There was a girl who fell in love with death. On the night her mother’s illness finally took her, the girl saw the mysterious figure sneak in through the window. And as a chilling breeze swept through the room, she gazed upon death’s looming figure with awe and adoration.
“Young lady,” said death, “I am here to collect your mother’s immortal soul. Surely I do not deserve to be looked upon with such love?”
The girl merely smiled and said, “Maybe so, but I have never seen such beauty before. Surely someone so beautiful is deserving of love?”
But death was not beautiful. Not beautiful at all. And yet…
Death took pity on the girl. If she spent her whole life chasing him, then she would waste away, until it was her turn to pass away, like her mother before her. So death made her a promise.
“I cannot control your heart, my lady, that much is beyond my power. But you must live your life, and once a year on this date, I shall return to you, and show you the wonders I have seen.”
The girl accepted the offer, overjoyed at the prospect. So, for the remainder of the year she continued her life as if nothing had changed. And when death returned as promised, she was waiting for him.
And so death enacted his plan. He showed her the most terrifying, tragic, and gruesome deaths he had ever encountered; as if the girl were experiencing them herself. Surely, thought death, this would restore her fear, and he could return to his work. The girl took a steadying breath. She wiped the tears from her eyes. And she embraced death, warmly.
“Thank you,” she said, “I have never known such thrill and exhilaration, such melancholy, such eye-opening despair. You have shown me feelings deeper than I have ever felt before! How lucky I am to have such a generous love!”
Death was mortified, embarrassed. But what could he say? How rude it would be to tell the girl she was wrong.
“You are most welcome,” said death, “and I look forward to our next meeting.”
And so it was. Every year the girl grew more and more into a strong and kind woman; and every year death showed her his worst. She thanked him, and they parted. On the fifth year, death floated into her home on the eve of her cousin’s wedding. As he rode the biting cold into her room, she turned to meet him, and what a sight she was…
The moon illuminated her hair, black as night. Her dress was as scarlet as a man’s last drop of blood. She held a bouquet of flowers. Death had never before beheld such beauty.
“Death!” She said, cheerfully greeting him as an old friend, “I wasn’t sure what your favourite flower was, so I just got one of everything that was in season!”
Death had never been given flowers before, and in so many vivid colours. When he reached for the bouquet, however, every last bloom withered and died. The bouquet crumbled between his fingers.
“Oh, I see…” Said the girl, disappointment marring her beautiful face for just a moment.
“It’s alright,” said death, looking into her eyes, into her very soul, “the most beautiful things in the world are fragile. They do not last forever.”
When death finished showing her his worst, he helped to dry the girl’s tears.
“Thank you,” said the woman, “how lucky I am, to have such a generous love.”
“You are most welcome,” said death, “I shall count the days until our next meeting.”
On another year, when death entered the her home, the woman was frantic. She ran ragged all about her bedroom, and when she heard death enter, she slammed something shut.
“What are you hiding, my lady?” Said death.
“Nothing,” she insisted, “nothing at all! I would never hide something from you!”
Death had seen this coming.
Many-a-mortal had tried to trick him in his time, to mislead him, to stab him in the back. But in all his millennia, none had stooped so low as to first attempt to gain his trust.
Death was ruthless in the visions he showed the woman, the things he forced her to witness, the choices he had her make. He showed her the pinnacle of humanity’s evil, the very worst of death.
Until finally, he dangled the woman from the edge of the world’s tallest cliff, just beyond which was a sheer drop into the roiling ocean below. He asked her a question.
“Do you fear me, mortal? Do you finally fear me now? Are you afraid of death?”
Darkness fell over the cliff, and the wind lashed icy cold at the woman’s skin, as she teetered on the precipice between being, and not.
“Of course I do!” the woman cried, brokenly.
With a crack like lightning, they were back in the woman’s home. Where death cast her to the floor, and she crumpled into a terrified heap.
“Then you have learned your lesson. No one can deceive death.”
“Deceive you?,” Cried the woman, “when did I ever deceive you!”
Death was enraged.
