Death's Interview part two

          Bidden by his task he was put on the world to do The-Interviewer watched as Death clumsily hacked her apart. Dissecting the parts he presumably needed, most of it came from the girls buttocks and hips. The-Interviewer watched as Death ripped skin from his face and sewed new sections back in place. As he broke her chest open The-Interviewer was afforded a brief moment of recovery as a white form floated from the body. It drifted across, stopping to rest briefly at Death's forehead before floating up. It was hardly compensation for the next stage, Death ripped the heart from the body and ate at it hungrily until there was no more. Overpowered by his own task The-Interviewer swallowed back nausea.
          As time passed Death took many more sections from her. Spirit’s muscles replaced those that apparently were no use to him any longer. By the time he was finished there was only Spirit’s head remaining whole. He had eaten most of her organs save her lungs and liver -which he had transplanted-. He lifted her into his arms, cradling her bleeding form and The-Interviewer followed him, at a distance, outside and watched him bury her using more spells.
          After a time he turned and looked upon The-Interviewer. "She was a beautiful young lady. In heart as well as body. I will miss her company. After I have healed proficiently I will find another to take her place and we will travel unhindered by my grotesque form. I will show them the world. Take them to the finest places I can manage. Spend time at the water and I will teach them as best I can. When the soul reaches Havan it will be wiser for my teachings, the soul will be received and be happier there, I hope that forgives my sin."
          "Why did you need to escape?" The-Interviewer asked as they turned, retiring inside once again.
          "I was hunted for my skills with blade and spells. I was seen as an abomination long before I did this. I killed monsters for my fellow man and I became hunted and hated for it." He reached an arm behind him and pulled out a long sword, hardly a blade, from his body, The-Interviewer surmised that he had designed his body to serve as its hiding place.
          "I do not use the blade anymore except to protect my donor. The monsters don't bother me, I smell of death. I smell of decay after the donor loses grip on their life and comes of age but they are attracted to the donor's life."
          "Your name hasn't always been Death has it," The-Interviewer realised.
          "Once I may have been able to answer that. I have been going by this name for far too long now to remember my original."
          The-Interviewer smiled. "You aren't as nice as you seem either, are you?"
          "Maybe not."
          "How does your heart and brain survive? For that matter how long have you been living?"
          Death smiled showing his jagged teeth again. "Many, perhaps too many, years. The hearts of the donors keep my heart from giving out, my brain... spells protect if from decay."
          The-Interviewer sat again and stabbed at an apple slice with a knife before putting it in his mouth.
          "Do you eat?"
          "Yes. I must nourish my donated body. I am no longer able to eat meat. A vegetarian diet is meagre yet it sustains this form."
          The-Interviewer raised a brow. "What's the deal with the meat?"
          "My spells for this body were stolen, if I eat meat my body will disconnect my mind and I will become as a zombie."
          The-Interviewer nodded looking at Death as his colour improved. The sewn skin didn't look great. At least it seemed more like bad scars now and yes, that smell of decay had left. So, what about him was not nice?
          "What do you do for money?"
          Death laughed. It chilled The-Interviewer's soul like a fist of cold strangling his throat.
          "I allow myself to be examined. Students learn how to sew skin together, how to remove and replace organs. They are required to only remove and return my donated organs. I can't take anything given without will."
          "And your cruel side?"
          "Oh that, I don't want to talk about that." He sounded a little insane, The-Interviewer just thought of asking why when the laughter began again. It put The-Interviewer entirely on edge. "I lose myself, I become abusive. My donor is the only one to tame *that* persona."
          The-Interviewer appraised Death as he finished the slice of apple in his hand. With the last crunch The-Interviewer got to his feet rolling up his sleeves. "It is time to take this interview to the next level." He walked towards Death and fixed him with a stare, looking at his memories.
          The-Interviewer saw a young girl lying on a bed, every breath seemed an effort and her colour was beyond illness. Death touched her hand and her hair before looking into her eyes.
          "Do you want to die?"
          "No." She whimpered.
          "I can give you a life of safety, it will not be a long life but I can give you more years than you have available."
          "What do I have tuh do?" She asked crying.
          "I need a donor. You will give me your blood as I require it. In return you will receive teachings and years. I will never allow you to be hurt ever again. I can take your memory and calm it. You'll never be the girl you are now again but, you will live. You will have your own will and we will speak with each other in a way no other will recognise. Your mind will be wrapped in mine and we will decide everything together, no more independence. You will have your will, you will have a choice in everything."
          "I don't wan’ tuh die. I wan’ go with you." She had clearly come a long way in her education. In the least her speech had improved immensely. At least Death had not been lying about that.
          "Then open your mouth and take my life nectar." A red droplet of liquid appeared dangling from his index finger. The girl parted her lips and took it down. After a moment her colour improved. She took a deep breath and sat up, looking into Death's eyes.
          "We have precious little time. Keep looking at me, let me consume your soul's echo and be at peace with me." The girl's eyes glazed over instantly, she carried a peaceful smile with her and took another deep breath to relinquish a contented sigh and wrapped her arms around Death's neck.
          "Here." He said handing her the razor blade The-Interviewer had seen her use. "I need your blood to seal this bond. Open yourself for me and allow me to drink."
          "I..."
          "If you do not then you will return to your state to die slowly. If you wish this I can provide, the bond is not connected so strong yet, it will take several days before we are unable to reverse this relationship."
          The girl looked at the blade as she took it and then looked up at Death again.
          "It is your decision on the location of your donation site."
          The girl looked down flexing her hand and closed her eyes before slicing open her wrist and allowing Death to raise it to his lips drinking not hungrily but, perhaps lovingly? There was certainly care and gratefulness there, etched onto that strange face.
          "I will not take so much this first time. Take this pad and hold it to your wrist. I will repair the damage." He did as he said he would, he sewed her back together and then took her face in his hands.

