Death Is A Phenomenal Dancer

Day three

The third night, Death returned early – as soon as the sun hid behind the distant mountains of the landscape, he was already at the window. He was cautious at first, glancing into the room, and listening if he'll hear anyone walk around the hallways, but there was no one – and it struck him odd.

"Good evening, Sin" Jonathan greeted with a faint smile. He looked weaker and paler as the days passed by, and the sight reminded Sinclair of his duty – which he refused to comply with yet.

"Good evening, Jonathan. Tell me, why is it so silent in this mansion at a time like this? Where are the servants, or your family?"

The boy hesitated for a second, his gaze stuck on the white bed-wear, with some sort of lonely pain painted across his face.

"I live alone in the West-wing. They are afraid of this curse that came over me"

"They left you to die alone?"

"I'm not alone, am I?"

"No... No, you are not, my dear Jonathan. I'm merely marvelling at the cruelty of humans. They never cease to surprise, even an entity created to destroy – such as myself. Are you not furious, for what they did?"

"Furious? Oh, if I could be, Sinclair! I'd give my life to feel anything so passionate, just one more time! But pain, it makes you nonchalant, you see – it's the ugliest of emotions."

Sinclair stopped in his usual animalistic pacing, and looked at Jonathan, hiding his sympathy with a cynical smile.

"You say you'd give your life for it as if your life would be worth anything to you... You thanked me for arriving, remember?"

"Life hasn't been the loveliest, lately... But right now, I'm alive, and I'm happy – even if for just a little while. This little while is my forever now – it's almost like ending the meal with the most delicious bit's taste lingering on the tip of your tongue. Happiness will accompany me to my end."

Death was silent and uncomfortable. He thought the boy to be mad.

He is an amazing artist after all – he reasoned with himself – They're all mad.

"Why don't you put your hands on your forehead for me? You sound like your fever got worse."

Jonathan ignored the other's mocking tone and did what he requested anyway.

"Why wouldn't you do it yourself?"

Sinclair smiled, showing a few of his inhumanly sharp teeth, then raised his right hand, pulling off his black gloves with theatrical momentum, revealing the white, skin- and fleshless bones of his fingers.

Jonathan stared at him in awe, and Sin quickly put the glove back on, for he meant to terrify the other, not to amaze, and the unexpected reaction made him shy. He cleared his throat, and walked closer to the bed, sitting down at the very end, and watching the boy from there.

"Is all of you just bone?"

"No, not all."

"Do you have a face?"

Sinclair smiled as if he found the question silly.

"Yes, I do, Jonathan."

"Will, I ever see it?"

"No. Never."

The boy paused, his eyes locked on Sin's as if he was hesitating whether to say what was on his mind – which frankly, he didn't seem like he did often.

"Will, I ever touch it?"

Death stared at the boy with equal humour and surprise, simply because he didn't think he was serious. Only after a few seconds of shy silence from Jonathan, did he realise, he was mistaken to take the question half-heartedly.

"Why on Earth would you want to do that?"

"I'm curious, is all."

"Be curious about other things then, my touch is fatal."

"Oh, dear heavens, why did you tell me that? Now I want to touch you even more!"

"You'll die when I see fit! Don't tell me how to do my job!" Death barked at the boy suddenly, and he didn't even know why. He felt upset for one reason or another, but just as quickly as his anger came, it went.

"I would never dare to even try, dear Sin, I'm just impatient to see you work."

Death stayed quiet after that and sunk into his thoughts with sorrow and grief. He didn't want to kill Jonathan, not yet, but he could tell that every inch of that man wished to pass away. That's why he was so kind to him – Jonathan was in love with the thought of death, but Sinclair wanted him to be in love with him, instead, and live. Live, live and know him. Live to be the only one, who knew Death, and him, being the only one who really knew Jonathan – this fantasy crept so deep into his heart, it was very likely, upon being taken away, it would rip the organ into a million bloody chunks, leaving nothing but a gaping hole in his chest.

"Sinclair, Sinclair, won't you bring me a rose from the garden, from the side of that lovely little lake! I want to see one of them before the time comes." Jonathan cried out with a longing smile, as Death prepared to leave.

"Why don't you go down, and see them all for yourself?"

"Do not mock me like that, Sin! It hurts me a lot, coming from you."

Death stood by the window already, when he heard Jonathan's words, so he turned back to him with a puzzled expression. He opened his lips to ask for an explanation, but soon he realised, why Jonathan must've thought that he was humorous – the poor boy surely can't stand any more, or just barely, let alone walk.

Suddenly, Sinclair felt horrible for not bringing all the roses Jonathan wished for, right at the moment when the request left those pale lips – no; right at the moment, the thought emerged from his mind!

He grasped his scythe tighter, tearing his eyes away from the boy.

"I'll bring you one tomorrow."

"From a bush, by the lake?"

"Yes – I'll take the most beautiful one" Death promised, and he meant it, for he felt he had to do the same with humanity – pick the most beautiful of all, and let it die in his hands.