Why, Alranos? Why are they like that? What is it? What happened?” His own eyes widened, “Me? Alranos! Will that happen to...” he was caught then by a sudden spasm, falling on his side and not moving, his hysteria subsiding to a cold dread. There was a long silence, Alranos standing impassive, not opening his eyes, Garnor laying prostrate, not blinking, in near shock once more. When he again spoke, his voice was emotionless and soft. “Alranos, will that... will that happen to me?”

Alranos’ voice was just over a whisper. “It will.” His eyes closed even more tightly, “I’m sorry, but yes, yes it will.”

Now Garnor’s eyes closed tightly and it became obvious that now he was trying to avoid tears. “But why? Why Alranos?” His voice was very shaky.

Alranos admired his ability to hold back emotion, even this early in his transformation he was showing but a shadow of what he truly felt. It was good and bad, he noted. Good in that he’d do well in what was required of him, but oh so bad because it would maim his soul even more. But regardless, the dialos had asked him a question. “Why? Why, Garnor? Because that is who Death is. What you just saw, felt, heard, and endured was a glimpse into what I carry around within me, a glimpse into my soul, Death’s soul. Did you think severing threads and constantly ending lives, killing people was painless for me? Did you think Death some impassive being?” He stayed Garnor’s protests, raising his hand to silence him, “No, it’s all right. I- I was that way once, long ago.” He chuckled dryly, “But as you can obviously see, no longer can I perform the task fated to me without pain.”

“I... I don’t... I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything then, there’s nothing you can do, no sense in talking it over.” Alranos turned and opened his eyes, setting to work weaving on the fell loom. The black cloth shivered at his touch, vibrating as he deftly slid a dark thread through it’s length. He knew his heir lay behind him silent, but could not focus on that fact. He knew the silence Garnor was keeping. He knew it masked only the screaming of his heir’s heart. He tried to push the thought away. He didn’t want to focus on what he had just done.

With an agonising slowness he began to regain control of his limbs, pushing his weary frame to a sitting position and regarding Alranos’ back with a strange intensity. His eyes blazed, not with anguish or anger or pain, but with a near compassion. He still had not regained full control of his legs, but he did manage to force himself into a kneeling position and as such, was able to shuffle over to where Alranos sat.

Death flinched at the hand that rested now on his shoulder. “What do you want?” His voice was cold and bitter. Emotionless. He felt the hand cringe at his tone, but barely felt any remorse for it.

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you here?”

He heard the hand’s owner sigh. “Because you’re alone and you’re dying of some unspeakable pain and even though it’s futile, I want to at least try to do something if only to appease myself.”

Alranos was silenced. All too soon the cold wall he had built up after regaining his emotion crumbled. Again his breath became ragged as he fought off tears. “So... so sorry... so sorry Garnor. Forgive me.”

“I’d forgive you anything. You’re forgiven, you were and are in much pain.” He looked uneasy, and squirming in discomfort asked, “Forgive me for asking, but... but why do you not cry? Surely tears would ease your suffering if nothing else can.”

A slight laugh escaped from the shuddering form, “Oh that’s another part of it. It would mean death for me. I can’t cry, Death can’t cry. My tears are my lifeblood and to lose that would mean my death, and utterly my damnation. Can’t risk it though yes, I do yearn for tears. Like nothing else except my innocence back.” He laughed at that, sighing heavily. “Yes, it’s not easy being Death, and I’m so, so very sorry that you have to follow. Because you’ll have to bear all this as well, and from what I’ve seen, your pain will be of a greater depth and dimension than I can even bear. You’re tender-hearted and you care even now. It will mean so much more pain for you I can’t even begin to describe it, but also you will have a slight hope that I lack, enabling you to pull through. But I am sorry, so bitterly, completely, sincerely sorry. I would never ask your forgiveness for this atrocity I commit against you. It would be wrong of me to ask it, it’s something I am far from deserving.”

“Three things.” Garnor’s voice was soft, but steady, some unknown strength backing its fiber. “Firstly, you have my complete and utter forgiveness. I hold none of this against you, I couldn’t and I won’t. So don’t berate yourself because of that. I blame you for nothing and hold nothing against you. Secondly I am sorry. I know it means nothing to you and can ease none of your pain. I’m so sorry you hurt so badly and I wish I could ease it for you.” He drew a deep breath, “Which brings me to the third thing. I wish to ask a favour of you if I may.”

He paused so Alranos realised he wanted an answer, “Anything. And yes, your words do mean a lot to me. And for them I thank you, but yes, continue. What do you want?”

“I want-” he paused seemingly searching for words or something deep within. “I want to cry for you.”

“C-cry for me?” Alranos’ voice was skeptical.

“Yes, shed tears in your stead, ease your suffering somewhat while I still can.” He laughed somewhat bitterly, “It seems I won’t be able to- to do that much longer.”

“But how? How can your tears ease my pain, Garnor? Your tears would only make me feel worse. And in my stead? How can you pull that off?”

“It’s simple really.” He said, kneeling. “May I?”

“I don’t see how you can, but I guess. I owe you that at least.” Alranos was almost rolling his eyes, but inside he was aching somewhat horribly. To make Garnor, the already near-emotionless one cry would tear his soul in two he knew. But if it would appease his soon to be suffering heart, he would let him do it if only for Garnor’s sake.

“Turn around.”

Alranos turned reluctantly, closing his eyes before his face could be seen.

“No, don’t, don’t close your eyes.”

“Why?” Alranos’ voice was cold.

“I need to see them, I need to see them so I can pull some of it from you.”

“Garnor how can you do this? I really don’t want you losing everything seeing my eyes again for something like this. Explain it to me, I’ll consider it.”

Garnor looked slightly hurt, but continued, “Since that day when you first took me here, to this room I’ve remembered bits and pieces of my... of my life I suppose you could call it. One thing I’ve remembered is crying for others. It was a gift I had always possessed, seeing the pain deep in someone’s soul, connecting to it when they had become so numb with it they couldn’t feel anything, let alone cry. Yet so often as I’m certain you know, tears are the only thing that could begin to heal someone. So if they absolutely could not cry, if the pain was too much for them to bear, I could tap into that pain and channel it from them through my own tears. Not a gift to brag about exactly.” He smiled slightly. “I did it mostly for someone close to me... but I can’t remember the face or name or anything about this person. All that remains in shadow. I think they were family, but I’m not sure. I can’t remember. And I did it in secret because I knew that for that person to see me in tears would shred their soul, but through my tears was the only way they survived with some sanity.”

“How can you tap into it?”

“I suppose I followed the thread to their soul now that I think about it. There would be a faint glimmer I could see if I turned myself inward, and I followed that with my mind until I came to the distorted black part. From there I drew the dark into myself and was able to release it through my tears.”

“What does it do to you?” Though he was loath to learn the answer Alranos knew that these ‘gifts’ did not come without a sacrifice on the gift holder’s end. And to have a gift like this, that entire blocks of pain could be removed must cost the bearer a great deal of something!