          "You're smiling at me. Your eyes smile to mine."

          "You will look upon your memories no more, they will be a dream to you, I will smile to you in your dreams and in your life."

~

Yes, so that's what he did? Interesting. The-Interviewer jumped forward. Looking for those attacks against the donor that Death had spoken of.

          "You will not hurt my donor!" Death was yelling holding his blade up at an angle and staring down two monsters holding Spirit. They were certainly monsters, half of the face was a multitude of insects. The-Interviewer’s heart sped even though he knew it was a memory and he was only an observer.

The monster had a sharp toothed open mouth as well as its two half faces. Its teeth were resting against Spirit's neck. Was Spirit really her name or were they all called that? The-Interviewer shook his head, that was hardly the important thing right now. The other was grasping her arm, but maybe not grasping, it actually had its hands inside her arm. Spirit was struggling, tears were in her eyes and Death growled.

          "Release my donor. I will protect her above anything else," he yelled again sounding more dangerous. The monsters laughed hissily at him and Death waved the sword out in front of him. At first it looked as if it had done nothing, it hadn't even made contact but then, the heads of the monsters were slipping. The bodies were somehow coming apart but, surely Spirit should have been hurt by that? Clearly not though, she dropped to the ground and began shaking.

          Death returned his sword to its hiding place, walked to her and heaved Spirit to her feet wrapping her in his arms. "I will never let anyone hurt you or take you. You are my most important and precious." He lifted Spirit and walked from the place holding her close. She looked up, touching his face and slipped her hand into a pocket cutting through the skin again, she held it against his lips. It was the most bizarre sight The-Interviewer had seen in his many years; a young girl cradled in the arms of a man hideously deformed by scars that only appeared to be, feeding him her blood which slid slowly down her arm staining her clothing.

          "When will we go home?" She asked sleepily.

          "Now, I will take us there. Sleep Spirit, sleep and rest peacefully." He lowered her to the ground stitching her up and giving her the, the life nectar was it?

In the shadows something moved, The-Interviewer expected to witness Death react without hesitance but he smiled.

          "Come, Crimson Shade." Out of the shadows stepped a great horse with one eye sewn shut, the other eye, entirely black, considered the man before walking toward him and lowered down on its legs to allow Death and his Spirit to climb onto its back. Crimson Shade, an appropriate name, it was indeed shades of crimson.

          The-Interviewer lowered his hands from Death’s face and frowned at Death. "You said you don't take their souls. What did you mean then when you said about her soul's echo?"

          "Every soul echoes, it is like ripples in the water. The centre of those ripples is the soul and the echoes flow outward as the holder reacts to senses. My soul's echo touches my donor's and takes their echo over. Once my soul has taken over the donor's soul is strong. It enables me to control their memories."

          "What did you think when you woke up in that body?" The-Interviewer asked and sat in the nearest chair.

          "I didn't think anything at first, I had no idea what had happened. I remember realising I knew my name was Death, I realised I was weak and that I needed to find a donor." A grim curve took Death's lips. "I can't say that I chose a willing one for my first feeding. I shall always regret that."

