The Death of All Things

by Faith Hunter

  Now, Gillien caught snatches of excited conversation. A fire had been burning at the center of the encampment all evening, providing sufficient light for the performers to be clearly seen for appropriate appreciation. Gillien took a breath and stepped out, tall and self-assured.

  For the finale, she had changed into her most expensive outfit: a wine-colored skirt and matching bodice made of the finest linen her family could afford. Her mother had even embroidered the bodice with golden thread, which now glinted in the firelight. The crowd really was one of the best the family had entertained and Gillien’s smile was wide and real. She carried her mandolin in one hand and waved with the other, coaxing forth cheers and applause.

  “So,” she called, “are you ready for tonight’s challenge?” Another round of clapping and whoops of delight. “Wonderful! I hope you’ve all been thinking very carefully about what you want to hear!”

  Gillien lifted her instrument. Long fingers with short nails plucked a jaunty little tune and she gazed out at the crowd.

  “You have seen my father’s escapes,” the young bard said, “and the astounding grace of Dava the Bird. Some of you almost got your beards shaved by my twin’s knife throwing!”

  The crowd laughed at that. While Kellien’s hands were indeed steady, he loved to rattle those brave enough to stand up and permit themselves to have very real, very sharp blades thrown at them.

  “But you know, and I know, that this is what you’ve been waiting for. Am I right?”

  Good-natured choruses of variants on yes and more applause greeted her. “Now…who shall I pick? Someone who wants a love story?” The melody she played turned sweet and slow and soft. “Or someone who yearns for a bold tale of adventure?” A tune that was urgent and excited was coaxed from the instrument. “Perhaps someone wants a story about magic and elven enchantments?” The notes now were haunting and dreamy. Gillien was well aware that songs and tales about elves were usually very popular with crowds. People liked things they both feared and dreamed of.

  “I’ve got a challenge!” came a young voice.

  Gillien turned, seeking the speaker. It was a young man, only a few years older than she was, with a short, neatly trimmed beard. His eyes were bright and his face flushed from partaking of the now-limp wine sack on the ground beside him. His clothes, Gillien noticed at once, were quite fine. If she met this fellow’s challenge, she’d likely get a tidy sum.

  A young woman with a fall of blond hair snuggled into his side. The firelight was enough to reveal the soft curve of a belly rounded with the first few months of pregnancy. The man was grinning, and the girl playfully shoved him and murmured, “Love, don’t!”

  “Oho!” Gillien exclaimed. “My good sir, don’t ask me to do any challenge that will drive apart such a happy couple!”

  The pair giggled and drew closer. With his arm around his wife, the husband said, “I want you to make my wife like wolves!”

  Gillien blinked, keeping a pleasant expression on her face. This … was odd. In response to her husband’s comment, the woman frowned, shaking her head as if to say that’s never going to happen. “I know they prey on livestock,” the husband continued, “but they’re also very fierce and strong. Noble creatures. I’m a Davynn, and it’s our house sigil, and I can’t get my beautiful and otherwise perfect lady to love them as much as she loves me.”

  Gillien’s heart leaped. She’d been right about the fine clothes. She curtseyed, deeply.

  “I did not know we had nobility among us! You are most welcome, sir!” The man was obviously not the shire’s liege lord—who would certainly not find his way to a humble bard’s circle far from his comfortable ancestral home—but some lesser cousin. Nonetheless, this Davynn’s coin would likely be yellower than most she usually received.

  But it was a challenge indeed. Wolves could ruin a shepherd’s livelihood, and their howls chilled the blood as they sang to—

  Gillien’s gaze was drawn by the movement of the lady’s hand, dropping to caress the mound of her belly.

  And just like that, Gillien knew what she would do.

  “I accept your challenge. By the end of my story, if your lady wife can say truly that her opinion of wolves has not changed for the better, then you, sir, will have the honor of victory.”

  “I’d rather she’d not fear wolves,” the young noble said, and everyone laughed.

  “Me, too,” Gillien said, and they laughed louder. She lifted a hand for their attention, and the crowd settled down expectantly. Gillien placed her mandolin down, clasped her hands in front of her and began to walk a slow path around the blazing fire, allowing them another moment to grow attentive, and then she began.

  “There is a story, about one of the Seven Gods of Mortal-Kind,” Gillien began. The fire crackled and a twig popped. “This is not a tale of the blessed Health, nor of the strange but kindly Traveler, or of beautiful, gentle Love. It is a tale of one of the darker deities. One whom, one day, we must all meet.”

  They were quiet, now. Listening.

  “This is a tale,” said Gillien Songespynner, “of Lady Death.”

  * * *

  I am not cruel.

  She stood regarding the elderly man in the sweat-stained sheets. His eyes darted beneath closed eyelids, and his body was knobby and twisted from joints swollen and aflame with agony. He was so thin, Lady Death could count each one of his ribs. She knew, for it was her task to know such things, that there was a mass growing inside him, hard and lethal.

  His family sat with him in the small room. Death’s gaze settled on them each in turn: the young grandchildren and their softly sobbing mother, the stoic son, and the soon-to-be widow. Some had love in their hearts. Some had hatred or, perhaps worse at such a moment, disinterest.

