Touch of Death

Alfred Lost awoke to the suffocating scent of ashes. His lungs burned, and his body ached as if it had been pulled from the depths of the inferno itself. He gasped, clutching at his chest, only to feel the steady rhythm of a heart that should have long stopped beating. The night before, he had died—again.

He could still recall the searing pain of the flames licking at his skin, the sight of his hands curling into blackened husks before the darkness had swallowed him whole. But here he was, whole once more, the torment erased as if it had never happened. Only the ghost of agony remained, an echo in his bones, a whisper in his nerves that never truly faded.

Sitting up, Alfred let out a bitter laugh. How many times had it been now? Ten? A hundred? He had long since lost count. Every night, death came for him. Every morning, life dragged him back. A cruel joke played by the universe, orchestrated by the one being he once adored.

His hands clenched into fists as he turned his gaze to the horizon. The world around him was dying. Cities crumbled under the weight of divine wars, their gods tearing each other apart in a desperate bid for dominance. The sky, once a brilliant blue, was now painted in hues of deep red and sickly gold, a battlefield of celestial forces beyond human comprehension.

And yet, in the center of it all, there was her.

She watched him from afar, as she always did. Death. The one he had once loved, the one who had once been untouchable. The one who had taken everything from him. He could feel her presence, even without turning to look. The chill of the void clung to him like an unseen chain, binding them together in a fate neither had chosen.

"Are you here to take me again?" he asked, his voice laced with mockery.

A whisper of wind carried her voice to him, soft yet unyielding. "You know I cannot."

Alfred turned, his gaze locking onto hers. Her obsidian hair cascaded like liquid night, framing a face as pale as death itself. Her lips, once the object of his fascination, were now the promise of an end he was denied.

"Then why watch?" he demanded, stepping closer, the heat of his rage burning against the unnatural cold that surrounded her.

She did not answer, only looking at him with those unreadable eyes. The same eyes that had once been filled with sorrow. The same eyes that had, for one fleeting moment, held something dangerously close to love.

Something in Alfred twisted at the sight. He hated her. He had to. For what was left, if not his hatred? Love had betrayed him, left him broken. But even as he thought it, even as he willed himself to despise her, he felt the weight of the unseen tether between them pulling tighter.

His voice was quieter when he spoke again. "What am I supposed to do?"

Death did not answer.

And in the silence, Alfred Lost felt more lost than ever before.

The world had grown quieter in Alfred's eyes. Not because the chaos had ceased, but because he had learned to listen beyond the noise. Death's presence was an ever-looming shadow, unseen by most yet undeniably felt. But to Alfred, it had become something familiar—something almost intimate.

The ruins of what once was a grand cathedral stood solemnly under a bruised sky. The stained-glass windows had shattered long ago, their fragmented colors scattered like broken dreams across the stone floor. Alfred sat on the remnants of an altar, fingers absentmindedly tracing the dust-covered marble, his mind a battlefield of past and present.

"Do you still fear me?"

The voice was as soft as the breeze that rustled through the hollowed-out structure, yet it carried the weight of eternity. Alfred closed his eyes for a moment, letting the words settle in his bones before turning to face the source.

She stood in the dim light filtering through the skeletal remains of the ceiling. Her raven-black hair cascaded over her pale shoulders, her skin impossibly smooth yet devoid of warmth. Those eyes, dark as the abyss, regarded him with something almost tender. Almost human.

"I don't know anymore," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I don't fear you the way I used to."

Death tilted her head slightly, as if considering his words. "You've changed."

He scoffed, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "I've died too many times to stay the same."

She moved toward him, each step soundless. The distance between them had once felt insurmountable, yet now it was merely a breath away. He could feel it—the strange pull between them, an unspoken truth neither dared to name.

"Do you hate me for it?" she asked, voice gentle yet firm.

Alfred looked at her for a long time, searching for an answer in the depths of her gaze. There had been a time when he had, when his rage had burned hot enough to consume the heavens themselves. But now… now, it was different.

"I wanted to," he admitted. "I tried. But hate fades, doesn't it? Even when you want to hold onto it."

A silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but heavy with meaning. Death reached out, her fingers hovering just above his cheek, never quite touching. A barrier they both understood yet longed to break.

"You are not meant to be here," she murmured.

Alfred exhaled a soft laugh. "And yet, here I am."

A gust of wind howled through the ruins, scattering dust and ash into the cold air. Alfred watched the way her hair moved with it, the way her expression remained unreadable despite the turmoil he knew must be churning within her.

"Every time I look at you," he said, "I wonder if this is the moment you'll take me."

Her eyes darkened, and for the first time, he thought he saw something like sorrow flicker across her perfect features. "Not yet."

The words were both a promise and a curse.

Alfred lowered his gaze to the ground, fingers curling into a fist. "Then tell me," he said, voice steady despite the ache in his chest, "when will it be?"

Death did not answer. Instead, she stepped back, the space between them stretching once more into an abyss neither of them knew how to cross.

And just like that, she was gone, leaving only the whisper of her presence in the wind.

Alfred sat there for a long time, listening to the echoes of the inevitable.