Garnor was slightly taken aback by this question. “I keep some of the sorrow.” He seemed far from anxious to continue, but Alranos needed to know and Garnor knew it. If it was the only means to ease his pain, then he would tell this dialos anything and everything. Anything to make his pain less. He saw Alranos’ eyebrows raise in question and with a sigh continued. “Well, that often became too much for me and-” Here he paused, unable to continue.

“And...?” Alranos prompted him after a considerable silence.

“You’ll need to open your eyes, you’ll have to see. I won’t look at them, I promise you that, but if you want to know what this gift costs me, you’ll have to look for yourself.”

Alranos was slightly apprehensive, wondering what could make Garnor so uneasy. “All right. I’ll look, but where? And for what?”

“If you just look down that should suffice and I think you’ll see what you’re looking for.” He felt Garnor pull away from him and heard the rustling of his robe. Garnor’s voice became bitter. “They’re kind of hard to miss.” He sighed deeply, “Go on, Alranos, look. My eyes are closed.”

Alranos was slightly afraid of what the price of Garnor’s gift was, slightly afraid to know. It was after a brief silence on both their parts that the lids of his eyes finally cracked open, allowing him to see just slightly. But as soon as he could see even slightly what the price was, his eyes flew open in shock and alarm.

Garnor had pulled back the sleeves of his robe, revealing further up his arms than Alranos had seen. They were slashed and cut, line after line of livid scars traced over the pale skin. Involuntarily he reached out to touch them, being rewarded with a sharp breath and a cringe from Garnor. “W-why?” It was the only thing he could think to say or ask or do as he knelt so as to be level to Garnor, tracing his scars with a shaking hand.

“I told you,” Garnor replied flatly, “I keep some of the pain and it became to much for me. The only way to rid that burning from my heart and blood was to let it out, to free it. It’s not as bad as you think really. The pain leaves me as soon as the tainted blood does and not too much needs to be lost.”

“Just enough to give you these scars, oh Garnor!” He drew his hand back and the sleeves fell back down once more, hiding the horrible price from view.

“Will you let me now that you know everything about it?”

“I...” Alranos was shaking his head back and forth, back and forth. He couldn’t believe Garnor, couldn’t believe what he was offering. What suffering he was willing to go through to ease his own.

“Please, Alranos. Your pain would lessen, I would keep none of it with the loss of some blood, not much, it’s never hurt me. I know what I’m doing, trust me. And-” He swallowed hard, “and like you say, it seems I won’t be able to shed tears for much longer. Allow me at least one last time before tears become but a fantasy to me.”

“I don’t want you to suffer, not for me.” Alranos’ voice was flat, but hiding much discomfort.

“I just don’t want you to suffer. And what is worse, Alranos? To have me suffer for a short period of time, or to have me live in eternal regret for not having eased your pain when I had the chance?” He smiled slightly, “I could always do it anyway you know, it’s not like I need your permission.” He laughed at this, not very heartily, but a laugh nonetheless, “But don’t worry, I’ll respect your wishes against mine should you desire me not to.”

“You would... truly regret this eternally?”

“I would.” Garnor’s voice was taut.

“Why?” Even though he felt he had asked already too many questions, Alranos couldn’t help himself.

Garnor looked around, drawing breath to speak, “I’ve suffered enough. I wish to ease any pain I can, I want no one to suffer like I have. You’ve suffered worse than I, and I can’t imagine what you must feel. I can ease that, perhaps bring the level of your pain down so you hardly notice it. Of course it will build right back up again as soon as you sever another thread. And since I must do that before I leave, I could take over until then, let you be at ease as long as you can be. So yes, I truly would regret it. Easing pain, though often unobtainable to me, is almost what you might want to call my life’s purpose. Even if it brings me pain, healing and aiding others is the most gratifying thing I could ever do.” I’m not selfish enough to be happy if my suffering can bring others to joy. He finished silently.

Alranos closed his eyes, “I would not have you suffer anymore because of me, but if you say to not do so would bring you a greater pain, then do it. You have my permission.”

There was silence for a moment from Garnor. When he finally spoke, his voice held a slight shake in it. “Teach me one thing before I do.” Alranos’ eyebrow raised in question, “To sever a thread,” he swallowed hard, “so that you can be at peace at least until I leave.”

Alranos was again torn. He sighed heavily, “Would you regret this also?”

“I would.”

“I can’t believe you would ask for this pain, but it seems I have no choice. Stand up, Garnor, I will show you.”

“Thank you.” There was true gratitude in Garnor’s voice, something that shocked Alranos to his core. Why should Garnor be thankful? Garnor stood in one fluid motion of shadow, his green eyes, pale hands and face, and silver blade the only thing breaking the solid black of his being.

“Come.” Alranos led Garnor to a corner of the room. Here, the threads were the darkest. He shook his head once more, sighing. He hated to do this. Why was he doing it? “All right. See these threads? See the depth of the black?” Garnor nodded. “Look for this colour, they turn this colour when they’re ready to be cut. But there is one other thing. You’ve been burned by the living threads haven’t you?” Garnor flinched, but nodded. Alranos’ heart nearly broke seeing it. He so hated to see the young dialos in pain. “It’s disconcerting isn’t it? Makes you want to scrub your soul out, anything to cleanse yourself from that burning ache that’s just so, so wrong. Especially if you were born in Life.” He paused for a second as if remembering something painful or very, very long ago. Continuing, his voice was wistful, “Yes, born of Life. But that’s another matter and you don’t need to concern yourself with it. Regardless, you’ll notice that these threads don’t burn. Touch them.”

Tensing as if expecting a fearsome blow, Garnor extended a hand and rested it lightly on the ebony threads. His eyes opened and he clenched the threads more tightly as soon as he had touched them. They were as silk, a velvet soft texture that was almost soothing.

Alranos smiled slightly, “It’s a beautiful sensation isn’t it? Sometimes there is a thread that is black with someone’s suffering such that death for them is a sweet release. Those threads are very rare, but when you find one, to sever that thread is the most renewing thing. You feel the relief of the person seeping into you and it eases the ache in your heart somewhat. But as I’ve said, those threads are far and few between, only enough to prevent the grief from taking over your soul. But they are enough.”

“What about yours? When I have to, well, will it feel soothing to me? Do you welcome the end of your life?” Garnor’s eyes were dark and he looked uncomfortable having asked such a question.

“It would soothe you except for the fact that with my thread being severed, you will be transformed and all the grief and guilt of Death will begin to pour into you. Otherwise it would be, without a doubt, the most wonderfully renewing act you could ever do because yes, I do yearn for that release. An end to this never relenting pain.” Alranos looked up as if looking into a great distance. He looked so vulnerable to Garnor that he said nothing, letting the dialos finish his thoughts, letting him come to the conclusion of the trail of consciousness he had initiated. At long last Alranos shook himself back into reality. “Thank you.” He nodded at Garnor, realising what he had done. “Where was I?”

