first class ; baths
Death was aboard the ship tonight, a fitting venue indeed. He stood on the deck, still and unmoving in the midst of rocking and lurching, a sight one might look upon and then blink to clear their vision, for how could he be?
But he was. Here, now, he was, even if he wasn't normally, beyond the sea, where he breathed and his heart beat a steady thump-thump-thump in his chest, where he knew the warmth of humanity rather than the eternal chill of the grave. He was no angel though some referred to him as such, no brave Michael with his sword or Gabriel, who'd carried the good news to Earth, whom people admired and adored. Death was feared, hated, blamed for pain and suffering though none of it was his doing. He did not choose who lived and who died. He did not judge; the damned and the saved were predetermined before they felt his icy touch. Everyone died. He was meant to be neither good nor evil, and he was meant to be impartial.
Sometimes, though, sometimes he took liberties. Sometimes he found satisfaction in the fear of those who begged and pleased, and for those who did neither, who showed no remorse for their lives, he smiled knowing that they would reap what they had sown. Old, so old he was. He felt old. He felt as though he had been so many things; a loved one, a fearsome monster, a kind hand to guide the dead and vengeance incarnate. That was right, even outside of the role he'd adopted tonight, the conflict, two sides of a coin that came up different depending on who was looking. And maybe this was so easy because he wanted to be Death, because he wanted that heady power and the lack of fear which came with the knowledge that he could not die, could not feel, could not be harmed.
He just was.
Garbed in cloth of darkest black, a robe that covered him from head to toe and curved into a hood pulled over his head, obscuring his face or whatever it was that lurked beneath, Death went up. There were no footsteps to indicate that his feet made contact with the wood and his movements were smooth, supple, as though he glided to his destination. In one pale, pale hand, whiter than snow and merely skin shrink-wrapped around bone, he held a scythe. Its blade was sharp and curved, its handle fashioned from blackened bone, and if one looked the right way they might catch glimpses in the silver; gaping mouths, eyes stretched wide, remnants of the souls he'd collected.
He brought with him both the coldness of the grave and the stench of decay and rot, but to some they were welcome things, just as to some he was a friend, a relief, nothing to be feared at all. At the edge of the baths he paused, hood lowering in an indication that he was looking down, into the water. People drowned all the time. People would drown tonight. He was here because there were lives about to end, and if he had to give them a push, a tiny nudge, then so be it.
But he was not cruel, not always. He could, if he chose, make it as painless and simple as slipping into a warm bath and going to sleep. He could. Perhaps he might. He considered it, as the water rippled quietly beneath him.