          "Why did your horse only have one eye?" The-Interviewer asked jumping subjects randomly.

          "He sees me with the eye that only sees who I am, not what I am. With the other he sees my shape and realises my stench and he panics."

          "Can you not block their memory without making them so disconnected?"

          "It depends on the person." He rose and walked to the door, turning just as he placed his hand on the knob. "I require another donor. I will return after I have one."

Death's Interview part one

The-Interviewer raised his eyes from the mug of beer as the door creaked open. He noted everything in the glance and lowered his sight to the mug once more.

A…man? had opened the door, his skin colour slightly yellowed, eyes black with white iris's. His three quarter length shirt covered over with a black waist coat sat awkwardly on his body. His lower torso was covered with light brown cloth held up with a red metal belt. It wrapped around his waist and curved down around his hip. The cloth curling about him revealed his right leg which had clear stitches sewing the skin together. It oozed blood and infection down to his heavy boots which reached half way up his lower legs. They had steel toe and heel caps and were held up with metal clasps attached directly into his very skin. He had brown hair which reached down his back.

          Behind him there was a young girl. Very pale in complexion with crimson hair much shorter than any woman would possibly like. She wore a simple red shirt, long black skirt and black waistcoat. On her feet were crimson red trainers caked in old dried earth and covered with dust. She looked as if she could drop dead at any moment, the reason clearly discernible along her wrist which had a visible scar.

          "What are you?" The-Interviewer asked of them. He tilted his head as he looked up from his mug of beer once more. He directed it to the man but the girl whispered back sounding dazed, not altogether present.

          "Death."

          The-Interviewer narrowed his eyes, looking into the girl's as he did so. They were glazed over and red covered her irises.

          "I am The-Interviewer. Who are you?" He asked the girl noting how the man looked down at her.

          "A willing slave of Death."

          The-Interviewer narrowed his eyes further. The frown passed to his mouth. "What's your name?" He whispered sweetly, working his spells on the girl to break her from whatever hold Death had on her.

          "Spirit." She whispered back. Her voice lightened just a touch before Death beside her dropped his jaw revealing slightly jagged teeth. As he did the girl took a razor from an unseen pocket and cut her wrist open, the blood flowing readily.

          The-Interviewer rose pointing at her. "What do you think you're doing?" He yelled, more in shock than anything else. Far from appearing panicked herself Spirit raised her arm allowing the silent man to take her wrist. The-Interviewer watched, powerless to interfere, as Death halted the blood from dripping freely onto the floor and set it into his mouth instead. After a time he dropped Spirit as she fainted and lowered with her revealing a squelching sound. He took a needle and thread from the breast pocket of his waistcoat sewing up the slit Spirit had made.

          He uttered a soft, satisfied sigh and picked her up in his arms carrying her to an empty table and lowered a red drop of liquid to Spirit’s parted mouth.

          The-Interviewer wasn't sure what to be; shocked? Disgusted? Though his indecision settled on disturbed as the girl brought herself up from her position with an expressive first breath. It sounded like deep sexual satisfaction before her pallor became pale once more and her eyes glazed over.

          "So you're Death? Are you going to take my soul?" The-Interviewer asked as soon as he’d found his footing in the many reactions he had partaken of in the last thirty seconds.

          "My master is made from death." The girl whispered breathlessly.

          "Made from death?"

          Death looked up and across at him. The-Interviewer raised the back of his  hand to his mouth as the essence of the man flowed into him. The man has no soul. Made from dead bodies sewn together, someone’s  made a mess of the stitches. You were  made in a hurry. "How can you be alive? To live you need a soul. To have a soul your body must be whole."

          For the first time Death uttered a sound, a laugh if it could be called that. It sounded too empty, mirthless and evil to be such.

          "He is alive." Spirit whispered again. "My master has a soul, his heart is his own." She looked at Death. "His brain is also."

          "Who made him, why can't I see his soul?"

          Spirit watched Death. He dropped his head down staring into her eyes and a glow emanated between them. The glow was soft. It had a narrow spread at first but as it grew Death pulled his head back ceasing all activity.

          "His soul is shrouded in the mist of death and decay. He stitched the body together. He used spells to keep his old body alive and stitched in his heart and then he transplanted the brain. His brain," Spirit murmured mechanically.

          "How?"

