A Piece of History: Crossing the Bridge

     Here, again.

     It made sense, didn’t it? After all, this is where it all began, so naturally, this is where it should end. Or, at least that was the death mage’s thinking as he stood on the sidewalk, gazing at the little cottage with dull eyes. It had been a hellish week, no pun intended. After the summoning, Richard… (No, Betre now, remember?) had returned a day later, bearing papers for Jonas to sign. The idea of owning a penthouse apartment in the most luxurious complex in town did not appeal to the minimalist at all, but Ric- Betre had been insistent. What, after all, would he use his money on? For money the mage did have: numerous fees from his "jobs," carefully invested and swiftly forgotten had added up to be several hundred million. Without the spirit to protest, Jonas had signed the papers and let Betre begin the moving arrangements. His apartment was no longer his own. No, it seemed his life was no longer his own. Ax had followed him around faithfully for a week, fetching and carrying, offering drinks, cigarettes and coats whenever they were reached for. The clear worship in the demon’s eyes unsettled the death mage, and he had barely managed to evade his faithful attendant to come…here.

     The cottage looked no worse than it had three weeks ago. No… It simply felt…different to Jonas. Perhaps the difference was himself, that vague sense of having tainted his soul through the summoning. He laughed shortly as he began clumping up the walk. (At least I didn’t have to sell my soul.) He rummaged in a pocket, producing the key he’d taken the last time, and unlocked the door.

     "Eeep!"

     She shrieked in mock terror and fell back, smothering her laughter behind her paint-spattered hands. Jonas grinned and pulled off the zombie mask.

     "What, it doesn’t terrify you?" His dark eyes glinted as he dropped the latex thing on her coffee table, running a hand through his tousled hair.

     Dia smiled, kneeling on the sheet, and picked up her paint brush again. The child’s chair she had sanded was coming along beautifully, and she resumed painting the rose bush on the chair’s seat. "Oh, it did! It did! I just didn’t want to scare such a ferocious zombie by shaking a broom at him."

     Jonas had to laugh, propping his chin in his hands as he leaned forward to watch her. "Why is it I could see you doing that? It would be the zombie apocalypse, and you’d be defending your door with a broom."

     Dia gave him a haughty look, her eyebrows lifted delicately. "You wouldn’t laugh if you’d seen Andrew keep an entire house in line with just a wooden spoon."

     The death mage scowled and rubbed at his burning eyes as he paced slowly through the living room. It felt as though every time he walked through that door, his mind searched for the most inane memories it could, showing him rather painfully how delightful life could have been. Jonas scowled as he stalked into the kitchen, and his scowl blackened when he saw that he was completely alone. Alone? That couldn’t be. He’d felt it. He’d known that today was the day. The summoning had been successfully completed. It was time, wasn’t it? When he’d opened his eyes that morning, the death mage had felt the certainty in his bones that it was now. It was today. This was the day, and for the life of him (Ironic thought, that.) he couldn’t imagine where else he would need to be.

     "What the fuck?" The mage walked through the whole kitchen, reassuring himself that, small as it was, there was no one hiding in a nook or shadow. He stopped, aghast, and looked around the breakfast nook. "…but…" It wasn’t conceivable that Death would make him hunt …well, it down. Was it? The mage growled and buried his hands in his hair, gripping tightly as if trying to settle the whirling thoughts within.

     No, I would not make you hunt me down.

     The mage jerked, looking up instantly as the soundless voice filled his mind. There, there Death stood once more, the same ebony skin and snow-white hair, shrouded in those pristine robes. The ageless, fathomless eyes gazed on him with something akin to pity, and a finely boned hand extended, gesturing towards the pair of armchairs he had so often shared with her. Sit. You look ill.

     "I’m not ill," Jonas snapped, straightening up. He felt the chill pervading his blood, and set his jaw. "I told you I’d do it. Here I am. Take it."

     The apparition gazed at him silently, and then the air

blurred. The death mage snarled, covering his eyes, trying to avoid the nausea that watching reality bend itself always gave him. A flash of purple fluttered past his feet, and silk brushed his bare hand. Jonas looked up and promptly looked away, a crawling fear making its’ way up his spine. It was a beautiful man that looked on him now. The eyes, as always, remained the same, but now they were set in the face of a godling, framed by royal purple velvet  and golden hair. The robe covered half of the face, and Jonas found himself silently grateful for that. One gloved hand dropped from the mage’s wrist and alighted on the table, tapping the surface gently.

     Do you expect everything to run on a schedule? The thing which sounded like Death but felt like glass being ground onto concrete tilted its’…his head quizzically.

     "…just do it," Jonas said quietly, swallowing. "Just take my will and let me have her back."

     The laughter that echoed in the dark corners of his mind would never, ever go away. The mage clapped his hands over his ears and cringed away, backing into the wall and crying out like a terrified animal. The laughter seemed to go on and on and on, ringing through his brain and bringing warmth to his eyes. Jonas Foster, death mage and hit for hire, slid down the wall and huddled there, burying his face in his knees, his hands clamped tightly over his ears as he wept and begged for the noise, the laughter of Death’s cruelty to silence itself.