  Lady Death knew these things, too.

  Then there was the sound. The man’s breathing became less a labored inspiration than a rattle; the somber declaration that soon, soon, there would be an end. She leaned forward and pressed warm, soft lips tenderly upon the salty, heated, pain-furrowed brow.

  I am not cruel, she thought again. I am kind.

  The man’s restlessness eased. His body relaxed, the deep furrows in his forehead fading to simple lines. He breathed in, and breathed out.

  Something else left his lips other than air: a tendril of what looked like sunlight, or spun gold, or the petal of that flower of many names which turns its face upward to the light.

  This golden mist, too, sought the Light. It curled on itself, until it became a gentle orb of radiance, and floated to settle into the cupped palm of Lady Death’s alabaster hand.

  The man in the bed had been gentle and full of humor in life. He had cared for his family, his friends, and even strangers. He had loved his wife, the thin-lipped woman whose eyes were dry as she watched her husband’s passing.

  Lady Death could be both heard and seen when she desired. She did not choose to be either now. The family knew well enough they were in the presence of death.

  She passed by the weeping daughter and the son struggling not to weep, past the confused, sad, frightened grandchildren, and paused next to this world’s newest widow.

  “I will come for you, too, soon enough,” she said quietly. The woman tensed, sensing Death nearby, and shivered, but her darting gaze fell upon nothing. “And your soul will wait much, much longer in the darkness than this one ere it moves to the Light.”

  * * *

  Lady Death had sprung into being the moment the first living thing had died, and nothing crossed from this world to the Light that waited to embrace it without her. Creatures so small that they passed unseen; insects that hatched, lived, mated, and died; plants and animals and humans—even elves, who lived so very long indeed, though they perceived her as an aspect of their goddess, the Lady—all were gathered by her. All were equal in death. Time and distance were her playthings; else no single entity could shepherd the dying.

  It was that solitary state which weighed upon her.

&nb
sp; She was not frightening to look upon. After all, was she not the sister of the goddesses Love and Health? Some said she was the shadow of that honored deity, but it was not so. Sisters they were, each with their own duties, and tenderness was between them.

  Lady Death could appear as whatever she wished, but most often, those who beheld her saw a young human woman, with pale skin and long, flowing white hair. She was dressed in a black gown, and bore a rosewood staff with inlaid jewels. The just, good, and kind received a kiss and easeful passing. The rosewood staff struck down the wicked.

  Or so it was said, at any rate.

  Once, in one of the moments out of time, Lady Death went to Health and flung herself into her sister’s arms, weeping.

  “I am so alone,” she said in a thick, broken voice. “They all fear me; all but a few. They beg me not to come, they curse my name, and only the darkest souls ask for my blessing for their shadowy deeds.

  “All I will touch, but none will touch me. All will come with me, but none will walk beside me and see the beauty in passing that I do. I will know all that lives, but they do not wish to know me.”

  Her sister held her, comforting and soothing. “Death is your realm,” she said. “You are its queen, its lady. Perhaps you are alone because you choose to be.”

  “No, I would have companions if I could. But the souls have their own destiny that is not mine to determine.”

  “This is true,” Health agreed, her beautiful eyes kind as she stroked her sister’s moonlight hair. It was soft and smelled pleasant. “But how you take those souls…whose sovereignty is that?”

  For a thousand years, or an instant, Death pondered the words of her loving sister. But she had no answer.

  Then, one cold winter night, she came for a child, as she had time without number before.

  The girl was beautiful. Soft-eyed, bright with bubbly laughter, she was only three when Death appeared at her bedside as the girl burned with fever. Gently, Death regarded her. Such a bright spirit. She would move to the Light like a bird on the wing, swiftly and joyfully. Lady Death bent down to kiss the girl’s dry, hot forehead, then paused when she heard words.

  “Please…Lady Death…do not take her!”

  Death turned to regard the woman who sat beside the child’s bed, clinging to the tiny hand. She was unkempt, having tended to her daughter and not herself for so very long. Wild, but calm. And despair wrapped her like an aura.

  So often, Death had heard these words. Those who were about to be left behind as their loved one went on begged, pleaded, threatened. But there was something about this woman that struck her. And so, as the wind sighed softly in the trees, Lady Death stood in the moonlight coming through the window, gazing sadly at the mother. And the mother saw.

  “I do what I must,” Lady Death said.

  “Do you? This little girl, only a child, so sweet and funny and bright—you must take her?”

  Lady Death nodded her white head.

  “You must have a soul tonight?”

  “I must have many souls tonight,” Death said, regretful that her words caused the mother to wince.

  “Then take mine.”

  It was not the first time the offer had been made. But now, after her conversation with her sister, Lady Death paused. The death of all that lived was inevitable…but was the hour of it? If it was, then how was it that Health could bring the dead back if she chose? Or prevent them from departing by allowing her priestess Blessers to heal?

  None could cheat Lady Death. She would have her due.

  But must she harvest the precious fruit at the first moment of ripeness?

  Her heart, which was warm despite what many thought, swelled with hope. Still, she was kind, and wished to make certain the woman understood the nature of her request.

