by Lorena
The winter was particularly harsh that year, which boded nothing but ill to those unfortunate enough not to have a halfway decent dwelling to call their own. The well-to-do may have to complain simply about the inconvenience of not being able to ride their beloved barouche box around town. That was well and good for them. The ones in the economic center merely shelled out more money for more firewood or thicker clothing. The poor who were situated in the dingy alleys in the dingier end of town—the one on which the rest of the population had long given up—had more dire matters in their hands.
In the more decent part of the dingy side of town stood an ancient, rundown tenement—one blackened by soot and grime from years upon years of exposure to the smoke and filth of the rapidly expanding town. Like its neighbors, this tenement had stood there for decades now, largely neglected by its citizens in hopes that the crumbling piles of brick and mortar would someday disappear on their own and rid the town of its most embarrassing spectacle.
Within that sad pile sat a small, dark apartment—one of countless other depressing hovels that made up the tenement—and one that was technically one large room used for sleeping, cooking, and eating. Save for the water closet, which stood in one dark corner of the living space, all furniture and other such accoutrements clustered together in the main room, with the bed occupying one side while the tiny weathered table and stools occupied the opposite side, leaving barely enough room between them in which to maneuver. Whatever was left of the space was dedicated to a small counter on which sat a diminutive but surprisingly functional sink and beside which stood a rickety wood-burning stove. A little pile of clean plates sat on the counter next to the sink, surrounded by a few clean cups and a glass that held a scant collection of silverware.
The walls were bare and gray, the only source of natural lighting being the one window that graced the wall by the dining table. Otherwise, candles were used and carefully rationed like precious meat, and the one-candle-per-use had become the ongoing house rule there. A small stack of weathered books that were close to falling apart at their bindings were neatly placed on the floor by the bed, apparently the only source of entertainment and diversion for the occupants of the poor dwelling.
There were two residents in that dark little hovel—boys who’d been on their own much sooner than they perhaps ought to have been. But as it sometimes happens, parental wrath over disappointed hopes had overcome conscience and good judgment, and the two were tossed out into the streets when their relationship had been revealed through an unfortunate case of youthful imprudence.
So at an age normally reserved for carelessness and boyish abandon, the two were forced to fend for themselves in whichever way they knew how, their prospects growing dimmer and dimmer as time passed. They were too young and quite ignorant of a good deal yet, so they fumbled and bungled their way through the world, holding on to each other for solace and warmth, working desperately to keep each other from succumbing from the harshness of the clime as well as the world in which they were now lost.
Their dedication and their faith had kept them alive for some time, content with the daily fact that they were still breathing and together in spite of their poverty. But as it was, the time eventually came for the world to bear down on their flimsy (and perhaps to everyone else, NAĎVE) optimism with its oppressive weight, and one of the boys, weary and undernourished and cold, fell into a violent fever that didn’t show any signs of letting up.
He remained bedridden for several days, hot to the touch and yet shivering from a cold that seemed to come from the very core of his body, threatening to send whatever was left of his resistance crumbling in a second. He grew thinner and paler, his skin sinking and sporting ever-darkening patches of shadow here and there—around his eye sockets, his cheeks, his neck, his hands. He could barely speak, much less move and feed himself. It therefore fell on his lover to sustain his weakening body, urging him on with quiet words of encouragement and love as he struggled to prop up his upper body in order to help him ingest some bland stew or soup that he’d made. It felt as though he were feeding a large, lifeless doll, but he pushed forward in spite of it all, buoyed by the dimming hope that the unfortunate invalid would someday recover and regain his strength.
“I’ll take you to the countryside where there’s a lot of fresh air, Trowa,” the boy murmured once in his lover’s hair as he held him close, listening to the ragged, shallow breathing answer him. “I’m sure that being far away from the city would do you wonders.”
It had been some time since he’d heard his name called by the other boy. It had been some time since they’d enjoyed a conversation. The days had grown quite lonely now for Quatre, who, for Trowa’s sake, carried on as though nothing were amiss in their humble little dwelling.