     It took several long moments before Jonas realized the laughter had stopped. It seemed that he would never forget that sound, might never get it out of his head. For a few sharply poignant moments, it had even silenced the soft whisper of feathers that never seemed to leave his ears. The mage wiped roughly at his eyes and blinked, looking at the red streaks on his skin.

     True pain will bring tears of blood.

      Jonas looked up, still wiping the watery blood from his face, and saw Death once more, the smoke-white robes moving as if a breeze blew in the room. The expression on the exquisite face was tender, and although Jonas felt no fear of Death itself, he, even he hesitated before taking the outstretched hand.

     You did not recall all the faces of Death, did you? The man looked at the mage silently, watching Jonas wipe his bloody hands on his black jeans.

     "…it’s been a while," he croaked, wincing as he swallowed the bitter taste of fear on a dry throat. His jaw clenched as he looked at Death, and his tone fell to pleading. "I’m here, you’re here. Just… can’t you just do it now? P…pl-" Jonas closed his eyes tightly and spat the word. "Please."

     It is done.

     His dark eyes flew open, and he stared at Death with something like rising hope and a sinking suspicion fighting for buoyancy in a wild sea. "It’s done? She’s here? She’s alive again?" The hope climbed upon the suspicion and cheered.

     Yes. She is alive once more. The cycle has passed.

     It was with great restraint that Jonas did not immediately run through the house, screaming her name. "Where? Does she need me? Is she hurt? Can she…. Can she remember me?"

     Death looked at him with that implacable expression of pity, and Jonas’s heart sank. The suspicion caught hold of hope and dragged it under a wash of despair. "…where is she?"

     Alive once more. She has been reborn. The child, even now, is being bathed and welcomed into a cruel world.

     The mage’s eyes bugged in his head. "…child…"

     Death nodded solemnly, his blacker-than-black hands folded patiently on his white robes. Jonas could not quite get the realization to slip into the meshes of his mind, and he coughed before speaking again.

     "….child. She’s a child."

      Her soul was what you truly loved, wasn’t it? You asked for her to live once more, and I told you that the cycle must not be tampered with. For you, for your plea, I have sped the turning of the Wheel. She lives again, reborn into the world, and she is as those who knew her as a child would recall.

     It was odd, how things could shift so suddenly. The very ground beneath Jonas’s feet shifted, and he felt coldness spreading through him once more. This, moreso than the chill of mortality, was biting and vicious: an Arctic wind swept through his soul and froze it. What was this chill? The mage would have questioned it, but it felt so right. As he looked on the apparition, it grew, and beneath it burned a fire so hot it was the same colour as snow. It was hatred, and Jonas Foster, who had never hated nor loved in his life prior to a woman now reborn into the world, looked upon the reason for his life, Death itself whom he had revered, and hated it.

     The form blurred once more beneath the mage’s icy stare, and seemed almost to glow. Sunlight filled the room as the form’s gilded hands spread themselves. A monk’s face, weathered and lined, bronzed to a dark gold by some unknown sun, turned to Jonas, and the fathomless eyes seemed almost to darken. Jonas almost had to squint to see the form. What…? He had expected losing something more…profound, a more dramatic loss than simply this…diminished feeling. "Did you take…?" His dark eyes narrowed as he looked at Death. "Why didn’t you warn me you were taking it already?"

     You took it from yourself. A mage’s power comes from his mindset, from his ability to accept the weird of the world and incorporate it into his own reality. Each mage chooses a focus, a form for his will. To deny that is to lose it. Through your hatred, and here Death gazed at Jonas with night-sky eyes in a burnished face, you have denied your connection to me. I took nothing from you, Jonas Foster.  You took it from yourself. The robes of burnt grass and charred leaves, those burnished golds and browns of nature, swept about Death’s irony as it walked towards Jonas. You have made your pact with a demon. You have bargained with Death. Now you have fulfilled your obligations to us both. The demon would, and will have more of you, but you have severed our connection. Jonas Foster, Death will not come for you. You and you alone will choose the day you call me once more to your side. Think long on this, for such a boon…or curse is not given lightly. I will not swear to hold my touch from your love, but I will not seek it out. Death does not hate, nor does it grudge. She lives again, Jonas Foster. She lives, as do you. Willworker you have ceased to be. Find your love through what means you may, and remember well: I will not come until the day you bid me with all your being.

     Jonas Foster, hit for hire, stood motionless when the gilded hands brushed his fingers lightly. He did not blink when the sun-gold of the robes swept against his side. The former mage stood as if frozen and looked unseeing at the cheery walls about him.

     Where there should have been joy was now sorrow. Where once there had been peace, hatred now smouldered. What had been hope turned to bitter determination.

     Death had hurt him for the second time, and failed him for the first. As Jonas Foster walked out of the dead woman’s house and shut the door firmly behind him, never to enter it again, he did not look back. Death was relegated to the antiquity which had spawned God and the Devil. There would be no silent appeals to an uncaring world ever again. It was Jonas against the world, and he was ready for battle.