  “If I take your daughter now,” Lady Death said, “her pain will cease. She will never have her heart broken. She will never have her dreams destroyed, or know unkindness or violence or cruelty. She will not hunger or thirst, or mistrust, or fear. She will move swiftly to the Light, tasting only joy from the moment my lips press against her brow.”

  It gave the woman pause, but only for a moment. Then, with a sad smile, the mother replied. “But she will also never know a lover’s touch, nor a full heart. She will never learn a skill, nor comfort someone less strong than she. She will never again laugh with a human voice, touch with a human hand, taste good food or drink sweet liquids. There will be no more songs or laughter, and Lady Death, even our tears are marks of having loved.”

  “You speak the truth,” Lady Death said, and then made her offer. She clasped her hands in front of her to still their trembling; she, the reaper of souls, found herself shy, and excited, and a little afraid.

  “The choice is yours. I would have a companion. One to walk with me, as I pluck souls as human girls do roses. Who would witness deaths uncountable. Who would help me to direct the souls along their paths, for not all are like your daughter, who is pure and ready to speed to the Light. Some must earn their way.

  “I will turn from your child tonight, if you will turn to me.”

  The woman did not hesitate. “I will walk with you.” Her eyes blazed with determination and joy. “For the life of my little one, I will do these things you speak of.”

  Again, Lady Death regarded the child, whose smooth forehead furrowed in a sleep that was more than sleep. Silently, Lady Death asked for her sister’s blessing, if what she was about to do was right.

  The little girl sighed. Lady Death watched the illness inside her depart with that breath, a sickly green-black of not-rightness, puff after puff, and then—a long pause.

  With a gasp, the girl breathed in again, and exhaled only air.

  The mother stared, her tears of grief and fear now those of utter joy and disbelief. “She…how long will she live?”

  Lady Death waved that aside. “A moment. A hundred years. Time means nothing to me, and now, it means nothing to you. You offered. I have accepted.”

  Fear flickered across the mortal’s face for just an instant. Then, she rose, brushing at her hair in an unconscious effort to look more presentable. The motion warmed Lady Death’s heart as she found her own fingers patting at her hair. The two women locked eyes.

  And then, they both smiled.

  “I am…dead?” the mother asked.

  “You are dying.”

  “May I kiss her goodbye?”

  “Yes. But only once. A second time, and she must come with you, and neither of us wishes that.”

  “You are not cruel,” the mother said. She sounded surprised. Her gaze traveled back to her daughter, breathing easily, deeply now. She bent and pressed cooling lips to the slumbering child’s forehead. Then, straightening, she turned to Lady Death.

  “I am your servant now. Command me.”

  “Oh, no, no,” Lady Death said quickly, going to her and slipping a hand into hers. The woman looked startled to find that Death’s hand was warm. “You are my sister, now! I am not alone. There is beauty to be seen, and I will show it to you. Peace to experience. Sorrow to bear witness to, with a full heart. We will run through this world, beholding all. Together.”

  “Forever?”

  Lady Death graced her with a radiant smile. “Until you are ready to move into the Light.” She gestured at the chair. “Look.”

  The woman obeyed, and gasped, to see herself—no, not herself, just her body, just her shell that had once housed the undying soul, lying slumped and still.

  At that moment, the door opened and a man entered the sickroom. Lady Death knew his heart and understood that he, like his wife, was a loving parent, a devoted spouse. He bore a bowl of soup, which fell to the floor and cracked into pieces, its contents seeping unnoticed across the stone as he stared at the shell in the chair.

  “Papa?” came a soft voice from the bed as the little girl reached out a hand to her father.

  The man stifled a sob of joy and tremendous grief. He rushed to the girl and clun
g to her, unable to answer. His wife stepped forward and tried to touch him, but her spectral hand could not touch his solid, living flesh.

  “They have each other,” Death said gently.

  “Yes, they do,” the woman said, her voice thick and sad, but also contented. She turned away from the scene of father and daughter, away from the cares and joys of the living, and looked Lady Death squarely in her beautiful face.

  “What now?” the woman asked, steadily.

  Lady Death had chosen well in choosing this soul. And she knew what she wanted this woman—the first of those who would soon be her companions, her sisters—to be.

  For herself to be.

  “We will be women, still. But we shall be something more. There is a beast that humans fear. They are right to fear it, in a way; but mostly, they fear it because they do not understand it. They do not understand that it does not howl, it sings. That the little ones are raised by all. That they live as families. So we will take their forms, you, I, and those who will join with us. We will hunt together and gather souls, and when they are ready for the Light, we will release them joyfully in song.”

  “That sounds…beautiful,” the woman said. “What are these creatures?”

  Lady Death smiled. “They…we…are wolves,” she said.

  * * *

  Gillian spoke softly to the crowd, her voice still carrying. “They hunt souls, do the wolves of Lady Death. To this day, they hunt, golden, and glowing, following the shadow-gray form of their sister. They follow her at night, silent beneath the moon and stars, and they follow her at day, unseen; at twilight, and at dawn, at this moment, and the ones before and after.