He continued to cook and clean for both of them. He continued to wash their clothes and his lover’s frail, sweaty body. He continued to eat at the dining table and spend the evenings reading out loud chapters from the books they had, squinting in the flickering candlelight as he did. He continued to chatter about this, that, and the other, somehow managing to find the strength to talk almost incessantly, knowing that Trowa was still listening and that Trowa wanted him to carry on with life in spite of everything. He shared news from the outside world, both relevant as well as mindless gossip. He sang to his lover everyday, sharing new songs that he’d managed to write in an old, torn journal he’d kept with him before they were turned out of doors. It had been a bit of a tradition for the two—that no matter what their circumstances, no matter where they lived, Quatre was to entertain them both with his music.
It was their anchor, their connection. It spoke their minds and hearts in ways that they could never express. It lamented the past, offered comfort in the present, and gave hope for the future. It was their sustenance when all others had failed. Quatre’s music was their soul, and Trowa had once quipped that if Quatre were to lose his voice somehow, their lives would surely come to an end.
On a particularly cold day that winter, Quatre rose with the sun in preparation for work. Shivering in spite of the layers that covered his rapidly dwindling form, the boy still went about his business, cooking porridge for their breakfast and then feeding Trowa first before eating his share afterwards.
“I’ll be at the town square today,” he said, sitting back down on the bed after he’d washed the dishes. He gazed down at his stricken companion, his eyes taking in the familiar signs of waste as his hand gently stroked the feverish skin. “I’m hoping that there’ll be people out today in spite of the snow. Since I didn’t get much yesterday, I’m thinking of using my new song today. Maybe the crowd just needs to hear something new and different.”
Trowa remained silent, and Quatre stood up to wash a rag to use on his lover’s forehead.
“You’re warm, but certainly not as hot as you were yesterday,” he murmured, gently patting the pale skin to wipe off excess sweat. “Thanks for trying.” He paused to bend down and kiss pale, lifeless lips before walking back to the sink to rinse off the rag.
“I’ll sing you the new song tonight after supper,” he added as he picked up a tattered old coat and shrugged it on before wrapping a thick, faded scarf around his neck and donning a pair of mittens that looked about three sizes too large. He fell to his knees to grope around under the bed and presently pulled out a battered tin cup and a worn journal.
He stood up and gave the slumbering figure a final look. “Rest easy,” he whispered. “And don’t you dare leave me while I’m out, Trowa.”
With that, he tiptoed out the door.
The walk to the town square spanned several blocks. There Quatre took his place by the frozen antique fountain that stood in the center, surrounded by a colorful cluster of quaint little shops, their signs and their roofs and awnings weighed down with thick piles of snow.
With the little tin cup sitting before him, Quatre braved the cold and sang a collection of the liveliest melodies, filling the calm, winter air with a voice of youth and spirit. Sifting through his compositions, he’d belt out songs of trees and meadows, of deities and nymphs, of moonlight and oceans, of love and hope, his eyes and his voice guided by the crude scribbling in his journal. Crooked staves peppered with notes of all kinds filled the pages of that little book, with ink blots ruining some areas and food stains blurring out others. But the music was there, and all it took was for one who still held hope to lift it from the pages and give it a form that drew a good deal of attention to himself, people moved by the single-minded determination of a thin, hungry boy to share his soul with others, to offer it up for sale in hopes of helping stave off the effects of disease and despair from his stricken lover.
The music drew on their compassion, and the entire morning found several passersby slowing down or pausing in their tracks to listen in some wonder before rewarding the shivering boy with some money in his cup. Magnificent carriages would rumble by, their occupants leaning out the windows to fling coins in his direction. Children walking by would pick up the coins and dutifully deposit them in the tin cup, with a few attempting to run away with the offerings and getting their ears soundly boxed by outraged parents before grudgingly restoring the money to the rightful recipient.
Quatre took heart in this, of course, and as the time wore on, his spirit lifted in spite of his voice losing its potency as it finally collapsed under the strain of singing almost non-stop for a few hours.
It was near the noon hour when he decided to quit the square and hurry back to Trowa to feed him his lunch. He’d planned to station himself at another part of town once lunch was done and he’d ensured his lover’s comfort.
