[story] Death Fears Not

[Kiddo [le pwnsome]]

HELP!!!! I'm having serious issues with this one!

Everything is happening too fast!

I need to slow it down a bit, so I'll be editing it a long, so bear with me.

Death Fears Not
Prologue

The man’s face was pale and sweaty. His breath came in short, heaving gasps. His hands trembled and his eyelids fluttered. As his family clustered around him, he opened his eyes and stared around the room.
It was small and bare, only a roughly hewn table and a few chairs filled the cold, white room. The bed that he was lying on was small as well, the blankets covering his shivering body where threadbare and covered in patches.
A damp cloth was pressed onto his forehead, several drops of water slid down into his eyes. He blinked them away, coughing. He knew, and his family knew, that he was past help. His illness was too strong.
He was dying before their frightened, tearstained eyes.
But he forced himself to be calm, to look past their frightened faces, to give them strength.
As his eyes passed over the table for the fourth or fifth time, he saw something appear in the corner of the room. He turned his gaze towards it and almost gasped.
There, standing calmly behind his sobbing wife, was a very pale man. The dying man stared; sure that he was seeing things.
He was tall, but not very. His hair was black, like a raven’s feathers. His face was very handsome, straight nose, his mouth curled in a small frown that did not alter his features in an unpleasant way. He was of medium build, and while no muscles bulged under his pale skin, he gave the impression of great strength. He was dressed in a simple dark grey tunic. A black ring glittered on his right hand.
But his gaze was drawn to the strange man’s eyes. While most of his face was in shadow, they were clearly visible. They were black. The whites of his eyes had disappeared, replaced by absolute darkness. Nothing was visible in the man’s eyes except shadows and moonless nights.
The strange man smiled at him, it was a reassuring smile that burned away some of the fear clouding his mind. He tried to smile back, but the muscles of his face wouldn’t move.
He was suddenly aware that he could not feel his body. He struggled to speak, to sit up, to cry for help, but nothing happened. He realized he wasn’t breathing, and panic overwhelmed him. The figures of his family had become faint and ghostly, while that of the strange man had grown sharper.
The man walked to the bed and bent over him. He smiled again and spoke, his voice was quiet and low, “Stay calm, I must prepare your spirit to leave this place.”
He leaned forward and placed his right hand over the dying man’s face. His thumb and little finger on his temples, the other three resting on his forehead. He whispered something, a few quick words in a language he did not understand. Slowly, murmuring in the same language, the man slid his hand down his face, sweeping his eyes closed.
He lay there, not sure of what would happen next.
“Open your eyes.”
He opened them.
He was standing before the man, their surroundings clouded by swirling white mist. His tattered clothes had been replaced by a plain dark grey tunic, the twin of the one worn by the man in front of him.
“You have passed into the Realm of the Dead.” The man whispered, “You are lucky I was there to guide you across. Many there are that I have not found, that walk the earth, in constant fear and pain, waiting for me to retrieve them.”
“Wh–who are you?” He asked. He realized they were not speaking English. He did not know the name of the language they were speaking, it seemed vaguely familiar. He supposed the man must have been using the language when he lay in bed, dying.
Them man smiled again, “I am called Muereth in this tongue. In others I am known as The Shadow Bringer, the Lord of the Dead, or simply Death.” He laughed, “But those are my titles, and I am not one for formality.”
“Then what may I call you?” He asked.
“You may call me,” he paused, when he spoke again, his voice was so quiet, it could barely be heard, “Asurael.”
“Asurael?”
“Yes, Asurael.” He replied, his voice a little hoarse.
“But doesn’t that mean—”
“Yes. It does,” he said, his voice distant, “It defines me. It was once Asural, but no longer.”
“Why?” He asked, “Why would you change your name?”
“Because it no longer described who I was.” Asurael replied simply. The man looked confused, so he continued, “It is a long story, but you are the first to ask since it occurred, almost a millennia ago. I believe you should know.”
Asurael reached out his right hand and spoke one word. The mist stopped swirling. He spoke again, this time touching his hand to his forehead and then holding it out into the mist. Inside the man’s head blossomed an image. As Asurael spoke, it changed, showing him the events that had led to his change of name.