“You were showing me what to look for in a thread that was ready to be severed.” Garnor released the threads in his hand. “Like these.”

“Yes. So you will feel no burn in the threads that are ready. If you should sever one that is full of life, it will be as no torment you’ve ever known. Don’t make that mistake. It’s like being burnt by Life except increased one hundred fold. It’s horrible. Please, be careful not to do that.”

Garnor paled slightly at that notion. “I will be. I never want to experience that, it sounds horrible.”

“It is,” Alranos said softly, his right hand unconsciously brushing his left arm. Garnor caught a glimpse of a series of scars beginning faintly, almost unnoticeably at Alranos’ left fingers and twisting up his hand as a writhing serpent, becoming visible as it circled his forearm. He could only imagine what his arm looked like. A chill ran through Garnor looking at this. No wonder he wore gloves. “There’s so much negative to this isn’t there?” His voice sounded hollow and haunted. “I’m so sorry.”

Garnor put a hand on Alranos’ shoulder. “It’s all right, you had no choice. Please, continue.”

“Right.” Alranos picked up some of the threads. With a deft flick of his hand and wrist, a movement perfected with uncountable years of repeating it, the anarla was removed from his neck and became a blade. “These threads can be severed with nothing but an anarla. The anarla actually cushions some of the blow for you which is why it will become black as mine with time. Yours is still silver because it has never been used. Anyway, it’s simple after that; you just cut them.” He brought the blade across the threads and they were separated. It was routine for Alranos and he hardly flinched as his blade darkened with the grief of the still living friends and family of the departed. Garnor could see that the blade hardly lessened the blow, watching as the black absorbed into Alranos’ very skin, whisked away with his blood. “It goes to my eyes and thus my soul.” He said emotionlessly, following Garnor’s gaze. “Do you understand all this?”

Garnor was pale and still. He did not speak, simply nodding to show that yes, he did understand. It was obvious by his face and by the desperate gleam deep in his eyes that he didn’t want to though.

“I know, Garnor, I know. It’s not a pleasant job, nor is it desired. There are so many mixed up notions about Death, about how he is uncaring and cold, murdering with malice and without reason. I don’t chose who dies, I just end the lives of those whose ‘time has come’ as the mortals call it. And it’s not without cost to myself either. I am the opposite of the Death depicted in the stories of the world. Know that you will also be misunderstood.”

“Should I, should I...”

“You don’t have to, not now. Keep your innocence a few moments longer, keep that freedom of the scars of grief from your heart a few minutes more. Don’t rush it. The dying will be here for you always and once you have severed your first, the pain will never subside. Let me complete this bunch for you. You don’t have to do any until you are ready, whenever that is. And take your time, don’t rush it on me.”

“How often do they need to be cut?”

“You’ll feel it, you’ll know. Once the first thread is severed you’ll be able to feel the pull of the death-ready soul. It’s a sensation you won’t be able to miss. It’s easier to do it in here, but there are ways to do so from anywhere. You already seem to know how to find a thread, it’s really just doing that. You might need that should you ever leave this place.”

“It’s so strange. Thank you.”

Alranos didn’t reply. He had been loath to impart this information to Garnor. He didn’t want to see him in pain. He didn’t want to see him in tears. He nodded.

“Alranos.”

He looked up, careful to keep his eyes in shadow. “Yes?” His voice was tired. Too much had been lost this day.

“Let me see your eyes once more, let me pull some of that pain from you. Let me cry for you.”

“Garnor...”

“Please?” Garnor was looking directly where Alranos’ eyes were lost in his shadowed face. His visage held such a longing that Alranos could no longer resist and pulled back his veil, pulled back his hair; all in all revealed his eyes.

“Thank you.” Garnor’s voice was taut, almost a croak as he gazed once more into his eyes. Alranos could see he was doing everything in his power not to cry out as the waves of guilt and pain washed over him again. Finally it seemed Garnor had absorbed enough from the eyes and his own closed. Alranos could sense Garnor’s mind tapping into the ache in his heart. He was following his thread, Alranos knew, finding the black, preparing himself for the transfer. It was the strangest sensation. He closed his eyes as well, feeling as the cold stone began to crumble, lessening in size and ferocity, almost feeling the flow of pain into Garnor’s consciousness. The constant ache was nearly gone and he all but shed tears of joy and gratitude for the alleviation of his anguish.

Such sweet relief.

He looked up and watched Garnor. The young dialos’ face was creased with horror and pain such as he had never seen any to possess. His pain. It almost caused more to fill his heart, but any that came was just channelled into the young one before him. He had never seen or felt anything like it. At last he felt the flow of pain cease and Garnor cried out with such a tormented agony that Alranos thought the gates of hell had been opened to him and he had just heard a scream from its depths. Alranos winced at this. Garnor was wracked with every agony Alranos had carried while he was left with just a hollow that ached only slightly with the unremovable slashes that scarred his heart. But before any pain began to replenish the void that Garnor had just created in his chest, the most soothing thing came over him. A sweetest balm, happiness, infused with all images of life and light filled his chest and he genuinely laughed. He felt the sweet ecstasy of joy again, the first since he had become Death, so many millennia ago.

Garnor heard the sound and smiled through the cascade of suffering crashing recklessly through his being. Unbeknownst to Alranos, his procedure ended with giving the one who received it the happiest memories he had, the best feelings. Once the pain had been erased, he gave them, while still connected to their soul, what they craved most: joy and peace once more. He heard Alranos lie down with a sigh and smiled once more, pulling himself back, letting Alranos be. One thing about the memories he gave were that they induced a deep sleep, close to unconsciousness, with healing dreams and much blackness, allowing the bearer to truly escape for a time, the sweetest and most healing gift anyone could give.

And its depth prevented the recipient from hearing his screams.

Oh how he ached, oh how he mourned. The grief the guilt the pain and the sorrow he had found in Alranos were unlike anything he had ever endured. He fell to the ground and curled up into himself, holding himself and shaking, gasping. Screaming. Anything, anything to make it stop, to make this pain cease. He felt it melding with his blood, like past releases had, but none burnt him like this. Hastily he pulled the anarla from his neck, not even bothering to transform it to its blade shape. But not even the anarla could cushion the fire in his blood from his fragile skin. Rather as he drew the sharp edge desperately across the upper part of his forearm, he cried out, for it fell in a smoking trail to the ground, burning as it went. After some time, he began to feel weak. The burning ache had not left him completely, but he knew that if he did not bind his arm now, he would pass out and without Alranos there to care for him, maybe even die. He took the veil that he had carried on him and wrapped it tightly around the cut he had made, stopping the burn though it still was contained within him. He was desperate, he needed to be rid of this pain!

Then came the tears. Broken, desperate, haunted sobs, tears as black ink. Usually they were only tinted grey some cold part of him hidden deep inside mused, he had never cried tears so black with such an intense grief held within them. He felt like he was going to die. And there he wept. For what seemed like an eternity he wept, releasing all the emotion for he who could never cry until at last he was weak with tears and had released in a bitter cascade all that he had drawn from Death’s blackened heart.