          "Necromancy spells." She whispered, The-Interviewer noted the way her voice deepened to a growl, the way she smiled almost insane. Then it dropped away leaving Spirit returned to the quite overpowered broken spirit she was. The-Interviewer smiled at his own joke, laughing to himself.

          "I suppose that's how he raised the body as well?"

          "Yes." She whispered smiling again.

          "And he needs blood to survive?" He asked. The-Interviewer lowered a cloth to the bar and wiped it down with care.

          "Yes." She whispered smiling more, sounding breathless with adoration.

          "Why did he need another body anyway?" The-Interviewer wondered nonchalantly.

          "My master likes to escape."

          The-Interviewer watched Death a moment. "Can't he talk himself?"

          "When I come to the end of my service, he will harvest my body and absorb my life force. He will gain his voice then. Then he will choose another to serve."

          "He'll absorb your soul?" He assumed.

          "No. My soul will be released. He will take all the years I would have lived if I had not been taken by him or illness. He will replace the parts of his body failing with mine." She smiled as though drugged. "I live to serve my master."

          The-Interviewer took up his mug of beer in order not to vomit across his interview establishment "Why do you sound drunk? Not drunk with alcohol intoxication, you sound as if you are drunk... you sound as if you are high on drugs."

          Spirit laughed beginning to sound worse and it was then The-Interviewer noticed the white glow around Spirit.

          "He smiles back at me from his soul. As long as he smiles..." She tapered off as though suddenly void of will. Her voice took on a voice not her own. It sounded a man's voice, disconnected and sounding slightly apart from the usual rules of sanity though far from insane. "As long as I smile to her, her soul is calm within her, her memories of her life will not plague her."

Death’s voice

The-Interviewer met Death’s eyes as the man looked at him. The neck appeared slack, wobbling as if off centre, clearly not connected properly. "I took her from her deathbed, took her from the streets and enveloped her within my soul."

          "So she isn't willing at all," The-Interviewer glowered. Occasionally being unbiased, as he was always supposed to be, was not easy.

          Spirit’s voice returned, her tone lighter for a mere moment. "I was. I didn't want to die." Her eyes shook with misted tears. Death grinned behind her and turned her head. The-Interviewer’s eyebrows twitched as Spirit calmed looking into Death’s eyes. Her unshed tears vanished from her eyes and she smiled again.

          The-Interviewer felt he understood. The red droplet replenished her blood. The faint white glow around her was both souls connecting to each other. Death kept her happy, in a dreamlike state, not thinking of whatever it was she had left behind.

          "What kind of life is that to have?"

          "I travel, I meet many,” Spirit answered, turning to look at him again.

          "What would your life have been like without Death?"

          "I would have died on the street. My body thrown away."

          The-Interviewer paused for a second or more. He allowed the thought to settle and then asked, "What memories does he protect you from?"

          "Cold dark rooms, constant fear and a certainty of being beaten and raped."

          "So," The-Interviewer ventured frowning again, "if you were rescued from that, why were you on your deathbed?"

          "I took ill, pneumonia. He came to me in a place where they hide the ill and the dying."

          "And how did he make you well?"

          "Necromancy spells." She said taking on the same slight insane smile as the previous time she had uttered those words.

          "That red liquid?"

          "Yes." She laughed, it sounded to The-Interviewer that she was losing her grip on reality even more so than she already had. How many years had she been serving? She could only have been maybe seventeen now.

          "When did he take you?" He asked curling his fingers under his chin and resting his elbow on the wood of the table.

          "I was ten. I had five good years and then he had to take more."

          The-Interviewer fell still with his mouth open. The two were causing more confusion than anyone he had interviewed before. "More? More what?" He asked as soon as he found his wits.

          "My life. My life essence was growing. He couldn't stop the horror of my memories flooding my mind. Once he takes the extra life it is only two years before my service ends. He had to take the excess life before it caused us to break."

          The-Interviewer straightened up stretching as he considered what he had learned. "Were you fifteen?"

          "Yes."

          "Was something happening to you to make your life essence grow?"

         "I was coming of age, he thought I could have one more year but I developed early." Death rose a hand, it looked tired, and stroked his fingers through her hair. In an entirely inappropriate way he seemed to be sad for her, caring for her.

          "What were those years like for him?"

          "I can't answer those questions. He has to take me now." She sounded just a little frightened as Death kissed her neck softly. The-Interviewer put the back of his hand to his mouth as Death snapped her neck and her body dropped without dignity.