He wrapped the tin cup and the treasure it held in a small scarf that he’d taken with him for this purpose, and he walked on home, feeling his throat go dry and a bit scratchy from all that singing. Some warm soup should be able to help him out, he’d decided.
The snow began to fall once again, sending people scurrying back to their homes, cursing the onslaught of the harsher-than-usual winter system, and within minutes, Quatre was alone as he negotiated his way through abandoned alleyways toward home.
He’d rounded perhaps the fifth corner when he stopped in his tracks to stare at a figure in black stooping over something lying on the ground. The boy watched as the figure laid a hand on the crumpled form, letting it rest there for several seconds before pulling away and standing up and moving off. The figure was that of a boy clad from head to foot in black, his coat trailing behind him as he strode up to Quatre with a look of grim determination on his face. Their eyes met for a second before the other boy looked away with an air of contempt that he didn’t bother to check.
Quatre acknowledged him with a slight nod and then realized, as he glanced back at the spot where the boy stood, that the crumpled pile on the snow was a man’s body.
The boy gasped as he hurried forward and dropped on his knees beside the still figure, noting in some dismay the bluish tint on the man’s skin and lips. He was dressed in flimsy rags, and judging from his emaciated countenance, it was safe to guess that he’d simply collapsed and had died from the cold.
“Oh no,” the boy said as he leapt to his feet to run after the other boy. He found him a block away, walking on as though nothing had happened.
“Wait—stop,” Quatre gasped as he caught up. The other boy ignored him.
“Please—we need to call the constable and tell him about the dead man back there!”
“No one’s stopping you. Go right ahead.”
“What—you were there! Why didn’t you do something about it?”
“Because I don’t bother myself with mortal concerns,” the stranger replied coolly without altering his pace.
“Mortal concerns? I don’t understand you.”
“You don’t need to. Nobody in this wretched world does, but that’s no skin off my back.”
Quatre frowned as he stopped, watching the boy carry on as before.
“So you’ll just let the poor man lie out there, neglected and frozen? How could you be so cruel?”
The stranger glanced over his shoulder, dark eyes skewering Quatre in place. “Human history has never given me a good enough argument for compassion toward mortals. I’m simply here to do my job. It’s up to you and your people to bury your dead and wail and tear your hair and beat your chests if those’ll make you feel better about your species. But that’s never been a concern of mine.”
The other boy rounded a corner and disappeared, leaving Quatre standing in stupefied silence in the alleyway for several seconds before turning his heels to search for someone who could help him.
It took some doing, but he eventually found a constable and reported the death and was once again on his way home. The constable didn’t seem at all surprised at the coldness that the strange boy had demonstrated with regard to the dead man, his manner showing more of a resignation toward the realities of life in the streets than any sense of outrage.
Quatre could only sigh as he walked on, shivering in the cold.
As he neared his tenement, his attention was caught by the odd sight of the same boy standing on a tree that stood beside one of the run-down buildings. Calmly perched on one of the highest branches as though he were standing on solid ground, the boy in black was gazing intently at one of the open windows, his hands shoved in his coat pocket. He remained there in silence for several seconds before he closed his eyes and murmured something while pulling out one of his hands and raising it, palm up, as though urging someone to move closer to him.
And to Quatre’s greater amazement, he saw—or at least he thought he saw—a faint, smoke-like figure emerge from the open window and float toward the boy, dissipating into nothingness the moment it touched the boy’s hand. Then, calmly, majestically, the stranger leapt from the branch and floated downward, landing on the snow without so much as a thud just as the snow that filled the air would float downward and settle itself gently on the ground. The stranger’s top hat didn’t even fall off or teeter on his head.
He straightened up and turned to find himself face-to-face with a perplexed Quatre. He smirked. “It’s not that difficult to do once you know how to do it.”
“Who are you?” the boy stammered, holding his journal and the bundle tightly against his chest as though for protection.
“You haven’t guessed already?”
Quatre stared at him and said nothing.
“Death. I’ve been called back to your city to collect souls whose time had come—whether they want it or not.”