But his tears did not cease. He knew this pain was going to scar him, he had felt his last bit of pure joy. And now, he wept for himself. Though the tears had lost their hue, they still poured with a similar intensity from his eyes which showed bright green once more, the built up black released with every other thing. He felt almost guilty releasing his own grief. He knew it was nothing like the unspeakable hurt he just taken from Alranos. But if this was to be the last time he was ever going to cry, he was going to cleanse himself as best he could. At last, the dreadful flood was stayed and Garnor lay silent with nothing but the occasional shudder stirring his form. The ground was wet and his hair tousled, his face streaked with trails going from black to a shimmering transparent hue where his tears had fallen. Where Death’s tears had fallen.

He raised a hand to his face, tracing one of the trails, feeling the wetness of it. He drew it to his lips then, tasting the salt. Such a shameful thing, tears, and yet so precious when you knew you would never cry again. He gave a shuddering, heavy sigh and then pushed himself upwards, turning to see where Alranos still lay. What he saw drew a small grin from his dishevelled face. Alranos’ expression showed only a deep and pure content. The corners of his mouth were bent upward in a gentle smile and his face only showed peace. He had healed him, he had relieved Death’s pain if only for a little while.

He sighed in near content and forced himself to a standing position. Looking about the room he saw a bolt of finished cloth neatly folded and sitting beside the loom. With wavering and shaking steps he stumbled over to it, feeling the soothing unspeakable smoothness on his skin. Walking now to Alranos he delicately unfolded the cloth and laid it over him. “Sila viel,” he murmured, “Sleep well.”

With his strength returning to him gradually, Garnor walked to the door of the place. As he stepped into the outer of the two weaving rooms he found that the light of Life did not hurt his eyes. Curious he reached out a hand and touched a thread cautiously. It didn’t burn, it didn’t burn! Filled now with his own joy, Garnor’s pace strengthened and he walked through the room boldly. Closing the door carefully behind him, he wandered to his garden.

Never had it seemed so beautiful. The fountain shimmered so deliciously in the pale light of dawn and the lilies and other flowers seemed to embody the very essence of beauty and peace. Every detail stood out to him in wonderful clarity as he stared, open mouthed at the place. Tears once more filled his eyes, but this time of joy and gratitude. He let them come, welcoming the feeling of wet on his face. If these now were his last tears, at least they were of joy.

Finally turning on this scene, finally feeling peace, he walked down the final corridor between him and his much needed bed. As he opened the door to his room, he saw the soft sunlight filtering in, catching on the silver details, highlighting and drawing them out. It was beautiful. A dark cloud passed over his face briefly as he wondered if he’d ever know peace or beauty again. But it passed quickly and the peace returned. He’d have enough time in the long millennia he’d have to serve as Death, to find out. He might as well enjoy what he could of the sensations now.

Sighing for content he slipped off his outer robe and the sandals on his feet and lay down on his bed. He couldn’t stifle his grin as he stretched out under the covers of shadow. It felt so good, so wonderful. He felt right finally, as if he had accomplished what he had been sent out to do.

With an expression of peace blanketing both the features of Death and his heir, the sun rose over their dwelling. Soft fingers of pure light caressed the unseen rock of the fortress, bringing with its brilliance the toils of another day. But for awhile, it only held back the shadows of death and doubt, letting the two sleep in deep content, allowing their cares and toils to be released into the dark of dreams.

Garnor awoke to darkness. He shifted under his covers trying to remember why he was so tired. He sat up suddenly as the events of the previous night flooded his consciousness once more. He remembered the pain of Alranos’ eyes, the feeling of a death-ready thread in his hands, watching the grief flowing into Alranos’ skin, all he had learned... and then. He put a hand to his mouth. He remembered relieving Alranos of his pain. He turned himself inward and reached out towards the now familiar thread. He hadn’t woken yet.

With a great yawn Garnor lifted the covers from his body and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. He sat there for a second, half debating going back to sleep, but decided to get up. He stretched his arms out to his sides, reviving them after the a good night’s, well technically day’s, sleep. Yawning once more he stood, jumping as the cold of his floor crept up his legs and hopped over to where he had kicked off his sandals the night before. Maybe that was why the floor was so cold he mused, it sure made you move and woke you up!

He wandered to his wardrobe and selected a robe from the many black ones filling it. He shook his head, remembering the pale robes he had once worn. Black seemed so natural to him now, so fitting that he hardly thought twice about seeing it as the only colour in his wardrobe. Shrugging it on and fastening it with the silver belt, the only tie he had to his ‘life’, he ran his fingers through his hair, black as jet, and again thought nothing of the transformation concerning it. The pale locks of his life had deepened to this reflectionless hue, and he could barely remember it being any different. The same with his eyes. Once a vibrant green, they were now flecked with silver, a foreshadowing of the black to come, but he thought nothing of it.

He was beginning to become the heir fully. He knew the consequences of the job, he knew what was expected of him. He walked purposely from his room, fighting off a sudden, but swiftly rising dread. Today he would have to live into his role fully. Today he would have to sever a thread. Lose his life.

But it seemed strangely fitting that he should do as such, and he once more, thought nothing of it. Perhaps the tears of yesterday were giving him this deathly calm, he didn’t know, but he appreciated it. Panicking would do him no good now, he could only push on. He rounded the corner of the first corridor, coming into his garden. In the moon’s glow it was exceptionally stunning and Garnor paused once more in its square. It had been designed for moonlight viewing, and in this light it showed. He stood in awe, never tiring of the sight, but only for a moment. He needed to press on.

Coming to the kitchens now, Garnor pushed open the heavy, ornate doors and found himself some ‘breakfast’ or whatever it was at this time of day. He sat in his chair at the wooden table, chewing thoughtfully on some sweet bread he had found laying about. He still didn’t know what it was called, but he quite liked it. His gaze was pointed at the circular window where he had first met Death. He wondered if he would soon be able to summon the dying threads to his hands there as well. He felt detached he supposed, yes that was the word, detached. He didn’t want to think of what was coming for him, and as such, wouldn’t allow his thoughts to drift there.

He finished his meal and stood slowly. “I suppose now is as good as any time.” He said aloud to himself, jumping at the sound of his voice. He really was ancy now that he thought about it. He was afraid too. But he couldn’t let himself think about that or else he’d lose his nerve, and he would never subject Alranos to that suffering again if he could help it. So resolved, he walked from the kitchen and turned down the dank hall that led to the weaving rooms.

He walked still with great purpose, his steps never wavering though the part of his heart he was trying to ignore was shaking with dread. He reached the door sooner than he had suspected. After all, it was his first time down the corridor alone and Alranos always paced himself slowly, loath to enter the place where his pain had been born. Garnor felt himself pale at that thought, but also felt his resolve sharpen. He would, by taking over, allow Alranos to live a life, well a death? he stopped for a second in thought his hand on the knob, but then shook his head, well a life of peace. That was worth any suffering to free one from that pain. Thought finished, he opened the door.

