Gentleman Death felt the mortal world all around wither away. He felt The Void claw its way unto him, punch through his skins, and scatter what remained of the Divine's once lively soul. He felt the ever so familiar sensation of oblivion command him forth, welcoming, only to reject his very existence mere moments later. He felt the life drain from every vein, the vigor from both eyes, the thoughts from one's mind, and the strength from his body.

He felt the dead in his soul spread.

​

"It is you again," a voice said. "Who visits, and yet never stays."

​

Gentleman Death sank deeper into The Void — into a place of death and decay and of all things destined a grim faith. He did not resist. He did not fight. He simply allowed it to carry him towards the depths.

​

"Who cheats the Kharons and the Ferryman."

​

And yet, he sank deeper.

​

"Who cheats himself."

​

And deeper still.

​

"Who cannot live with what he has become."

​

The Divine sighed, pried open one eye, and forced a wry chuckle from both lips. "You are. . . Overly dramatic."

​

There, standing before him, gazing deep into his fractured soul, was none other than The Void itself. It manifested as some sort of mask; white with spots of red and perhaps a hint of black lining. A theater guise, Gentleman Death presumed, with cheery slits for eyes and an overly expressive grin spread from ear to ear.

​

Symbolism, certainly.

If anything, the Void was poetic.

​

"Hello, Death."

Tendrils of black spilled from the mask, taking the form of a man — a man too tall, too thin, and with arms far too long for arms. It lumbered forth, step after step until it stood just a few paces from Gentleman Death himself.

​

"Hello."

​

And there the two remained, silent and unmoving.

​

The Divine, dead.

​

And The Void, very much alive.

​

"Poetic, is it not, Death? You have lived many lifetimes, and each leads back to me — always. Shall we not put an end to this vicious cycle? Shall we not grant you your one last wish? Shall Escardia not be rid of such irksome nuisance — the likes you have become? Come now; have some sensibility."

​

"You know as well as I do: such is an impossible task. I am a Divine, after all. I am immortal."

​

"Hah-ah! Who are you to tell me what can and cannot be done? Dear child, you know not what lies within the realm of impossibility. You know not the extent of my power. Why must you slave away for Father Destiny? Why must you hurt time after time again? Give in — say the word — Gentleman Death will be no more. I offer you freedom."

​

"Spare me the sweet lies, Void. Save your words for a fool faint of heart."

​

"No lies, Divine, only truths. Everything born of earth, wind, and fire withers away in eventuality. Everything born of his touch dies — in time — and returns to me. You are no exception."

​

"I apologize, Void. May we reschedule for tomorrow, perhaps?"

​

The mask chuckled as many different voices intertwined in one. "I will be waiting."

​

Gentleman Death did too. "Oh? How kind of you."

​

"I always will."

​

At first, it felt not unlike a slight nudge, then, it grew to be more: a poke, a tug, a shove, a pull. Gentleman Death looked to the manifest, and it looked to him. Both stood silent, contemplating in the moments to come: The Divine, wondering if another lifetime of mortal coils would come for him soon enough; and The Void, wondering when the infamous horseman would finally surrender his wretched immortality.

​

"I suppose this is goodbye," he said, rather apathetically. "For now, that is."

​

"Yes, I suppose it is."

​

"Well. . . Until then, old friend."

​

There was a pause from The Void itself, a tilt of the mask.

​

"Until then, old. . . Friend."

​

A spark, a light, a rift — a tear in The Void came to. It sucked Gentleman Death in, plucked him from the depths, and sent him sailing through several realms: the mortal lands, the underworld, the great beyond, everything else in between — off he went.

​

And finally, unto a world of white.

***

The Divine's many lifetimes flashed before both his eyes, and to each, their own apogee: his time as an admiral of the United Imperium Royal Navy, the day the Reaper Corp came to be more than just a dream of the Navylan, the restless nights of Operation Castle Nine. Many more followed suite, yet none were quite as pleasant: ruthless genocides, mass murders, entire cities leveled and wiped clean from Escardia's record — they all flashed before his eyes.

​

The bad along with the good, Gentleman Death supposed. His very existence was one of questionable virtue. A messiah of the people one day, a living embodiment of evil the next; the humans were always quick to change their minds. They were always quick to point fingers and shift blame hither thither. All that mattered to them was where the Divine stood, and with whom he sided — be it with, or against an empire.

​

Whatever the case may be, he always found himself at the sharp end of a sword, or a spear, or more recently, a bow and arrow.

There were always enemies to be made wherever he went.

And did not at all bother him.

Not anymore, at least.

​

The horseman sucked in a raspy breath, bracing for impact.

Three.

Two.

One.

Brace.

