A Final Dance with Death

“We were all angels, once,” Morteziel says wistfully. A mere shadow of her former self, golden wings blackened by what she’s become: Death, one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. The horse she sits on is white, pale as- well, her. How I hate the dark cowl that obscures her face, hides her silver hair that shines with moonlight.

“You linger too much on the past, Death,” sneers War. They are unrecognizable now, scarred and burned head to toe from countless battles over the centuries. Once they were one of the most beautiful angels with prismatic wings, a being of honor and protection. Those wings shattered long ago, and out of respect I will not speak their old name. Their horse is red as the blood spilled in their name, with gaping, ever bleeding wounds.

“It is wise not to forget who we were,” I say between coughs. I’ve grown weaker and weaker from hunger, my muscular form reduced to skin and bone. My own wing’s feathers have fallen out, leaving a grisly sight. I look away from reflections these days, ashamed of what I’ve been reduced to. Soon the world will be my mirror, when I bring Famine as I ride atop my black horse.

“Or what we will become,” says Victorael, ever looking forward. He is the most handsome of us, a face you instinctively trust, with big brown eyes that sparkle even as he schemes and plots. His wings are still white as a dove’s, as the false peace he promises, as the magnificent horse he rides upon. Conquest and War have been long enemies, War bearing the brunt of the consequences from the other’s lies.

Death and I, on the other hand, are old friends. We dance often, as I linger around starved souls that she brings to Judgement. She whispers secrets to me then, last words whispered by the damned and virtuous alike. While I sing her the angelic songs of old, which I know she misses. I love her. I don’t remember when I didn’t love her, stretching back far enough I went by a different name.

I am not brave like War, cunning like Conquest, final as Death. I am a bitter, ugly thing, always starving for more- for food, for affection, for happiness. There is a hollowness within me. That’s why I was Chosen, I believe. God does not make mistakes, and chooses the best to carry the mantle.

Morteziel leads her horse to stand at my side as War and Victorael begin their usual bickering. I bow my head, brittle hair falling down to frame my face.

“Morte,” I murmur respectfully.

“So solemn, old friend,” Her voice is a balm to the hunger clawing at my stomach. “Where is your beautiful smile?”

I look out to the distance, to a world about to be thrown into Apocalypse. “Not much to smile about these days, Morteziel.” I can feel her frowning.

“How about a final dance, you and I.” Before I can say anything, she is sliding off her horse, black robes whipping around her. She holds out a pale hand, and I sigh wearily before taking it. She helps me off my horse and my bare feet begin to ache terribly as I stand with my own strength. I rarely do so anymore, the closer we’ve come to the End.

Her soft hands wrap around my dry and cracked ones, and she begins to lead me in a familiar waltz. Slow, so I can keep up. I look up at her face hidden in shadow.

“I miss you,” I blurt out, and regret it when she laughs.

“I’m right here, old friend.” She twirls me around, as if to make her point, and I grow dizzy from the quick spin.

“I mean- I miss seeing your face,” my voice is terribly petulant. “It should be me covered up, not you.”

Death is quiet as we continue to dance. I break the silence, as I always do, by singing a song. A song that speaks of the beauty of God’s creations, from the bubbling brooks to the smallest fieldmouse.

This time, however, she begins to sing along, her gravelly voice complimenting my high pitched one. It’s such a surprise I stumble mid note, but I quickly recover. Morte hasn’t sung a song since we were Chosen. I never asked her why, wanting to avoid causing her pain.

The song finishes, and so does our dance. We sway together instead, and I cling to her. If asked, I would say because my strength is failing, but it’s really because I want to be as close as possible. The End scares me, but I feel like I can face it with Morte’s arms around me.

“I have a final secret to tell you,” she whispers, and I nod. “It’s my secret this time.”

“Tell me,” I insist, “And know I will not judge you, whatever it is.”

Death tucks a loose strand of hair back behind my ear. My breath quickens. I love you, I think desperately, I’ve always loved you.

I’m a coward, so I say nothing.

But Morte surprises me. She says something I never, ever thought she would say.

“Whenever I called you ‘old friend.’ I was actually saying ‘my love.’” Her voice rings true, but it cannot be.

“You… love me?” The cowled hood bobs up and down. A nod. “As a friend,” I say, still unsure, and she shakes her head.

I begin tearing up. “Do not tease me,” I say weakly, “I know what I am. What I look like-”

A pale finger is held up to my lips, and I quiet.

“How can I not love you? My dearest, closest companion. I want you to know before the End that I’ve often dreamed of your lips against mine, that every dance was a sweet torture, every song a temptation.”

I take her hand in mine and kiss it. “I love you,” it flows out of me like water from a broken dam. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” I kiss her hand again because I cannot kiss her face, and I try to pour my longing, my every bit of devotion and love into it.

I have so many questions. When did she know? Why did she wait to tell me until now?

But there is no time. For the trumpets begin to sound from the Heavenly Host. The End has begun, and we must do our duties with it.

Morte scoops me up in a bridal carry and gently sets me back on my horse, before climbing onto her own.

“Find me, after we’re done,” I say desperately, reaching out again to her. She takes my hand and squeezes.

“Goodbye, my love.” And releases me. War and Conquest has already begun their Ride, and we are quick to follow.

Will there be a Beginning after the End?

I cannot wait to find out.