Chapter One
Alone

Death flung himself down into a chair. His face fell into his hands and he gritted his teeth. Sathae is gone, he thought, and ground his hands into is eyes, holding back the tears.
He had done it again. He had allowed himself to become close to one of the Dead. And now she was gone. She had faded, and left him alone again.
Alone.
For millennia, Death had watched others pass on. He was not like the other Elements, for while they were immortal, they, like the Dead, faded with time. Humans lived only a few years, then, as the Dead, they did not remember or care about their former lives.
Death was forever. He would not fade, could not die. He had tried many times, whenever one of his friends had faded.
He closed his eyes and felt inside himself. He sensed his soul, deep within his flesh. He tried to grasp it and pull it out, as he had done before to many of the dying. “Ithil, aturamaith tethor.” He whispered, focusing as hard as he could. Nothing happened. His soul would not move he could not touch it. He sighed, a strangling feeling started to overwhelm him. He was trapped. Trapped forever.
Alone.
He stood, his eyes still closed, and spoke again, “Asalur mukaet olifer soraen.”
He opened his eyes and looked around.
He was on a large, green hill on the outskirts of a small village. He could see a few lonely farms scattered throughout the countryside. Smoke rose from the chimneys of several of the houses in the village. He could hear the voices of several people, a murmuring sound just underneath the noise of the wind.
Death strode forward, towards the village. He often left the Realm of the Dead to walk among the humans. Sometimes he would speak to them, but usually he either remained hidden, or was ignored by them.
This time he revealed himself to them, but changed some aspects of his face so he seemed more human. He passed a group of bickering people. He glanced at them, but kept walking. One woman caught his eye.
He could barely describe her as anything less that beautiful. She was young, probably in her early twenties. Her hair was a light, soft brown above her green eyes. She was dressed in a dark blue gown that, while simple, did not detract from her shapely figure and olive skin.
She seemed uncomfortable, one hand was at her waist, pulling the dress away from her, straightening it, and smoothing it constantly. Her other hand was fiddling with one of her sleeves, which had become slightly twisted around her arm. She was frowning with concentration as she did so, listening to an older man, who seemed to be shouting at her.
She caught his eyes as he passed and grimaced. Her teeth were very white, and it seemed to Death that she had smiled at him. He gave her a small smile in return and nodded slightly.
There was a small grassy area in the center of the village. Death dropped onto the grass and lay down, staring up at the sky. He watched the clouds drifting slowly through the bright blue sky.
In the Realm of the Dead, there would be nothing but mist, no sky. The few birds that he had managed to guide across would be silent. The small animals would be huddled in their nests, the chill seeping into their dens. The Dead would be sleeping; their small ghostly candles would be extinguished. When the sun set on Earth, they would wake, thin rays of light would light up the mist, waking the birds, who would begin to sing.
And usually, he would leave, would go among the humans as they slept. He would find the dying, or the spirits of the Dead that had managed to survive. He would guide them across. Or they would refuse to follow him. Some preferred to remain on Earth, fearing what came ahead. Others walked among the humans and caused accidents, or spoke to them. They were called ghosts or demons by the frightened humans, and were shunned. And—
There was a small sound next to him and he looked sideways. The young woman he had passed was sitting next to him. She had changed into light green leggings with a slightly darker tunic. She had let her hair down; it fell down her back like a bronze waterfall. She seemed much more at ease now, away from the older man and the dark blue dress.
“Hello. I haven’t seen you around here before.” Her voice was light and curious, but not prying. It reminded him of bird song.
“Yes. I’m passing through; this is my first time here.” Death answered.
“Where are you headed?” She asked.
He shrugged, “Nowhere really, I’m just wandering.”
“Oh, where are my manners? I haven’t even asked you for your name!”
For an instant he couldn’t breath, couldn’t think. No one had asked him for his name in over three millennia. He did not know what to reply. So he chose a name that perfectly described how he felt, what he was, and how he lived all at once.
“Asural. I’m Asural.”
“Asural. I am Kiatha. Where are you from?”
He waved his hand, indicating the entire countryside, “Everywhere and nowhere really. I can’t really remember. I’ve been many places, and never really settled anywhere.”
“Really?” She sounded interested, “Where have you traveled?”
“Athkar, Isil, and Matarael.” He replied, watching her face.
Here eyes lit up, “You’ve been to Athkar? What was that like?”
He laughed, “Dry and hot and very sandy. There aren’t many that live there.”
“I should think so. I could never live in a desert. But what about Isil?”
“Quite the opposite from Athkar, wet and cold. Although, Isil is quite sandy. And the ships that sail from the harbor, there are few words to describe the sight.”
Her eyes grew distant, “I’ll go there someday. I’ll see the ships and the castle. I’ll go to Athkar and see the sand dunes. I’ll leave this place, no one can stop me.”
She was silent, her eyes unfocused, her mouth curled into a slight frown. After several minutes she blinked, then sighed.
“You don’t like living here?” Death asked.
“I’ve been here my whole life. I’ve never left, not more than five miles from that house there.” She pointed towards a low building a few hundred feet away, “I’m constantly reminded that the only girl of my age that hasn’t been wed. I don’t care. I don’t want to stay here, trapped and alone.”
She continued speaking, but he was only half listening. Her words had brought home to him that he was not the only one that was alone. He had known, but he had not thought of it. The name he had given to Kiatha did not seem to matter much now.
“I wish I could leave this place. I’ve tried to sneak away, but I never made it far. I always forgot something, or couldn’t find somewhere to sleep. I’d always have to come back. I would always be punished, but I’d try again. If I could I would go now. But–”
Death cut in, “I could take you with me. I’m usually alone during my travels. The only people I find are not living. I could do with some company, and I can tell you want to leave quite badly.”
He did not know why he was offering this to her. He had a duty to the Spirits of the Dead. But, he reasoned with himself, the Dead can take care of themselves for a month or two, why shouldn’t I help her?
“Oh Asural. Would you? I hardly know you and…” Her voice trailed away. He waited, when she continued, her voice was firm, but bursting with happiness, “I would love to accompany you!”
He smiled, “I’ll get you a horse, and you, must go pack.”
“Oh yes!” She leapt up and sprinted away towards a small building. Her hair flying out behind her.
He whispered a few words, cloaking himself in spells of unseeing. To the people passing by he was invisible. He focused on the image of a horse and spoke again, “Arakor tinusael muthuro fanethai.”
A small spark appeared before him. He whispered again, and it grew. As it grew it split and became darker, fading to grey, and then black. After two minutes, a pair of glossy black horses stood beside him, tossing their heads, ready for departure.
When Kiatha appeared at the door, a small sack flung over her shoulder, she gasped and hurried forward. “They’re beautiful.” She cried, stroking the neck of the smaller horse. The larger horse nuzzled her head, clearly wanting the same attention.
She patted him as well, crooning softly to the two horses. He watched her, a strange feeling coursing through him. He had never felt it before, and was not sure what it was.
He helped her up into her saddle, and then leapt up into his own. And, together, they started off into the Merida Forest.