He almost smiled as the blinding light from the living threads washed over him. “Good morning Life!” He said, the shaking part of his heart wondering why he was so cheery. He almost raised an eyebrow to himself but thought better of it. He had a right to be happy, even if it was only in desperate defence against a disconcerting dread, in the last few moments of his life. He opened the second door now and walked into the inner room.

After his eyes adjusted to the seemingly dim room, he noticed that Alranos was stirring. He’d wake soon, Garnor realised. He walked over to the dialos and knelt down beside him. He stretched out a hand and poked Alranos. Alranos groaned slightly as he was pulled from the black of sleep, but after a second poke, his eyes opened and he looked up at Garnor, his eyes immediately closing as they met his.

“Sorry about that, Garnor.” His voice was broken, effected by his sleep.

Garnor grinned. “Don’t be. Your eyes are no longer black, Alranos. They’re blue.” Alranos’’ eyes opened in shock now. Garnor peered into them, “Well, on second evaluation they’re still very black, but there are some flecks of blue in them. And I’m not cringing either. Most of the pain has been lifted from them.” He nodded, quite pleased with himself.

Alranos looked slightly confused. “Forgive me for asking, Garnor, but how did I come to be on the floor? And what happened to your arm?” His eyes rested on the freshly bound strip, crusted with blood.

Garnor cringed, he should have bound that more carefully. “In answer to your first question, let me ask you one, do you remember anything of last night?”

“Last, last night?” Alranos furrowed his brows, pushing himself up to a sitting position and brushing the cloth from him with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes, when you showed me your eyes and taught me about thread severing, do you remember that?”

Alranos’ face became as stone. “I do. And then, and then you took my pain.” He paled, “Garnor, is that cut on your arm because of that?”

Garnor nodded. “Yes, it is, but it’s no matter. You’re feeling better I take it?”

“Besides having a huge cut on my heir’s arm, yes, I feel wonderful. What exactly happened though? I remember hearing you scream and then all went to blackness.”

“I gave you some of my joy, I let you tap into the fruit of my memories. It’s the only way to stopper that void that the removal of your pain created, to fill it with peace. But as you might have noticed, it also induces sleep. You’ve been out for approximately fourteen hours.”

“Fourteen-?! Oh Garnor!” Alranos looked about, shaking his head and trying to let all this information sink in. He suddenly froze as his gaze rested on a dark spot on the floor. His face paled yet darkened in expression and he looked up at Garnor with such compassion in his eyes that the young dialos didn’t know what to make of it. “Is that where you cried last night, Garnor?” He nodded at the black patch.

Garnor turned quickly and seeing indeed that place where his tears and blood had fallen sighed. “There would be no sense in lying to you, Alranos, yes, that is where.”

“And also,” Alranos peered closer at the ebony stain, “Where your blood fell, releasing what had not already scarred your fragile heart of the pain you drew from me?” Garnor nodded, his defensively cheery mood dispersing rapidly, being replaced by a fast growing dread.

“That is so.” He replied tersely.

“Let me see it.”

Garnor recoiled, hugging his arm against himself. “Why.” He asked, though his voice held no question in it.

“Please,” Alranos’ voice held a note of pleading in it, “I need to see.”

Garnor looked at him flatly, his eyes betraying nothing of his thoughts. Alranos stared back, his eyes pleading, begging Garnor to remove the band around his wrist. Finally, not moving his eyes, Garnor pulled at the band, releasing the knot holding it together, and unwrapped it, revealing the wound. Alranos had not moved his eyes either during this process, still meeting Garnor’s heavy gaze. Finally Garnor raised an eyebrow at him, indicating that he had finished, what was Alranos waiting for? Alranos nodded at him and looked down, without expression, at the cut. It was a jagged slash running up the length of his forearm. The wound was edged in dried blood from where it had been hastily bandaged and it was obvious that it still stung.

Garnor’s gaze dropped to the top of Alranos’ head. His expression was still unreadable. He wondered what purpose Alranos had in looking at his soon to be scar. He noticed Alranos speaking softly in mumbled tones he could not understand. He felt a sudden drop of heat on his arm and looked down curious. A black liquid, thinner than blood, was trailing in the cut, from the top to the bottom where it stopped, it’s substance having been used. He drew a sharp breath as the edges of the wound were pressed together by Alranos’ skilled hands, wondering what he was doing. The wound would just pull apart after he removed his hands after all. But to Garnor’s shock, the wound stayed whole after the support from the hands was removed, no longer a gaping slash, but a vividly black line.

Alranos drew a hand across his face, looking up. On his forefinger rested a small drop of the black liquid. Garnor gasped for recognising it. It was a tear. Alranos shrugged at Garnor’s reaction. “You shed your tears and blood in my stead, can I not shed but two in yours?” He traced his finger along the wound, spreading the precious liquid across its length. Garnor’s eyes widened as the jagged line faded to a thin grey scar. “There is healing power in Death’s tears, Garnor.” His voice took on a slightly amused tone at Garnor’s questioning look, “Why? The tears hold my life, I should hope that essence would heal. And two tears won’t kill me, Garnor, only weaken slightly. It’s what I can do to express my gratitude to you for doing what you did.” He looked full into his eyes, “Thank you.”

Garnor was awe-struck for a time, unable to speak. He dropped Alranos’ gaze, tracing his new scar with his fingers, still amazed by what he had just seen, by what Alranos had done for him. It was incredibly smooth, a new perfect healing except for the grey line that betrayed its presence. “Thank you.” He finally managed, “And it was my honour to heal what I could. Thank you for letting me.” He looked up and smiled at Alranos who returned the gesture, though soon he winced. “What is it?” Garnor asked, face darkening with concern. He would not have this newly liberated dialos feel pain so soon again!

“The threads, Garnor, they call. They demand that Death answer them with his blade’s sharp kiss.” He moved to stand, “I should answer.”

“It will not be Death who answers.” Garnor’s voice was soft, but firm in its intent.

“What did you say?” Alranos’ eyes were quick on the young dialos, following him form as he stood.

“It will not be Death who answers,” he swallowed and closed his eyes briefly, “No, not Death, but his heir.”

Alranos quickly stood, squarely blocking Garnor’s path to the threads. “Why?”

“Because I have seen how you suffered, and I will not have it continue.” Garnor walked until he stood not a foot from Alranos, holding his gaze with a great determination.

“I would not have you take that pain upon yourself, Garnor.”

“You yourself said I could sever a thread before I left, that is what I wish to do now.” Garnor’s face, though pale, was filled with a look of resolve.

And Alranos knew he could not break it. He looked the young dialos square in the eyes, “You know what you are doing, and I see in your face that I cannot sway you.” He moved from Garnor’s path, “It is for that, and that alone, that I step aside now and let you take up your fate. You know what you are inheriting, you know the consequences. I can say no more.”

