In all cultures around the world, there has always been some personification of the Death. Of some creature, some celestial or hellish being that promised to come for you upon the end of your life.
With all that time and energy poured into an idea, a wish, it would have been even stranger to think Death a myth.
Sometimes, he is a man or skeleton draped in a cloak, a scythe in hand. Sometimes he is an angel, beautiful and dark, ready to carry your soul to oblivion.
But most of the time; he is just a tired man dressed in black, eternally watching, collecting souls as they fall into oblivion.
Not for the first time, Death finds himself watching from a distance as lives come to an end pointlessly before his eyes.
Presently, he stands in the middle of an impromptu warzone. The once glistening perfect city now lies half-way to ruin. Buildings set ablaze, structures crumbling like children’s sandcastles, and all throughout the streets; people are busy murdering each other.
Not everyone has fallen into madness, not that those poor sane souls are faring any better. Women and children, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives– no one is safe while stuck in this crimson-hued air.
Red. The color of senseless passion, of lovely roses, of hellish fire, and blood.
The embodiment of war.
Her handiwork is painted, splattered across the faces and skin of her victims, staining and dripping off souls like thick ink.
Yet… he finds her not in the throng of things, swinging her blades and cackling with manic glee, instead, he finds her on a hill on the outskirts, lounging across a motorcycle. Death blinks, and steps through the shadows, curiosity tickling his vast mind, and hides in the shadows. Silent and deadly.
It doesn’t take her long to notice his presence. Hesitation and caution are foreign words to War.
She grins, fangs peaking out from between her crimson lips, eternally scorched eyes flaring with hellfire from under her sunglasses. Then she rises, graceful as a cat, unbothered as one as well, thinking herself above even him in the heat of the moment.
He doesn’t bother to correct her.
Then she calls him boring. An attempt tp draw him out; he’s sad to say it works. He evens the playing field by managing not to flinch when she calls him out on hating his job.
(It’s not a secret, but he still hates it being thrown in his face so bluntly.)
They talk, he gets an answer to his questions, gets disappointed as expected, then finds her suddenly in his personal space without permission.
(She smells like smoke and gunpowder and makes the roof of his mouth taste of copper.)
He’s annoyed for a moment, and then she draws a bubble of real laughter from him and he remembers why he tolerates her presence.
He swings his scythe, watching her watching him and the sliver of frozen rage in his chest thaws. And even though he knows it will return, larger and sharper later, he enjoys the ironic peace his friend unknowingly gives him.
Or maybe she does know. War has always been a master strategist, even if she prefers more… direct actions. He doesn’t ask as she climbs aboard her new stead, flashing a grin before taking off to collect the fruits of her labour.
(He thinks this loud quick thing of metal suits her more than any animal.)
He follows, he has too, trailing like the terrible shadow he is, following that loud smear of red.