A single drop of sweat down one cheek, a trembling of once sturdy hands, a feeling of numb through the veins — Gentlemen Death was all too familiar with such sensation.

It was fear.

​

Raw, primal, unbridled. . .

​

The fear of the unknown. Of what lurks in the dark. Of what stalks you through the night and into your homes. Of what watches you slumber. Of what preys upon your every thought. Of what lives in the hearts of every man, woman, and child.

​

Fear, in the flesh. Herself.

"Hello, Death."

​

A lump in the scythe-meister's throat robbed him of words, forcing but an awkward jumble to slip from both his curved lips. His breathing — once calm, collected, and all things orderly — came to match the thump of his racing heart: an utter disarray. Gentlemen Death took two steps back, then several more following the first few. He gulped, hard. "What is this trickery, Famine? An illusion? One of your tricks? No. . ."

​

Fear stepped forth, a lady-like figure yet not quite so: where one would expect to bear the sight of silk-smooth skin, there were but threads of black and violet stitched unto one another; where trimmed fingernails — polished to a shine and dyed rose red — would make for quite the fantastic display, there were but sickle-like claws crooked and devilish; and where one would come to witness a picture-perfect face complete with flowing hair and lively eyes and the warmest of smiles, there was but a set of bone-white horns, a mouthful of twisted fangs, and not a thing more.

​

Fear, in the flesh. Herself.

​

Gentlemen Death brandished the scythe, as if to discourage another one of her strides. Still, her figure persisted, step after step after step, until the two stood not an arm's reach away from one another.

​

And for a moment, it was as if the world had stopped.

​

To watch.

​

To pray.

​

To remember.

​

"My, my, how you've aged," a sly grin broke through Fear's lips, shedding light upon the fangs. "All grown up now — my little Death. Oh, you look just like your father."

​

The horseman had plenty of words, but if so, had done terribly making them heard. Instead, he spun the scythe in one hand, passed it onto the next, and swung quick.

A wide arc cut through the air.

​

The silver blade whistled, slicing a column of marble in equal halves, and doing the same to an altar of stone. Fear lifted a hand, and with just the tip of two fingers, stopped the scythe dead right in its tracks. The grin curved ever so slightly, and was mere moments later, nothing less than a scowl.

​

"Awfully rude, Death. And here I was led to believe you were a gentleman."

​

Back, up, down, thrash.

The blade swung once more, and once more it was denied a clean strike.

​

"So few of your kind left," Fear cocked an arm back, seized Death's throat in one hand, and hurled him a fair way across the catacombs.

​

Unto Conquest's feet.

​

"Not too rough now, boys — and especially not the face, please."

***

For the first in many lifetimes, Gentlemen Death found himself in quite the unfamiliar — and precarious — situation: his back to a wall, and his front to a formidable adversary. The scythe he bore in hand — once a paragon of perfect craftsmanship, Divine artistry, and unparalleled steelwork — saw cracks and tears chip away at its fine exterior; while the marvelous suit he so meticulously kept in good health and pristine condition saw all kinds of unpleasantries stain its once usual gorgeous tailoring.

​

Certainly, a sorry state to behold — especially of the infamous Gentlemen Death himself.

​

"Come now, Death," Famine tapped his magnificent cane rhythmically against the stone floors; where the wood met cobble, a crawling mess of bubbling ooze came to and ate through every tile. "Enough of the charades. There's really no need for all this nonsense, wouldn't you agree?"

​

Gentlemen Death spun the scythe however many times, decimating a volley of arrows whistling through the air. Some struck but marble and stone; others saw themselves reduced to paltry scraps and measly splinters. "Oh, you'd like that."

​

One, two, three. . .

​

The scythe-meister charged forth, leaping, bounding, tumbling past wave after wave of Conquest's many arrow storms — wall to pillar, pillar to crypt, crypt to ceiling, never once stopping for even a breath. He flexed the blackened scythe in one hand, heaved it overhead, then brought it down upon the bowman.

​

Four, five, six. . .

​

Conquest threw himself sideways, somersaulted, and let loose yet another volley. Gentlemen Death snapped a finger; tendrils of shadows rose from the ground up, and, plucking each piece from flight, crushed them to but pulp. Left, right, up the scythe went, determined to land a single blow — even if just a scratch upon hair, or a graze upon skin.

​

Seven, eight, nine. . .

​

Full stop. Gentlemen Death tossed the scythe to and fro, each time letting the shadows swing in his place — right, right, yet further right still. And when Conquest's back slammed against solid wall, he bashed every inch of the silver blade unto every catacomb tile.

​

Ten. . .

​

All sorts of rubble leapt from their rest, and with a single slap of Gentlemen Death's shadows, sailed forth. The bowman ducked underneath, flicked an arrow off the floor, and let loose the piece.

​

Unto nothing but a silhouette of shadows.

​

Eleven. Execute.

​

A pool of wreathing shadows upon Conquest's feet rippled open, spitting the scythe-wielder from down under — and unto the archer.

​

Gentlemen Death grasped the Divine's face within the palm of one hand, and, without so much as a hint of hesitation, sent a single shard of his shadows sailing. It cut through the bowman's skin; dug into his flesh; tore through his eyes, skull, and brain; and painted a grand masterpiece of carnage onto the catacomb walls behind.

​

Conquest fell limb mere moments later, his curved bow cluttering unto the cold, stone floors.

​

Famine watched as his brother's lifeless corpse dangled from Death's hands. He watched as the scythe-meister tossed his body aside as if some flimsy, spent ragdoll. He watched as a puddle of Divine blood oozed from the bowman's now unrecognizable face, tainting the black cobbles gold.

And for a moment, there was nothing but absolute silence.

​

The dripping of rain water. . .

​

The scuffle of leather soles. . .

​

And the muffled breathing of ancient warriors. . .

​

Gentlemen Death stepped forth, breathless. "And then. . . there were two."

***

Famine tugged uneasily at the hideous tie coiled loosely around his collar, and with the same slick motion, tipped the tilted top hat back into place. There was a hint of uncertainty to his otherwise monotone voice, and quite to Gentleman Death's amusement, perhaps a trickle of dread. Still, the cane tapped rhythmically against the cold tiles.

​

"Let us act as civilized men and settle this dispute without further. . . Roughhousing, yes?" Famine stood beneath the shade of an archway, one part of his face veiled in dancing shadows, and the other, in flickering lights of faint torches.

​

"You. . . You had your chance," Death inched forth, step by step. "We are beyond — cough — negotiations."

​

"What ever happened to you, I wonder? What ever happened to the Gentleman Death I came to know — and love? Has he passed?"

​

"Oh, yes. Only after all this time has he finally come to realize: we, Divines, are nothing more than mere savages — parasites. We prey upon the weak, and see it fit to take for ourselves whatever so comes to mind — and who suffers? Who cries themselves to sleep night after night? Not us — certainly, no."

​

"And what of you? Who are you to speak so arrogantly, hmm? Are you not one of us? Have you not stained your name with all sorts of atrocities?"

​

"Not. Anymore."

​

Famine tapped the cane several more times — fast, fast, slow, fast. "And here I hoped to reason with you."

​

A hand burst through Gentleman Death's chest, tearing through his spine and heart altogether, reducing both to nothing but smithereens.

​

"But it seems we are unable to reach an understanding."

​

"W-Why, y-you!"

​

"Shame. Damn, shame."