Little Blue Strings

Unexpected and Unexplained

His breath rattles in his throat, and he pulls his knees tighter to his chest. The heavy thudding of marching boots and drumming hooves is heavy in the crisp evening air. They came. The humans. In numbers he could hardly fathom. They came, riding in on black horses and scuffed boots, carrying rifles on their backs and scowls on their faces. Like War, they held no respect for the living. Already, he had borne witness to one of their terrible battles: all at once, a storm of explosions had been unleashed. The screams of the wounded had risen into the sky. The meadow, once green and populated by grasses, flowers, and creatures, lay in tattered shambles. Churned dirt, blood, and bodies- many of which he stopped to touch.

The marching is drawing nearer. He flickers, and a raven wings its way into the upper branches of a tree. It looks down upon the procession below. Some are older, battle-worn humans with stone faces and cold eyes, but others are still small and young. Too young to be caught up in one of War's cruel games.

From the tree, he can see what the band of War's followers cannot; another group, concealed in the brown brambles, only a few yards ahead. They lie in wait, completely still, rifles in hand. It is a trap, Death realizes. When the band of soldiers passes by, they will be killed. He caws, startling one of the younger men. His eyes frantically look up, searching the area. As they land on the raven, the young man's shoulders slump, and he sighs, lowering his weapon.

Death is briefly caught in the soldier's stare. Those eyes are unlike any he has seen. Why? They remind Death of himself. He sees guilt and unwillingness in those eyes, not harshness.

The group is dangerously close now and Death, in a last attempt, swoops down and lightly clips the soldier with the guilty eyes on the shoulder with one of his wings. The young soldier ducks, and happens to trip on a protruding root. He rolls to the ground, and a bit of a ways down a ditch that is overgrown with ivy. And just in time, too. At that moment, those hiding in the undergrowth suddenly rise, taking the others by surprise, and open fire.

The raven cowers behind a tree, listening to the bangs and shouts. Whatever birds that had been around quickly flee, rising into the chilly air. The sun has almost risen, and Death notices in its light that frost is coating the ground.

It seems like forever, but eventually, the sounds of struggle fade out. All around him are the ends of blue strings. Flickering, he stands, pulling the hood of his cloak a bit farther over his eyes. It is exactly as he imagined it. He goes from body to body, trying to block out the dying moans and pained expressions.

His work finished, he turns to leave, wringing his hands. They are slick with blood.

"Who are you?" a soft voice asks, and Death turns around. To his shock, it is the young soldier who tripped. Apparently, that factor has spared him. For now, at least.

"You can see me?" Death responds, a little frightened and confused. Only the dying can see him as they slip into their final moments, and then give way to the inevitable.

The young soldier nods. Death does not know what to say, exactly. The soldier is not dying, and yet...how odd.