Garnor bowed his head briefly in Alranos’ direction, moving to where the dimmest threads were strung. “Yes, I know what I do.” He flashed a grin at Alranos, perhaps his last free of the dark pain he was about to step into. It lit up his face, pulling all cares from his visage, the joy reflecting in his eyes, so green with life. Alranos let the memory of them sear itself into his mind. They would be black with guilt all too soon. He looked away as Garnor continued speaking, “Yes, I do know what I do.” He unclasped the anarla from his neck.

“You should really name her, Garnor.” Alranos said without looking up, recognising the sound of the weapon of Death.

Garnor ran his fingers along the length of the chain, admiring the clean glittering silver of it for the last time. “My anarla?”

“Yes, name her before you sever a thread.” His fingers strayed to the black chain around his neck. “The name should already be playing at your mind, young one, the anarla already knows by what name she wishes to be called. It is just up to you to decipher it.”

Garnor closed his eyes, listening. There was something playing at the fringes of his mind, something that felt right. “Sanctuary,” he murmured, “After the sanctuary she will bring in death and in life to those whom she touches.”

Alranos flinched visibly as Garnor announced this name, but Garnor did not see because his eyes were fixed on his blade. “Sanctuary she is then. May you use her well.” Though his voice was strong, Alranos was saddened slightly in his heart. The name of Sanctuary evoked images of Garnor seeking refuge in death’s embrace, a sanctuary that he should not seek. But he didn’t know that for sure, did he? I could just be over-reacting. There is nothing I can do now anyway, the blade has been named. Let it be.

“Sanctuary,” Garnor’s voice was tender as he carefully bent and twisted the chain into a blade, “Yes, Sanctuary.” He drew a deep breath and then took the final steps between him and the threads. He gathered the darkest to him, feeling their lengths to make certain that the were indeed ready to be cut. Then closing his eyes, savouring the last moment of his innocence, he held the blade over them. “I know what I do, Alranos, do not fear. I do this to keep you from pain and it is my honour to do as such. May you never feel that pain again.” Then the blade was brought across the threads, and they fell from his hand, cut in two by Sanctuary’s bright blade.

There was silence. Garnor stared too shocked to speak as the black ink of grief and mourning drew itself into his blade and then into his skin. He felt it pierce his flesh, carry though his veins like an acidic poison. He cringed as he felt it flooding his mind, but there it stopped. A cool numb washed over him, blocking all thought, all emotion, all pain. And also all joy, all peace, all anything but the incredible numb. “What- what is this Alranos?” He felt nothing, like all thought, all memory, all sensations were dead to him. Come to think of it, they weren’t what felt dead. He raised his hand, the one that had held the threads, looking at it strangely. No, it wasn’t the world around him that felt lifeless. It was him. He looked up, some chill part inside him crumbling with dread. “Alranos?” His voice was thin, choked with a subtle dread.

“It is as you suspect, my heir. You have lost your life. There is no going back now.” Alranos was wide eyed, reluctant to say anything more, still absorbing what had happened. He looked up into Garnor’s questioning eyes, “Don’t worry,” he murmured, “You’ll feel the pain of it soon enough.” Garnor backed away from the tangle of threads, his face ashen. Alranos stepped forward and stopped his progress. “No. You must finish it.” His voice was hard but then softened, “Unless you’d rather that I did. I will finish it for you Garnor if you so desire. You’ve done it, you’re free to leave, to wander.”

Garnor tensed at these words and shuddering violently pushed Alranos’ hand from his shoulder. “No, I will finish it. I would not have you take that pain on yourself, not again. And if I’m already... already,” he swallowed hard, reluctant to finish, “dead. If I’m already dead, there’s no point in me trying to protect myself anymore. You said yourself there’s no going back now.” He stepped forward and picking up another small group of threads, felt them for their readiness, discarding one that still burned faintly with Life, and brought the blade swiftly over them once more.

Alranos watched in silence as the young dialos worked. He remembered vaguely his first experience with the threads. It wasn’t so much that they ended the lives of those attached to them as freed their souls. Yes that was it, he had consoled himself. Or tried to. Garnor would not feel the pain until he was gone. Once his thread had been severed, once he had been freed, then the pain would fall on this young, no longer innocent, one’s shoulders. He heaved a sigh at this. Such a fate Garnor had been tied to, poor boy Alranos thought, his eyes dark with pity. Oh what have I done!

“It’s not your fault this.” Garnor’s voice was flat, almost mechanical as he continued severing. Several threads had built up while Alranos had slept, they were restless, eager to be freed. “Please don’t take it as a burden onto yourself.” Suddenly a pair of grey stained yet faintly green eyes were looking directly into Alranos’. “Don’t blame yourself, my friend.” A flick of his wrist and another clump of fiber was severed. Alranos could only shake his head. Garnor dropped the group he held and walked over to the silent dialos. As he wrapped his arm around his shoulders he suddenly drew a sharp breath and laid his head on his shoulder, placing a hand on the shoulder beneath his head. Alranos was trembling.

“I never imagined this part of it, Garnor.”

“Please, you must know that I do not blame you nor do I hold any grudge against you. It is far beyond time that someone pick up your burden. It isn’t a job anyone would desire, but fate has decreed that I have it, let it be.” He squeezed his shoulders and then drew away, looking him in the eye. “Please don’t berate yourself because of me.”

“How can I not?” Alranos’ voice was even colder than Garnor’s.

Garnor eyed him sympathetically then asked almost casually, “Do me a favour?”

“Anything.” Alranos’ face brightened slightly.

He held out his anarla. “Take Sanctuary, I want to see myself once more.” Alranos cocked his head to one side, but did not question, taking the blade from the outstretched hand. “Thank you.” Garnor’s voice was soft, but full of gratitude befitting his request. He spread out his hands and watched as the white of Death was washed away, leaving behind life filled, healthy skin. He watched it creep up his arms, placing his hands on his face and feeling the chill wash from it as it spread up his neck and over his hair. He pulled forth one of the lengthy locks, regarding the pale near white with a shaken curiosity. He stroked it gently, watching his life tanned hands and the contrast they made against the star white strands. He looked up at Alranos and asked gently if he might see his eyes. Alranos answered that the fountain in his garden would make a perfect mirror if he would go there. “Can I go that long in this form?”

“You can go for a considerable amount of time not being fully Death yet, my heir. In answer to your question, yes, you can. Would you like to go there?”

“I would. I would like that very much.”

“Then come.” Alranos turned, a liquid shadow in the already dark room, holding a bright silver blade that seemed to consume his dark with its brilliance. He glided towards the door, trailed by Garnor who seemed as an angel, glowing with Life in the dark of Death’s domain, his vitality suppressed by the dim robes of the dialos, his hair and skin contrasting sharply with the black’s reflectionless dark. Alranos halted at the door. “These threads will no longer blind you, Garnor, you are immune now that you have lost your life. But that does not mean that they will not cause you discomfort, no, they will,” he paused, “Yes, they will, but in a different manner for which I apologise. It’s not the most enjoyable sensation in the world. You’ll get used to it, but it’s rather disconcerting at first. I’m sorry.” With those words he pushed open the door and the bright white of the living threads spilled into the dank inner room.

