A Piece of History: At Long Last…

     Where once the air smelled of fresh rain on pine needles, roses and baking bread…

     Where there had been light music and a soft voice speaking warmly…

     Where sunlight had played on polished wooden floors, silver hair and pale skin…

     Where fresh coffee, warm blueberry muffins and crisp raspberry tarts had been made…

     Where a soft hand had stroked soothingly over leaves, hands, hair…

     It was museum air, now. How a single home could acquire the scent of aeons in less than two years, Jonas Foster did not know. As he stood in the doorway to the dining room of the empty cottage, he swallowed back acidic tears and bit his lower lip to control the sudden trembling. His hands, thrust deep in the pockets of his leather jacket, clenched into white-knuckled fists, and he tried to step forward.

     Tried. Failed. The death mage stood motionless, looking with bleak eyes at the pair of comfortable armchairs sitting in the sunny nook, now shrouded with bedsheets. Laughter not his own echoed faintly in his mind, bringing a bittersweet smile to his lips. It felt so odd standing in the empty dining room, and when he looked towards the kitchen, his heart twisted feebly. It was too easy to imagine her standing there, up to her elbows in soap suds, the sunlight playing on her silver hair, shifting her wings out of the way as she turned to rinse a cup. So very easy…

     Jonas froze, and although he’d long thought his heart had ceased beating since that June morning, he now felt the damned thing stop. Cold he had been before, now he was plunged into absolute zero. His skin crawled with a sudden wash of a strange emotion which brought with it horrible deja vu. (It’s fear, remember?) Jonas’s pupils dialated, turning his dark eyes midnight black, and when he opened his mouth to speak, it came only as a whimpering stutter.

     "…D…di…"

     The woman at the sink turned and smiled, filling the room with some pristine light that was entirely  in Jonas’s mind. Some rational part of him recognized this, but that part was wholly drowned out by the heart which leapt back into life, thudding wildly in his chest, beating her name out in Morse code against his ribs.

     "Hello Mr. Foster."

     Three words…and he was plunged back into Arctic waters. His heart thudded once more and subsided as something warmer than love filtered through his veins. It was anger, life-giving anger, and a lot of it.

     "Who the fuck are you?" Jonas’s voice hissed, a thread of lethal intent showing clearly in his tone, and he shifted, his stance that of one ready for a fight.

     She regarded him silently for a moment, and smiled once more. It was an expression alien to that exquisite face: a look of profound satisfaction. Jonas blinked as something seemed to…blur…and within moments, a tall figure stood in place of the lost woman. It was extraordinarily tall, and heart-breakingly beautiful. Hair of a black so deep it shone sapphire fell in perfect waves around a face that brought a pang to the death mage’s heart. Clothed in something not quite feathers, not entirely leather, somewhat armoured and a bit of silk, the figure glided to a chair at the small table and placed an elegant hand on it.

     Would you care to sit, Jonas Foster?

     The voice increased the ache in his body, and made his throat close. Jonas looked at this apparition with sharp longing. It was something he could not name, but a part of his mind sighed in supreme delight at such closeness to it. Was it the unmistakable beauty? The voice which reverberated through his very being? He tried to look suspicious, to hold himself aloof… So much lately had shifted him, twisted that which was the death mage into something he could hardly recognize any longer. Why should it be a surprise now that he sank bonelessly into the chair, gazing at the …man? perhaps… with round eyes?

     You have been searching for me, it said smoothly, pacing with noiseless steps to the other side of the table. Where it’s cloak brushed the table, Jonas saw decaying wood for brief seconds. A faint noise, perhaps a tremor in the air, drew his gaze back up. He found himself curiously reluctant, for all the draw, to meet the man’s eyes. He smiled, and the room’s shadows crowded about his armoured feet with whispery sounds. For much of your life,  you have sought me.

     "Are-" The mage stopped to swallow, and though he knew the answer, he had to ask. "Are you Death?"

     You would call me this, yes, it said, he…said. The eyes, fathomless pools of night sky, smiled though the sensuous mouth did not. You have long wished to speak with me.

     "…he did it," Jonas murm

ured, more in astonishment than anything. While he had made the pact with the demon, it hadn’t actually sunk into his mind that the infernal thing might succeed.

     You speak of the demon, yes?

     "Yeah… Richard. I…" The mage blinked, and part of his mind, that willful thing, laughed at him. He was astonished at this? "I didn’t expect he’d actually…"

     It was not he that called me. He merely opened the door for you. It has been you, Jonas, who has called me all these years. Now, and he paused to gaze at the breakfast nook, that unimaginably beautiful face shifting into some expression before he turned back. Now you have found more reason than before to wish me here.

     It was yet one wonder heaped onto another that Jonas had, for the fleeting moment, utterly forgotten where he was, why he was here. His dark brown eyes deepened shade, resembling old wood now as he looked at Death itself. "I want her back." It was simply said, for Jonas found he could not speak more eloquently. Not, after all, that eloquence had ever been one of his strong points.

     Very much so, I know. I heard your cries, I heard your prayers. I know how much you long to have her once more. But Jonas, you of all people, don’t you know Death never returns what it has taken?