The boy spoke in the most casual, matter-of-fact manner that caught Quatre completely off-guard and in fact caused him to venture a guess that the boy was merely playing with him. But upon closer inspection, he knew that that wasn’t the case. The cold severity in the stranger’s eyes, made all the more harsh by the terribly brilliant azure of his irises, the bloodlessness of his complexion, and the shock of dark brown hair that peeked out from under the top hat in a tousled mass and that seemed to absorb the light and not reflect it, settled Quatre’s doubts.
“And—you’ve been doing this all day?” he blurted out, unable to think of anything more coherent or more sensible to say.
“Of course. And if you wretches happen to be engaged in war, I’d be doing it for several months or even years straight.” Death sighed, shrugging. “It’s the nature of my work. Now if you’ll excuse me. I’ve got several more to collect in this side of the city.”
He pushed his way past the boy and walked calmly on, and Quatre fell into step with him, feeling more curious than terrified though by all means unsettled. The cold, harsh majesty of his companion awed him, and he more than once tried to reconcile the face of Death with his own ideas of how he’d look.
“You don’t look at all frightening,” he said after a moment of silence save for the quiet scrunching of snow under their feet.
“I look the way people want me to look,” Death replied nonchalantly. “How I appear to other people right now is completely different from how you see me. You mortals have so many backward notions about me that I can only sit back and laugh at your absurdities. This man right here…”
Quatre turned and found a wizened old man peering out of a window, watching the two with hollow, lifeless eyes that seemed to sink in their sockets.
“That man sees me as a tall woman in black with a veil covering my head and face.”
Quatre mulled this over. “And—and I suppose my real idea of death would be a young man—really no different from me?”
“You can see the way I look right now. That should answer your question.”
“But I’ve always thought Death to be frightening and spectral.”
“Apparently not. You don’t even know what you think, it seems,” Death replied, a hint of impatience in his voice.
“How can you know that?”
“I know. I have the ability to read your minds, and I do whenever I feel the need to amuse myself.”
“You’re so cruel.”
“Death never feels remorse. I’d be sparing every life I take, otherwise, and God knows where the world would be today.” Death paused to laugh dryly. “Probably imploding, which isn’t going to be much of a surprise.”
Quatre shook his head, disgusted. “All you do is look at everything that’s wrong. I’m sure you hate your job.”
Death chuckled, glancing down at his companion, his eyes flashing in amusement at the scowl that was now darkening Quatre’s features. “You’re not immortal, Quatre Raberba Winner. You haven’t spent countless millennia watching an entire race butcher itself with one act of violence, betrayal, deceit, and selfishness after another. Kings and kingdoms come and go, and none of those matters. With every new generation, the same sins are committed—the same consequences recorded—and for what? So descendants would learn from past mistakes? What mortals can learn from their pathetic history books, Quatre, is that they’ve never learned from them.” [1]
The boy sighed as he glanced down at the bundle cradled against his chest. “You only see the big picture,” he replied quietly. “You don’t even bother to consider the smaller things that happen day to day.”
“Do I need to? In the end it’s the bigger things that matters. No one writes about what goes on in the baker’s shop for posterity’s sake.”
Quatre shook his head stubbornly. “You still don’t understand.”
Death glanced at him again, cocking an eyebrow. “Don’t I?” he said with a complacent smile. “Interesting to hear that from someone who’s just been betrayed and abandoned by his own family. How old are you now? Fifteen? And virtually living in the streets?”
“I don’t have any control over what my family—or Trowa’s family—does to me,” Quatre retorted. “But it’s not my place to curl up in a corner and die because of it. I have Trowa. That’s all that matters now.”
“Not for long, I’m afraid.”
Quatre stopped dead in his tracks as he stared at his companion, who walked another couple of yards before pausing and turning around to regard him with some surprise.
“What?” the boy stammered.
“Your lover. His time’s up. I’m on my way to your home if in case you haven’t even noticed.”
“Why—you can’t do that!”
Death laughed lightly, cocking his head to the side as he continued to watch the boy. “Oh? Why not?”
“It’s not his time! He hasn’t even been given a decent enough chance to grow up like everyone else, and…”
“I’ve taken babies, Quatre. Babies. How can you justify my sparing a teenager when thousands of babies had already gone before him?”
