Little Blue Strings

Too Many Strings

Death glares at the seven blue threads in his hand. Seven. He is used to finding only or one or two at a time. Three, at the most. But seven? Unheard of. A bit more than cross, he follows the first thread. It weaves through the trees and over roots that protrude from the ground, over rises and falls, and eventually takes him to the base of a young flowering tree.

He sadly sighs, and crouches down to run his hand through the fur of a great brown grizzly bear. The once powerful creature passes on as he does so, and the blood pulsing from its neck slows to a sluggish ooze. The ends of the other six strings lead to similar cases. A bluejay, crying out in pain, a badger, a squirrel, a robin, a coyote, and lastly, a pregnant doe. The doe only makes him angrier. She should have lived, as well as her unborn fawn.

"Doesn't killing give you a thrill?" War says, giddy in a way that is almost insane. She is sitting in a tree, polishing her death brininger, or rifle, as she calls it. Rifle is still a foreign word to Death, but he has caught on fast to her names for things.

She shifts, and hops down from the branch, rifle in hand. "I mean, there's always this wonderful rush I get, everytime I pull the trigger."

Death silently regards her, stepping stiffly aside to let her pass. War stops in front of the body of the doe, nudging the creature's gentle face with the toe of her boot. The doe's head lolls to the side and her tongue slides out of her mouth, along with a thin trickle of blood.

This act alone is what sets Death off. It is despicable enough that the deer was killed unjustly, but no respect for the dead? This is something that does not sit well with him.

"Your blatant disregard for mercy and life is repulsive," Death hisses, struggling not to flicker into a wolf and tear her a new one. He could easily do it, but he doesn't. He feels he's too weak. He always has.

War looks at him, smiling. She doesn't say a word. She only smiles. Then, she flickers. A flaming red fox takes her place. The sly creatures blinks at Death before trotting away into the forest. The moment she is out of view, Death flickers as well.

The black wolf sniffs the pelt of the deer. She is growing cold. He sits, and then stretches his forelegs out to lay beside the body. When the day has gone, he will sing the deceased animal and its child a song. That is, if he can muster enough energy to sing. Lately, he's been too weary and melancholy to even open his mouth to speak for long.

He rests his muzzle on his paws, whining quietly. It has been awhile since he last saw Life. Summer is coming all too quickly to a close, and Life will leave the forest for a time. Death hopes to catch at least a small glimpse of him before then. He misses Life, which for one with a purpose like his, is odd. But it is the truth. He's finding that he cares about his white-haired friend more than he cares for himself. Oh, how he longs for Life's gentle and consoling touch...

Up above, the sky groans under the weight of the turbulent, dark clouds, and rain begins to fall. Rain cleanses the Earth, and causes things to grow. Usually Death likes to watch the rain, but now, it saddens him. It reminds him of Life. He buries his nose beneath his paws as the water comes down harder, and soaks his fur. For once, he is glad he cannot feel the clinging dampness. He is sure it would only sadden him more.