     "You didn’t take her!" He couldn’t hold back the sudden cry, and it was with horror that he felt warm salt water trickling down his face. Tears? Tears?!? For nearly two years he had fought to weep, and now without a moment’s bidding, the tears came effortlessly.

     Didn’t I? You blame those who created her injury, the ones who weakened her so that I might take her away with me. Or is it that you cannot bear to blame Death for losing your only love? After the years you spent in what you thought was my service, it must tear at you to think that your patron became your enemy.

     Jonas couldn’t whimper, any more than he could wipe away the tears drying on his cheeks. He merely looked at Death and tried to speak. He failed utterly and looked at his hands, swallowing convulsively.

     Your reasons are unknown to you, but I understand. You want her back, Jonas Foster. How do you propose this to happen?

     The death mage tried to think, and found himself gazing at his lifeline. Broken, chained, tangled and excessively long, it made deep indentation in his palm. The break which had begun it all glared at him, and he followed the fork down. Another break, and another forked line. What path to choose?

     "What if I gave you my life?"

     No one gives their life. They give up their will to live, their right to existance…but not their life. Your life is not yours to give, Jonas Foster. It belongs to the Wheel, as you well know. It is your time, or it is not.

     "Why was it her time then? It… It didn’t seem right. It isn’t right!"

     Death almost smiled, and in the depths of the eyes, a star seemed to twinkle. You speak words you once sneered at others for sobbing.

     Jonas listened to Death’s words, and some ghostly whisper echoed in his mind. He laughed bitterly, and looked at Death with something akin to a smirk. "I’ve said a lot of things I’ve taken back with salt. Do you have to rub it in?"

     I merely speak the plain truth, Jonas Foster. You want the woman back. You know I cannot merely summon her soul. There is a cycle, and to tamper with that is foolishness. The energy she gave back to the universe cannot be taken away.

     "I offered to trade my life for hers."

     There is a difference, you know this. Her life was returned as a turning of the Wheel. A death must be met with another death, but it is not your time, and I will not hasten it.

     "You’re not making any sense!" Jonas found himself shouting, on his feet and gesturing wildly. "A life for a life! That’s what you wanted, right? That’s what I’m offering!"

     Not the type of life you’re offering me.

     The death mage froze, and something in him withered at the look Death was giving him. Instant comprehension came to him, a painful flash, and his knees abruptly went weak. He collapsed into the chair behind him, feeling as though all the blood had left him.

     "…you… I would have to…" Jonas nearly cried again, tearing, painful sobs, and found he was shaking violently. "Why that?" It was a pleading question, nearly a sob, the sound of a frightened child.

   

  It is a life for a life. You will still experience the length of existance you are entitled to. However, your former self will die, to bring your love back to this world. Death did not smile, and something shifted in the air, forcing Jonas to rub his eyes as his vision blurred. When he blinked, he blinked once more, for Death had shifted appearance once again. Now it was oddly reversed, a negative of the former image, with pitch-black skin, shrouded in smoke-white robes, with soft hair like the fur of some Arctic cat. Eyes of the same fathomless black gazed out of this face, and the white brows drew together in a frown. Is this price too high for you to pay, Jonas Foster?

     The death mage stopped, and his throat closed. His eyes burned painfully, and he looked at his hands, resting with odd calm in his lap. His life he had been prepared to offer, and he had thought of a number of things which might come in lieu of that. This… but this… Jonas had never considered offering his soul, hadn’t considered the price might take away his ability to enforce his will on the world around him. To never work magic again? To never pass unnoticed, to never call the lightning from the very air, to never feel the icy calm of death surrounding him…

     Long moments, innumerable grains of sand fell as the mage thought and Death waited with ageless patience. Something clenched in Jonas’s mind, and he lifted his gaze to Death, his mouth opening to speak. Was it Fate once more, with gilded hands, shifting things? Was it the fickle nature of the universe that his eyes should land there, on that particular spot? What, indeed, could be responsible for this sudden memory, coming warm and springlike into his mind?

     Dia laughed as she brushed flour off her nose, her opalescent eyes glimmering. "That was unfair! You waited until I wasn’t looking!"

     Jonas, equally dusted with white powder, grinned with uncharacteristic delight. "You were looking! Just not at me." He laughed himself, and threw another handful at the fae, ducking when she retaliated with powdered sugar. The pastries they had been baking, (or that Dia had baked and Jonas had ‘supervised,’) lay scattered over the counter. He lunged for her, and Dia squealed, ducking away in playful fright. It wasn’t hard to pin the delicate woman against the kitchen wall, and when she laughed, looking up at him with rose and sky-coloured eyes, something in him gave way. Jonas’s eyes darkened, and he leaned forward, his lips a breath away from hers. Dia’s sigh was almost inaudible, but it made the death mage pause and draw back. Dia flushed rose and looked away as Jonas cleared his throat. They remained silent as they began cleaning the flour up, and the glances they exchanged spoke more than words ever could.

     "All right. Let me do what I need to keep my word. Then it’s yours."