He turned and walked on, his slender, regal figure standing in stark contrast to the brilliance of the snow that carpeted the ground and curtained the air with light, feathery flakes. Quatre stared at him, aghast, but he was undaunted. He hurried forward, stumbling in the snow as he tried to catch up. All around them, the tenements seemed to fall into a mournful hush, allowing the two voices to duel each other, spirits of hope and loss vying for an upper-hand. Everywhere, crumbling gray and black stone stood in silent resignation to the power that walked among them, the eye-like windows staring out in melancholy clusters. They almost seemed to lower their gaze as Death walked by, cowed by the ruthless force that could fell entire kingdoms with a touch of a hand, unable to look him in the eye as he regarded them with cold, sharp eyes, a dry, knowing smile touching his lips.
“Please,” Quatre panted, drawing shuddering breaths between his teeth as he tried to keep up with Death’s forceful gait. “He doesn’t deserve to die. Spare him. I’ll do anything.”
“That’s what all mortals say,” Death sighed without a break in his step.
They’d rounded the final corner that led to the alley where Quatre’s home stood. The boy’s desperation mounted.
“I’m sure there’s something I can offer you that’s a good enough substitute? Please.”
He placed a hand on Death’s arm, and the latter stopped, frowning at the worn out mittens whose stitches were now slowly unraveling from constant wear.
“Are you bargaining with me, mortal?” he asked, his voice falling to a terrifying hush that momentarily cowed Quatre but yet failed to silence him. “Have you any idea whom you’re dealing with?”
“I do. I do.”
Death stared at him incredulously. “Spare yourself the humiliation and let me do my job. Besides, what can you possibly have to take your lover’s place? I’m required to return with a soul.” His eyes narrowed, his smile broadening. “Are you offering your life for his?”
“No—I can’t.”
“You’re a coward then. Why’re you wasting my time?”
“I can’t offer my soul because it’s not going to be an even exchange for his.”
Death raised his eyebrows.
Quatre swallowed, fidgeting a little as his eyes strayed periodically to the window of his home. “I’m not perfect,” he simply said, fumbling for the right words, wishing his communication skills were a thousand times better, more coherent, more fluent, more elegant. As it was, his words came out in an awkward stream, stumbling against each other, betraying his youth and his ignorance about a good many things still.
“I’m not perfect. Not like him. Ten of me still won’t be enough to purchase one of him, and I don’t think even a thousand would.”
Death now looked completely taken aback. “What do you suggest?” he asked slowly, hesitantly.
The boy glanced down at the bundle he held. “The money I earned today won’t come close.”
“Money never does.”
“Will—will you take my music then?”
Quatre glanced back up and stretched out his arm, offering the journal.
“Music?” Death echoed, his look of surprise increasing as his eyes widened in disbelief.
The boy nodded resolutely. “Please, take it—for Trowa’s life. It’s the closest thing I have to his soul. It’s better than mine. Everything that’s in here’s about good things. It’s how I communicate to Trowa sometimes—when I can’t find the right words to say to him. Trowa said that this is my soul, but I think it's much better than that.”
Death stared at the journal, completely at a loss now.
“Please take it,” the boy insisted, tears welling up. “I have nothing else to give.”
His companion looked back at him, his face hardening once again. “I’ve got no use for a collection of symbols. But—this I can do. I’ll have your voice instead. Music written down is merely a jumble of notes that don’t mean anything. True music doesn’t happen unless somebody gives it proper expression, and in this instance, it’s your voice that gives it life.”
Quatre stared at him. “My voice?”
“Those are my terms if you want your lover to live. You’re strong. I’m sure this is small compensation for his life.”
The boy hesitated. “I suppose I can always find other ways to tell him things.”
Death watched him in silence, his eyes narrowing again.
Quatre dashed his tears away with the roughened sleeve of his tattered coat and nodded. “All right,” he said a lot more firmly than he really felt. “Do it. But—may I ask just one last chance to talk to him? I mean—I promised to sing to him tonight. I’ll do it now, so you won’t have to wait too long. I wrote him a song, and I’ve been wanting him to hear it.”
His companion nodded and then stepped forward, raising a gloved hand and placing it gently against Quatre’s mouth. Then he closed his eyes, whispering for several seconds, before withdrawing his hand and stepping back. He opened his eyes and stared at the boy.