Garnor started as the light fell on him. There was a strange tingling casting itself across his skin where ever the light fell. He unconsciously rubbed at his arms, trying to relieve them. It wasn’t really uncomfortable or painful, just really, really strange. Trying to ignore the twitching, tingling feeling creeping about his skin, Garnor followed Alranos into the white.

When they had passed through the far door, Garnor rubbed himself all over, ridding himself of the memory of the sensation. “That was strange.” He remarked giving himself a good shake, disconcerted, but amused.

Alranos recognised the slight bit of amusement playing in Garnor’s eyes and smiled. “Yes, but it is better than the burning isn’t it?”

“Oh it is. I much prefer whatever that was.” Garnor smiled gently, still rubbing his arm and marvelling at how tan his skin looked. Alranos shook his head, still smiling. They followed the dim hallway from the weaving room to the hall that led to Garnor’s garden. Upon reaching it Garnor stopped for a second, savouring the beauty with his life-filled eyes. Alranos nodded at the fountain and Garnor stepped forward, focusing on his face reflected in its depths. It looked strange to him yet vaguely familiar. It was the face of his life, star coloured hair floating about his skin which although pale by the living’s standards looked quite tan to him, his eyes were as spring’s living green, set elegantly into his face. He smiled to see himself, an expression that lit up his face, sprinkling joy into his eyes. He laughed softly to himself, shaking his head then turned back to Alranos. “All right.”

He reached out a hand and Alranos, though slightly grudgingly, placed Sanctuary in his grasp. Immediately the tan in his skin was drawn into its blade, slightly less silver for him having severed some threads. It was the strangest sensation, feeling the very thing that sustained his life being pulled in a wave from his body. He stretched out his other hand and watched the tan ebb away, replaced by the ghostly pale. Then reaching up he brought a lock of his hair forward, observing as it darkened, the star lit strands fading to a shadowless black. Turning he watched the grey come into his eyes. They were dark, but not yet black. He rubbed a hand, stalling for a second, then flicked his anarla back into a chain, securing it around his neck. He turned back to Alranos who was looking at his hand strangely, the one that had held Sanctuary, “Thanks.”

Alranos nodded, “Think nothing of it.”

There was silence for a second, both of the dialos lost in their own thought. Garnor found it strange to see himself as he was in life. It seemed wrong now, which disturbed and soothed him. He was finally falling into his role as the heir. He had severed a thread, lost his life, been physically transformed, yes, it seemed right now almost.

Alranos had felt a fleeting wave of guilt wash over him, seeing Garnor alive. It had reminded him of what he had taken Garnor from, from life. He shook his head. It was something he knew he would never forgive himself for though Garnor showed no ill feelings toward him. He supposed that he had rescued Garnor from an abused existence, but still, to bring someone into Death’s pain was no respite.

At last Garnor broke the silence. “So when am I to leave?”

“You can leave whenever you desire. When would you like to leave?”

Garnor thought about this for a second. “How long will it take for me to be able to call the threads to me rather than having to go to them?”

“Oh not long. In fact I could teach you that whenever you would like, why do you ask though?”

“You are not severing another thread, I have decided. You’ll die free.” Garnor nodded resolutely.

“Why do you do this for me, Garnor? I’ve only brought you pain, why are you so intent on relieving mine?”

“I’ve already told you that.”

“But why me?”

Garnor raised an eyebrow at him, “Because you’re another life and I have the ability to do as such. It doesn’t matter who you are, if I can aid you I will. It’s really quite simple. It’s who I am.” He finished his reply with a shrug.

Alranos shook his head, “You’re so strange, but it’s wonderful. I guess all I can do is help you along. If this is truly what you want who am I to stop it?” He reached out to his right and closed his eyes, snatching from the air a handful of shadowy threads. He was laughing, “So strange to be so skilled the then aspects of Death and to be unable to use my skill anymore.” He handed the threads to Garnor who felt them to be ready for cutting. He pulled his anarla from his neck, not bothering turning it into a blade, simply drawing the sharp edge across the threads in his hand. Then he looked up at Alranos. “I see you’ve figured that out, Garnor.” Alranos’ voice was bemused.

“I have. Is it wrong?” Garnor’s face was suddenly concerned.

“No, it just means you’re lazy.” They shared a grin, “Just make sure that you don’t do that when people are around. It would be bad for the reputation of the dialos.” He winked at Garnor then continued, “I think you could probably figure out how to pull the threads to you. You already know how to follow someone’s thread, it’s pretty much like that.”

Garnor closed his eyes and a look of deep concentration was soon seen on his face. He stretched out a hand and jumped as a brilliantly glowing thread appeared in it. He looked first at it and then at Alranos quizzically.

Alranos nodded as if he had been expecting this and explained, “You are used to following living threads. You’ve never had to summon an almost dead one. It’s like you just did except exactly the opposite. You have your senses tuned towards finding Life, try searching for the opposite. It might take you a couple tries of it, but you’ll get it. Oh, and if you let go of that thread, it will go back to where it belongs.”

Garnor hurriedly released the thread, watching vacantly as it glimmered once and then was gone. “I see.” He closed his eyes once more and his expression darkened. He summoned two more threads unsuccessfully, though they grew deeper in colour with each trial. On his fourth attempt a shadowy handful was summoned and Garnor looked up, satisfied smile on his face. “There!” He drew Sanctuary quickly across the threads and they dissipated as smoke into the air. As he watched this, his face darkened a little. “Alranos?”

“What?”

“Why don’t I feel that?” He was looking at his hands strangely, first at his right which held the blade and then at his right when had secured the threads.

“You will when I’m gone. Since you’re not Death, you just get the numb part of it. When I’m no longer here and you’ve taken the post, then you will feel it.”

“Oh.” Garnor was still looking at his hands.

Realising that he must break this train of thought, Alranos continued, “So when do you want to leave? You’re fully capable of taking over my job now. You’ll be able to figure most everything else out with time I’m sure of it.”

“Leave?” Garnor shook himself, “Yes. Leave. Tomorrow? Would that be too soon?”

“You could leave right now if you so desired.” Alranos nodded, “Yes, tomorrow would be fine.”

“What should I bring?” Garnor had finally stopped staring at his hands and was fastening Sanctuary back around his neck vacantly.

Alranos thought on this for a second. “You should find yourself a village or some form of lodging near people. There you can supply yourself with food and clothing should you need it. You’ll need the normal travel gear though until you find such a place.”

“Alranos, you forget I was never allowed to leave the haven and was jailed inside my own house. I know nothing of travel besides what I’ve read about.”

“Oh, right.” Alranos berated himself inwardly for having forgotten this fact. “Well, let’s go get you packed then.” He began walking toward Garnor’s room indicating that he should follow. “I actually did much adventuring in my life, let’s see if I can remember how it’s done.”