“The petty hubris of man! Even now you feign innocence! You were hiding something when I arrived, but you cannot fool me! Many have tried, and failed, to assassinate me, trick me into a deal, a game, all to gain immortality! Ha! The fools knew not of what they asked!”
The woman was silent, sullen. From her back pocket, she pulled out a carved wooden box, and stretched out her hand.
“Take it,” she said, and death snatched it from her grip, “You would like to know what I was hiding? Open it.”
Death opened the box, expecting to find a dagger, or a neatly folded net, or a vial of poison.
It was a hyacinth flower. But it was not as it seemed. When death picked it up, it did not whither and die. Instead, it reflected the light of the slowly rising sun, creating dancing patterns of colourful light.
It was made of glass.
“It’s still fragile,” said the woman, “and I doubt it will last forever either. I still do not know your favourite flower. But hyacinths were my mother’s. Do you know the story of Hyacinthus?”
Death knew every story ever told, for he was eternal.
“No,” said death, “would you kindly tell it to me?”
And so the woman told death the story of the prince Hyacinthus, who was the love of the Greek god Apollo. Of how, jealous of Apollo, and wanting the prince for himself, Zephyr the West Wind killed the prince. Apollo, grief-stricken, holding the dying prince in his arms, turned him into a flower.
A hyacinth.
The woman sighed, and death noticed for the first time, that one of her hairs was not black. It was grey.
“I am sorry that you so often see the worst of humanity,” she said, “but you have to understand, you must be willing to trust others. Or else, how could anyone ever hope to prove themselves good to you?”
Death had never shed a tear before that day.
“My lady,” he asked, “may I give you a gift as well?”
“Of course, my darling,” said the woman.
Death held her as gently as he held the glass flower she had given to him. And he kissed the woman, on that glorious morning.
“There now,” said death, “I have given you my blessing. Now through your every misfortune, every tragedy, every impromptu fit of despair; know that I am beside you. Know how much I love you.”
The woman held him tightly, and wetted his robe with tears. “Thank you,” she said, “how lucky I am, to have such a generous love.”
“You are most welcome,” said death, “I shall count your every breath until next we meet.”
The years went by, and death visited the woman for each of them. They made numerous memories together, joyous, miserable, and all that rests gently, quietly, in between. The woman lived a full and wonderful life, until she was old and grey.
Death, cloaked as always in shadow, riding a frigid gust of wind, floated into the woman’s window.
“Death, my darling, you’re early,” said the woman.
“I know,” said death.
“Ah,” said the woman, “I see.”
“My lady, my love,” said death, “before I do this, I must ask of you, one question. How was it that you saw beauty in me, on the night I took your mother’s soul? And how was it, then, that I could never scare you away with my visions?”
“Ah,” said the woman, “I was wondering when you were going to ask me that. You see, death, everyone was so afraid, when mother became ill. Afraid she would suffer, afraid we would become destitute, afraid for father, afraid she would be damned to hell. Do you know what I was afraid of?”
“What?” Said death.
“That when she died, when that time came, that she would be all alone. You have seen so much cruelty, death my darling. So many horrid people, so many horrid fates. You have shown me them all. Yes, it has made you slow to trust, but frankly I was surprised you had any light left in you at all. To see all of that, to endure it, for as long as life has existed, and still have kindness in your heart - pity, for the girl who fell in love with death - that is beautiful.”
Death sighed fondly for his love. His mortal love.
“Are you afraid, my love? Do you fear your death?”
“Of course I do, my darling,” she said, “what person does not? But I do not fear you. You want to know why you could never scare me away? Because for every death you showed me, no matter how terrifying, how gruesome, how horribly tragic; you were right by their side. Lighting the way in the dark. You were there to guide every last poor and wayward soul to the next world.
Of course I am afraid of dying, my darling, but that is why I am so glad to have you here with me. To hold my hand. To be my light in the dark.”
And so death took her hands, gnarled and marked with age, with experience, with life.
“Thank you” said death, “How lucky I am, to have such a generous love.”