“Go right ahead. I give you half an hour,” he said as he moved a little further away.
“Thank you.”
Quatre ran to the side door, slipping a little in the snow. He dashed up the dark stairwell, stumbling on occasion and ignoring the pain that shot through his leg more than once at slamming his shin as he slipped. It mattered very little. He needed to get to Trowa’s side before the time was up.
He did so in time, virtually throwing himself on the bed to give the unconscious boy a kiss and a desperate embrace.
In the waning hours of that winter day, Quatre climbed into bed with his lover, raising the other boy and cradling him against his chest as he murmured endearments in the dimness, knowing that Trowa, in spite of his coma-like stupor, was listening. He renewed his promises to him, affirmed his loyalty and his love, swearing desperately of his desire to do nothing but good for the both of them, even if it meant sacrificing the only other part of him that had given him any reason to live.
Quatre could feel the minutes tick as he fumbled for the journal, quickly flipping to the page of his most recent composition. Then, clearing his throat (and smiling a little at the irony of such an act), he quietly filled the dark, oppressive room with music, feeling his heart burst from the sheer joy of being blessed, even if only for a brief moment, of the power to articulate the deepest, most hidden parts of himself in a way that had brought nothing but joy in the one person who’d counted the most. He was humbled by this gift that was about to be taken from him, and so he carried on, determined to use it till the final moment.
He sang the song twice, improvising here and there as he saw fit, manipulating the song according to thoughts and emotions that happened to swell within him as he let his soul take shape one last time.
He felt Trowa shift in his arms, and within seconds of that, he heard the beloved voice break out from long-still lips in a confused, barely audible murmur. Quatre smiled, pressing his lips against the other boy’s hair as he continued with his singing, feeling his voice fade as Trowa’s life and strength were gradually restored.
The end came soon enough. Half an hour came and went too rapidly, but Quatre was mortal and as such could do nothing more than to feel his soul taken from him as he slowly fell silent. The journal lay open on his lap, the notes now nothing more than an intricate jumble of black dots scrawled in almost haphazard patterns across every page.
Quatre felt a stab of pain as he gently caressed the yellowed, stained pages, the sounds indicated by those patterns now a mere memory to him. And for a moment—in a fleeting span of uncertainty—the boy felt lost. For the first time in his life and especially for the first time since he’d been thrown out into the street—he suddenly felt unsure of his direction, unsure of how to move on in life without his music—without his soul.
“Quatre…” came the broken whisper from the vicinity of his chest, and he gazed down at the beloved mop of brown hair that draped in a silken curtain against his worn out coat.
It would be all right, he convinced himself, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Trowa would have to learn to sing for him instead.
He closed his eyes and bent down to kiss his lover’s head.
On the topmost branch of a nearby tree, Death stood in all his terrible splendor, watching with keen eyes the quiet unfolding of events in that tiny, drab little hovel that Quatre had been calling home. He watched, and he pondered, feeling a curious little pang in his heart.
In that small, quiet, insignificant chamber, he saw a great deal more than countless generations of the most glorious kings, armies, scientists, philosophers, artists, and saints had ever shown him. It was a new—and dare he say it—difficult lesson that was offered to him in the guise a thin, hungry boy who continued to hold on to hope.
Death looked down at his hand and sighed.
A soft glow appeared, a small, throbbing misty globe that contained what he’d just taken from that boy.
“Perhaps there’s hope after all,” he murmured before raising his hand and holding it aloft, sending the little globe of light floating off toward the window, watching it enter the dingy little dwelling and slowly get swallowed up by the dimness.
He waited patiently. It would take several more seconds before he could hear the sound of two voices raised in joy, one laughing in disbelief and the other blurting out assurances of his good health in halting, raspy tones.
Death bowed, raising his hand to touch the edge of his top hat’s brim, and he slowly, quietly faded off in a gentle swirl of snow.
[1] a paraphrasing of Hegel’s observation of human history
This fic was inspired by continuous reading (and rereading) of Oscar Wilde's "The Happy Prince" and "The Selfish Giant." I wanted to write something that had a ring of tragedy in it yet still uplift in a bittersweet, Victorian sort of way.