almost twins
SWEET GIRL, Death sighs, sliding through the motionless candle flames of the cave. The Slayer is weeping into her hands, horrible ripping sounds as she stands with the water of the pool lapping at her feet. She is dressed all in white, and so is Death, and they could be twins. The Slayer is still afraid of Death, this time.
“Please,” the Slayer gasps. “Please, I don’t want to go.”
Death smiles. DO NOT BE AFRAID OF ME, MY DEAR. WE ARE MUCH ALIKE, YOU AND I. AND BESIDES, Death soothes her, IT IS NOT YOUR TIME YET.
“Thank you,” the Slayer sobs, and Death rests a bone-pale hand on her shoulder to press her back into the body in the pool.
***
The next time, it’s been a few years, and the Slayer–the Slayer, Death always thinks of her as such, even though there have been two, one passed through Death’s own hands and the other very close now, since last time–isn’t afraid of Death anymore. They are allies, even friends, well-known and often met in the course of the Slayer’s duties. Almost twins. She’s not dressed in white, she’s dressed in her own blood and vindication and hospital paper, and she’s sitting on the foot of a hospital bed.
DEAREST, Death croons, sitting down next to her and stroking her hair with a hand while she lets her fingers hover just above the hand of the body in the bed. She cannot touch the body, but Death can offer her this little comfort.
“I can’t die,” the Slayer says, looking at the unhealthily white skin of the body in the bed. Even the golden hair looks washed out. “The Ascension is tomorrow and I have to be there. And–and, God, he’ll never forgive himself. It’ll kill him if I die from this.”
I HAVE MET LIAM MORE THAN ONCE, Death says, somewhat disapproving. HE WAS RATHER QUESTIONABLE THAT FIRST TIME.
The Slayer almost smiles, but tears break over her lashes instead. “I’ve heard.”
Death allows, HE HAS IMPROVED TREMENDOUSLY. THE LAST TIME– Death stops, and the Slayer’s shoulders are stiff as stone under the thin paper of the hospital gown. HE IS A GOOD MAN, Death finishes.
“Yeah,” the Slayer sniffs. “Try telling him that.” She raises her head and looks back to Death from the body in the bed. “That’s why I won’t die here,” the Slayer says, iron-clad. “You can’t take me from him. Even if he’s going–even if he’s going to leave me. And the Ascension…you can’t take me. I won’t go.”
Death laughs. ALMOST I BELIEVE YOU COULD STOP ME, DEAR GIRL. BUT DO NOT WORRY. THIS WILL BE NO BATTLE. IT IS NOT YOUR TIME YET. And Death presses her back into the body, and the Slayer clutches gratefully at Death’s wrist before she goes.
***
It is longer, before the next time, and this time the Slayer does not resist, throws herself weeping into Death’s arms and lets herself be held close to the thin body under the white cloth, and buries her tears in Death’s neck.
DEAREST CHILD, Death whispers into her golden hair, YOU HAVE FOUGHT FOR SO LONG. COME WITH ME, AND YOU CAN REST.
***
Death has never considered mutiny before, but seeing the Slayer torn back into life almost brings it to mind.
***
They meet again, and again, for years. It is not frequent, but it is not infrequent either, the Slayer brought close to Death’s hands more than once by her burden. The Slayer doesn’t stare at the body anymore, sits at peace and smiles when she sees Death, and they talk like old friends, like family long parted.
“How is Tara? How is Jenny? Tell me about Cordy, is she doing all right? Did you see my mother, is she okay? How is your work? Is it my time?” The Slayer asks her questions like there’s nothing to fear, and Death tries to keep a mental list, tries to check up on all her loved ones so that the Slayer can be assured of their wellbeing. The Slayer’s list of loved ones is long. Death hates to have to tell her, when the soul of Liam has passed through Death’s hands again, and always makes sure to let her know when it is restored.
LOVE, Death says quietly, every time, at the end of their talk, DO YOU WANT TO REST?
“No rest for the wicked, didn’t you hear?” This is always the only time that the Slayer’s eyes glisten, her lips tremble. “I still have so much to do.”
LET THE OTHERS DO IT, DEARHEART.
“Maybe next time,” the Slayer says, looking away, as ever, to hide the tears threatening to slide down her cheeks. “Maybe next time I’ll rest.”
Death takes her face in bone-pale hands and kisses her forehead, a benediction. They are almost twins. YOU ARE THE BRAVEST OF YOUR KIND, SWEET GIRL. And Death presses the Slayer back into her body
