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ʙʟᴜᴇ ЄЧЄↁ 𝓓𝓔𝓥𝓘𝓛

𝓣𝔀𝓸 can keep a 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭,

if ᴏɴᴇ of them is ＤＥＡＤ．

It was only a child, yet it was obvious that this child had lost all sense of purity. Midnight blue eyes scanned the interior of the church, obscured by the darkness of the night. The child, evidently hurt, staggered to a pew and collapsed gracelessly on it. Once the child was peacefully deep in slumber, the pellucid figure jumped down from the roof trusses, landing without a sound. To approach, or not to approach; that was the question. The phantom’s quiet home of many centuries had been trespassed, and her pernicious nature encouraged her to take action, to not let an intrusion slide by. The sensible side of the apparition thought different; she was curious. What had led an littling to wander so far away from any other life, into a void between the Otherworld and Assiah? In the end, inquisitiveness trumped belligerence, and the shade toddled towards where the little boy laid. As she approached him, scars on his arms and legs and bloodstains on his garments became apparent. Wonder what happened with that.

The boy was petrified. The girl, dressed completely in black, had a bullwhip securely anchored to her hip and a sinister scythe in her hand. She was intimidatingly frightening beyond words. The child was unconsciously trembling, unsure how to answer the miscreant; all he could do was stare. Something peculiar caught his eye, one of the girl’s obvious idiosyncrasies. His father had warned him about beings with them, but he had only thought them as myths meant to scare the children. Now that he was face to face with a horned figure, it was obvious he was moribund. “Fiend!” he shouted, scrambling away from the demon that had approached him. “Swine! Beast!” Somebody, anybody, help!

The specter was not fazed by the child’s fear-induced outbursts. If anything, she was amused. A cruelly beautiful smile formed on her lips as she spoke. “You are mistaken, son of man. I am not the demon you speak of.” She took a step toward the trembling boy, laughing hysterically. The boy was silent again, unnaturally pale. Entities, his father had called them. Ancient beings that thrived off of chaos, death, hatred, and bloodshed; and now he hard carelessly wandered into the lair of one— and she looked anything but friendly. The revenant's frown deepened. "Have you lost your tongue, child? Are you unable to speak now?" A bitter tone cut into her voice. "That's odd; barely a minute ago you were screaming bloody murder, calling me the devil and such." The humor completely vanished from her voice, and her eyes appeared to be a demonic shade of red, instead of midnight blue. "If you wish to return to wherever it is you came from, speak now."

The little boy started to cry— not loudly, just sniffling and tears running down his cheeks. "I- I did not mean to offend you, miss," he said barely audibly. "I needed somewhere to take refuge for a little while, and this church seemed abandoned so…" he trailed off when he noticed the girl's grip on her scythe tighten. He took a deep breath, trying to control himself and appear fearless, regardless of his tiny size and his immature voice. “I am try to escape my prosecutors, who had first killed my parents and now are after me." The girl remained unfazed by the pitiful story. Her only reactions were her grip loosening on her scythe and her eyes narrowing.

“What is your name, child?” the specter said, her words cutting through the atmosphere like a cold bitter wind. Her hard glare sent shivers up the frightened boy’s spine. It took him a while before he was able to conjure up the courage to answer the question. “I am Damon Sangrey, the only son of Isaac and Charity Sangrey,” he answered, barely above a whisper. Why am I telling this thing, this demon his identity? I should’ve known better than to do that; telling a phantasm your name grants them power over you.

Damon’s thoughts were proven true. A small smile marred the surface of the girl’s stony face, marking a small but significant victory. “I am the Deathless Specter of the Otherworld, Wraith,” the girl introduced herself. “This church here is my domain between life and death— an unsuitable place for the living." Damon began to argue, but Wraith’s bitter tone cut him off. “Damon Sangrey, son of life; I, the Daughter of Demise, am willing to cut you a deal.” She paused, waiting for a reply from the child, but she received none. She continued her proposal, “In exchange for allowing you to stay alive in my domain and granting your every wish; when it is all over, all I ask in return is your soul.”

Well, that took an unexpected turn. Damon couldn’t answer, he was too stunned. The proposal wasn’t anything to write home about— a horned figure, one of the most feared beings known to man was offering to keep him alive! The more he thought about, it would be completely unreasonable for him to refuse. But there was always the danger of the specter being perfidious— there was always the chance she wouldn’t keep her part of the agreement, and it wasn’t unlikely for reapers, unlike demons and angels, were not bound by word. Some instinct within Damon somehow convinced him to take the Death God’s extended hand and say, “It is a deal.”

A malign smirk, and it was done. A boy, already lacking purity of heart, had sold his soul for what? Revenge? Life? Ha, how ironic, to rid yourself of integrity to live only to be claimed by the abyss that is Death. Wraith was not thick, she knew what she was doing. And she won. She laughed balefully, softly, before saying, “Let’s take care of those, wounds of yours, shall we? Master.”

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