Garnor cocked his head to one side. He had never thought of Alranos before he became Death. Suddenly questions flooded his mind. Had there been a Death before Alranos? What race had Alranos been? How had he come to be Death? Just how old was he? “Alranos?” He was surprised that his mouth had voiced the word.

“Yes?” Alranos held open the door to Garnor’s room and ushered him inside.

Garnor walked habitually to the window and leaned into it, staring across the flat plains, following their platform to the roots of the black mountains that hemmed the sky. “You were alive?”

“Yes, I was.” His voice was suddenly devoid of any warmth.

“What were you?”

There was a lengthy pause. Garnor half wondered if Alranos had even heard him and was considering asking again when the frozen voice of Death spoke. “I did hear you, Garnor... I was the reason Death came into this world. I was horribly selfish and for eternity both I and all mortal souls must pay for what I did. Let me leave it at that,” he paused for a second, then spoke in a voice that begged to be answered, “Please?” Garnor turned around, question in his eyes, but the pleading look on Alranos’ face banished the thought from his head. He nodded. A look of relief crossed Alranos’ face, “I’m sorry I can’t answer your questions concerning me, Garnor. It’s just, it’s still too painful for me even now. I can’t believe what I did, what I’ve done.” He looked about the room as if the words he needed would be written on its walls, “I will tell you two things though. I was exiled wrongly, and there was no Death before me. I am the first.” He shook his head, looking ashamed, “I’m so sorry. I hope that answers at least one of your questions.”

Alranos jumped as sound entered the hushed void they had just shared but nodded his head, “Yes, I was. Did you know you’ll have wings?”

“What?” Garnor didn’t think he had heard Alranos quite right.

“Oh nothing. Sorry, just thinking. Let’s get you ready to leave.” Garnor eyed him quizzically, but Alranos ignored him. He looked out the window. They were both on irregular sleeping patterns at the moment he noted. The sun was just rising. He walked over to the wardrobe and pulled out a pack, black of course, to put Garnor’s things in. “You’ll need a change of clothes. I would bring two sets, one for normal wear and another if you should need something formal. Anything more would just be a burden.”

Garnor walked over beside Alranos and selected two robes from the black assortment within. One was made of the shadowy substance that seemed ever present in this place, the other he recognised by feel to be made of the soothing substance of life threads. It was slightly disconcerting to think he was wearing the very thing that kept life inside a being, but it was a very fine cloth and Alranos nodded his approval at his choice. “That would be a good thing to bring. It will impress the living and will give you access to most places on appearance alone. Not that they are going to stop some black haired, grey eyed, black robed being anyway. You’ll find the living are very wary of offending the dialos even if they shun them. You should be able to have your way pretty easily.” Alranos took to two robes from Garnor and, folding them neatly, placed them in the pack. He then advised Garnor to find a blanket of some sort and to pack that while he visited the kitchens.

Garnor shrugged as Alranos left the room and pulled the shadowy substance from his bed. His eyes widened as it shrank to the size of his hand. Curious he placed it on the bed once more, watching incredulously as it spread to cover the entire thing. Shaking his head he pulled it once more from its place and after allowing it to fill his palm, placed it in the pack. Alranos returned then with some ‘travel rations’ as he called them. Some of the bread Garnor had grown fond of, some hard cheese, and a strange powder which he kept in a drawstring pouch. “If you run out of food, add a pinch of this to a cup of water. It will make a wonderfully filling drink which I’m actually quite fond of. It’s called athria, very good.” He nodded, placing it carefully into the pack with the rest. Then he placed the aforementioned cup on top.

“You shouldn’t need to live from this pack for too long. You will come out from this place near an elvish haven. Revenon I believe it is called. If they won’t take you in, there lies to the south Silvia and they are well known for their hospitality. Revenon can be rather cold to those who would dwell in it. They aren’t fond of outsiders. Still, you may find a place within its walls. I would at least try that haven first, then head south to Silvia if you find no welcome there.” He placed two pieces of flint on top and then closed the pack. “That should do for you. You won’t need much, like I’ve said, you should be able to fins a place fairly quickly, and if you can’t, just return here.”

“How would I know where the tear is to return here?”

“Use your anarla. It is wiser to just use the tear that I originally created near Revenon, but if you are desperate, simply slashing it through the air will rend the fabric of this world’s dimension.”

Garnor’s hand reached instinctively to the chain-blade around his neck, “They are powerful things, aren’t they.”

Alranos nodded, “They have their uses, yes.” He looked uncomfortable for a moment as if an unwelcome thought or memory had just crossed his mind, but he looked quickly out the window, masking his face. “Might I leave you?”

“To go where?” Garnor’s voice held a trace of alarm. He feared what the words ‘leave you’ implied.

“I just want some time.”

“Oh, certainly. Go.” Garnor chided himself. Of course Alranos wasn’t leaving him, he just wanted to be alone.

“Thank you, Garnor.” With a stiff slowness Alranos walked from the room, turning left, the direction of his chambers. Garnor stared after him and then turned and walked towards his bed. He sat on its edge and closed his eyes. Reaching with his mind he felt the threads begging him to bring his blade across their lengths. He pulled them to him, feeling them in his hand now. Pulling Sanctuary once more from his neck he crossed their lengths with it, watching the shadowy fibers fade away.

He chose not to think, putting up an all too flimsy field around his conscious, trying to ignore the raging fire that was burning just outside or inside it. He couldn’t tell. He just stared at his hands, looking them over as if he had never seen them before. They were almost Death’s hands now. They were. Different only in name, his hands were the ones bringing death now, his whim ending the all too precious lives of those whose threads he severed. He shivered briefly as the thoughts danced over his shield, flinging them away before they could sink in. He didn’t want it to sink in, he didn’t want to realise who he was becoming; who he was.

He didn’t know what he’d do if it did.

Sighing he laid back against his bed, holding his anarla above him, looking over its length. It was already losing its sheen, the silver still shining, but will a less vibrant light. He stared at it with cold eyes, his mind adapting to the numb that had begun to creep through his veins with the severing of his first thread. He placed the blade on his chest and closed his eyes.

There was nothing he could do now, so bound to his fate as Death. As for everything that was to come, he could only wait to see what tomorrow’s dawn would bring. Shifting into a more comfortable position, Garnor forced his mind to quiet itself and drifted into a restless sleep.

The chill light of dawn fell over the land as honeyed frost, smoothing every crevasse yet bringing out every flaw in the land’s face. From the formidable fortress that was the only dwelling seen against the landscape, a single black shadow drifted yet in the highest window could be seen another, watching. It drifted towards the circle of stone at a steady pace, carrying a pack and a staff of a dark, smooth wood. Upon reaching the circle, the shadow turned back to the fortress and bowed low, a gesture of deep respect and acknowledgement. Then turning, the shadow whipped from its neck a silver blade tinted with black and with it, slashed the air in front of it, and vanished from that plain.