Chapter Two
Merda Forest

“Where are we off to first?” Asked Kiatha the moment they passed the fringe of trees.
“That depends.” He replied.
“On what?”
“On where you want to go first.”
She was silent for a few minutes.
“What would you recommend?” She asked, reaching up her hand to pluck a leaf from an oak.
“There are many beauties in the Merda forest, we can see them on our way out. Then we can go east to the Athkar Pass, then follow the mountains to the Gashar River, and take that south to Isil, passing through the Plains of Laret on the way. How does that sound?”
“Excellent.”

And it was.
For two weeks they traveled through the Merda forest, stopping to observe small animals passing to and fro on the banks of small streams and ponds. They rested when they were tired and ate when they were hungry. Their journey was uneventful.
Until one day a week after they had set out.
Death was watching Kiatha trying to coax a small rabbit out of a bramble bush, when he felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck.
He turned. In the center of the small clearing where they had stopped to rest was a small silver figure. It was a young boy, probably six or seven years old. He was sobbing and calling for his mother amidst the trees.
Kiatha made no movement that suggested that she could hear him. The silver skin and pale eyes of the boy made it quite clear that he was Dead.
Death stood, and walked over to where the young boy stood, keeping silent so as not to attract Kiatha’s notice.
He knelt in front of him and spoke quietly to the boy, “What happened to you?”
“I don’t know!” Wailed the boy, “I’ve been looking for anyone to help me, but I’m lost!”
“Stay calm,” Death murmured, “You have finished with this world, and must now pass to another.”
While the boy was obviously still frightened, he stayed silent.
Death placed his hands on either side of the boy’s face, holding his eyes closed with his thumbs. He spoke three words and instantly they were in the swirling mist of the barrier between the Realm of the Dead and Earth.
“Open your eyes.”
The boy opened his eyes and stared around as Death stood, reaching his hand into the mist and speaking once more. “Atharael mituso haraeth.”
The mist in front of them swirled faster and darkened, fading into the dark outlines of a town, much like the one Kiatha had come from. Few lights showed in the windows. In between the houses, several people flitted back and forth.
Death leaned down and spoke into the boy’s ear, “Go down the main street and ask for a woman named Ashat. Tell her that Mandur could not finish explaining everything. She will tell you what has happened.
The boy nodded and started forward, as he passed through the mist, his silver skin glinted and faded to the normal ash grey tone of the Dead.
Death turned and thrust his way back into the clearing where he had left Kiatha. As the mist parted he appeared in a clump of bracken, which crackled noisily.
In the distance he heard Kiatha’s voice, “Asural! Asural? Where did you go?”
He pushed through the trees towards her, calling out as he went, “Over here!”
Her face appeared between the trunks of the trees, she seemed frightened, “Where did you go?” She repeated, pushing through the undergrowth.
“I thought I heard something,” he replied, “But it was nothing.”
“Oh,” Kiatha glanced around at the surrounding trees, “alright. Are you sure it was nothing?” She seemed anxious and a bit frightened.
“Yes,” he reassured her, placing his hand on her shoulder.
She relaxed, “Alright, shall we be off again?”
“Yes,” he repeated, leading her back to the horses, which were quietly grazing. He patted their sides, and helped Kiatha into her saddle. Then he leapt into his own and they rode off again.

After several days they left the Merda forest and reached the Atmet Pass.
As they stood on the first sand dune and looked into the vast desert, they saw a small hamlet settled into the mounds of sand. The air was dry and hot.