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Death smells like a forest.
A canopy of leaves. Sun-splotched patterns catching on dust and damp air. Mossy footpaths carved between clover and soil. Fractals of dew glittering on tree bark. Crystalline. Cool.
Death smells like fire. Not the surge of flame, nor swells of scorched heat or heavy smoke. Fire, by nature, cannot carry within it any absence of existence — cannot burn what is not there. A match is little more than a toothpick without a head, without a surface on which it strikes, without a hand to command it so.
It is a flame’s succession that brings about oblivion. A layer of ash buried deep below soil and shrubbery, unseen and untouched for years known only by the roots taking hold within, understood by all who walk above in the way an animal understands its hunger. A wolf knows it is alive, knows that remaining so means devouring a life no less worthy than it, knows that it stands upon a mountain of rot by the greenery swathing its crest. Cognizant not in its brain, but in its body, in the tendons and cartilage and blood strung together beneath its skin, of a greater beast lurking in shared consciousness. Awaiting its chance, as all things do, to outrun extinction.
Ciel often avoids thinking about death. He is, of course, cynical enough to comprehend such an irony: the legacy he's clawed for himself ranges dramatically between toy-seller and harbinger of doom. At the peak of a mountain jagged with splintered bones, oozing bloat and mud and soot-thick rain water, sits a throne dragged to fruition by his hands alone.
He will thus regard death the way one considers consumption: reprehensible at times, enjoyable others, eliciting varying degrees of consequence that ultimately fall null the very moment the body demands it. An unfortunate inevitability; necessary nonetheless.
Still, he does not think about it. Slices out a section of rhetoric responsible for his role in the subject. Attempts to detach nonexistence from gratification, fear of the inevitable from perseverance, death from pride, smoked pine from cotton coat lapels.
A gloved palm brushes his ribcage.
Alas; it smells of death.
For all that remains of what he was, and all created by who he's become, Ciel does not think of it. He does not permit his sleep-heavy lids open, does not shiver nor shift as a hand reaches between his spine and the cushions bearing it. Does not relinquish his grip on feather-light nihility when its counterpart pulls free the book slipping from his grasp, placing it on the tea table with a quiet thud before arcing beneath his knees.
He is lifted; and, by all that survives of his faith, Ciel does not think about how gentle death has convinced him it will be.
It holds him as one would an artifact, or a porcelain tea set, or a bushel of baby's breath, or a child, maneuvering his limp weight between steady hands. Carefully supporting his legs, beckoning him to rest against its sternum. His arm dangles, ill-mannered, swaying with the melody of footsteps, and it laughs — hushed, indulgent, vibrating in his stomach and cheek.
Firelight crackles distantly, only to cease with a whisper, unnatural in its haste, and Ciel really ought to remind Death of its house rules; but, doing so would break the lie both have chosen to partake in, so he does not.
Instead, he ponders a question: how does a person ignore death when it follows their every move? When it paves their ascension, brandishes their handgun, shifts its hold when their head begins to lull from its shoulder?
Same as an animal does, he supposes: by running towards its next meal, preferring to define the action as chasing rather than fleeing.
He'd been held like this, once — a long time ago now. By arms that were no less sturdy, though arguably advantaged by their charge's smaller frame, delivering him from the depths of the library to his bedroom. Soft strides taken with regard to a boy's unconscious drifting, low-lit lamps snuffed so as not to disturb tired eyes. Rumbles of bemusement at false snores, at a child, opportunistic as its maker, wanting little more in its tiny world than to be carried.
The memory tastes of ash, colors muddled beneath its coating. Cobalt dulling to black, powder blue fading to white. A scent so foreign it no longer evokes longing replaced by oak and petrichor and ivy.
Is Death aware of the visage it proffers? It must be, certainly, what with how effortlessly it moulds to the living, decorating itself a mimicry of sentiment, terror and starvation and rage, hope and longing and— other L-words. Adopting the sole proficiency humanity possesses in light of itself and relaying a blasphemy of change.
Perhaps it feels remorseful. Not enough to concede its hunt, merely the trickle of pity one might encounter upon crushing insects beneath an unintentional heel, or knocking over an anthill to see what might come of their flagrant destruction.
Perhaps —
No. He will not think of it.
Fingers brush the crown of his skull. They sweep his bangs from his eye (lest his vision be entirely obscured — ironic, given how the fabric adorning the other is comparably its fault). They tidy wry strands flying in odd directions from leather upholstery and rough-edged linen pillows, sticky with static and restless half-dreams. They move slowly, soothing, his body delegated to just one arm in their pursuit.
(Not that it's of any concern. The limb does not quake or tense with the added weight, nor does he expect it to. It is a sound and sacrilegious trust, willful as one can be when left with no other option, that assures him of its conviction. Without hesitation, without falter, without prerequisite misconception of a person he is not, always will he be borne by these arms alone.)
Ah — there it is. The very question he refuses to entertain for fear of an answer, be it honest precognition of the future or, worse, his own.
It tumbles free regardless, starlight stretching through distant oblivion.
Is this what death will feel like? A still, solid chest, perfusing comfortable warmth and even-timed heartbeats, holding him as they approach a mutual conclusion?
Fluttering lashes and liquified muscles brought to rest in balmy satisfaction. Sunlight stained with waterlogged vegetation and damp soil. Towering oaks casting rays of evernight upon the earth below. Whispers of smoke and charcoal floating in the breeze.
With shut eyes and deep breaths, unseeing of that which lies before and all that might follow, that cannot follow, will he meet death as he knows it here? Gently carrying him to bed, each step ticking away towards an indeterminable end, only to lie him in the plush dirt of a clearing, drenched in wildflowers and tree bark, insects and earthworms, and bid him goodnight?
Will he rest his head atop centuries of ash and clover, a mere fragmented consciousness, and, at death's behest, slip into nothing more than sleep's deliverance?
It is a nice idea.
Perhaps, if he were anyone else, if Death were anything but, he'd have use for such delusions.
He will not die peacefully. Will not allow himself surrender to slumber's pleasantries, to the thing bearing his body and its lies, convincing him of everything it is not and everything his mind, traitorous in its delirium, yearns to believe.
It will hurt. He demands it hurt, will take hold of any remaining modicum of authority fabricated to his likeness and, in his final breath, order his soul be burned from his lungs. That he be torn apart, dry brush and linen cushions caught in a blaze, left to scream curses into open air that fall, wretched and deafening and heard, unto the very apparition of his demise.
Death will cease smelling of forests and ash and it will burn, and he alone will be the source of the flames, nerves alight in righteous vindication, blood boiling in his veins and pouring from his mouth like prayers forever left unanswered. Fire will rage through his being and it will burn because he was there, because he once lived and breathed, because something must still remain of him beyond a vacuous stolen name and a trail of sulfur-scented bodies.
Because nothing that lives resigns itself to a gentle goodnight.
A door clicks open. Quick strides gradually simmer to a halt.
For a fleeting, finite moment, before he is lowered to the cool mattress below, against his better judgment, Ciel indulges in delusion.
His wrists tense — clumsy, light, easily disregarded as fitful dreaming or startled false-waking.
Loosely, they encircle Death's shoulders.
He churns through the memories that flash by, aware of the room growing just a hair warmer, of Death's amused, anticipated, victorious huff.
He thinks of when he was held last and wonders, limbs now regressed to their prior slack as he is tucked beneath satin blankets, clad still in his daywear (which promises a rather lengthy lecture come morning), how and when the evocation of sapphire irises had desaturated not quite to grey, but scarlet-flecked brown.