​

The floor rose fast, breaking Gentleman Death's fall with a deafening — and oddly satisfying — crack. His back met wood, then glass, and a split second later, the harsh embrace of rock solid porcelain. A glass coffee table found itself reduced to but paltry scraps and jagged splinters, and later, to but ash.

​

The horseman didn't bother glancing around; he knew exactly where he lay, badly hurt and disfigured.

Time meant little to this place.

​

Time meant little to Father Destiny.

His home was exactly as the Divine remembered: not so much as a speck of dust present, a shade of black misplaced, nor mess where mess shouldn't be. That is, except for the remains of one particular coffee table, and one particular Gentleman Death.

Those were messes.

​

Everything was as it should be, in the right place and at the right time and for all the right reasons. Everything was white, from the ground up to the horizon to the skies above.

​

White — crisp, clean white.

​

The Divine lay sprawled upon his back, arms stretched and head craned, as he had done so many, many times. He let the cold seep through his coat and unto his skin; he let his mind slip and wander the cosmos; he let himself simply sit there, for seconds, minutes, hours even.​

​

If only Mistress Time would allow, that is.

​

Mistress Time never did.

​

Gentleman Death forced himself up and unto both feet. The dismal state of his once lavish apparel would make even the poorest of Imperium peasants shed a tear, truly: the gangster fedora had long since lost its touch — granted — but could have done so without the tears and scratches and missing brim; his dark coat — a military wear worn and bedraggled from times of the early Millennium War — saw entire sleeves ripped clean off; and just about everything else from then on below — the dress shirt, the leather belt, the blackened trousers, the oxford pair — all saw themselves scuffed and bruised and just about ready to fall completely apart.

​

Indeed, the only piece of clothing to remain untouched was the crimson scarf wrapped complacently around the horseman's collar. Throughout the years, Gentleman Death had managed to keep it whole, away from harm's way and Mistress Time's calling, and throughout the years, it still smelt of lavender.

​

And wisterias.

​

And all things soothing to the mind.

​

It still smelt of perfume.

​

"Death? Will you simply lay there for an eternity? Come, say hello to a guest of mine; we haven't all the time in the world — and look what you've done to the place! My, oh my, what a mess. You know I hate messes."

​

The Divine sighed, forcing himself forth.

​

"Yes, father."

​

Gentleman Death came to be by his father's side, a look of utter disappointment splayed from ear to ear. He regarded the soldier with silent contempt, eyeing the Imperium attire with utmost care. The dark coat, the crimson tie, the oxford pair and darkened trousers — they were much like his, and quite just as bedraggled. Perhaps his end was as gruesome as the life he came to lead, maybe more. "Imperium, are you?"

​

The soldier fussed in place; he tugged uneasily at both cuffs. "I was. You?"

​

"I don't take sides."

​

"Our history textbooks would like to disagree."

​

"Censorship, human; You Imperiums are awfully fond of such a thing."

​

"I think people generally wouldn't want to remember when you marched an entire fucking army down Royal Square and set half the place on fire. Do you remember that? Or how about when you decided to massacre a village of children because you were. . . Upset, I think? Does any of this sound remotely familiar? It does, doesn't it?" The soldier rose from his seat, matching the Divine's gaze with one of his own, albeit fierier. "Maybe —​ just maybe — we have our reasons to blank out some parts of the past, Mr. Death. Maybe we do it not because we're some kinda monster, but because people like you exist, and people like I have to deal with that. You get where I'm going here, fucker?"

​

Gentleman Death picked apart a sizable splinter from his coat, tossed it off into the distance, and watched as every single strand of wood unraveled themselves one after another. They disappeared right after. "Your delusions are mistaken and your anger misplaced, Imperium. I had my reasons to commit such heinous atrocities — to do what needed to be done. You would not understand, soldier, it was well before your time, and well before the time of peace."

​

Father Destiny let a wry snicker slip past his lips; he too came to a stand, parting the two from one another. "Oh, you two would be perfect for each other! Human, sit. Death, a word please — come along, now."

​

The horseman left his mortal counterpart in the company of utter silence, straying from both leather chairs. "Yes?"

​

"Your presence is of surprise to me; I wasn't expecting you for another. . . Couple centuries. To what do I owe the pleasure of this untimely visit?"

​

"Minor complications have arisen, and are soon to be disposed of. Worry not, Father, it is cause for little concern, especially to someone of your. . . Stature. I have made all the necessary arrangements."

​

"Minor complications? All evidence points to the contrary, Death. You speak of such lowly matter, and yet, stand before me, awaiting resurrection. Explain yourself."

​

"Please, Father, there is no need to trouble your—"

​

"I insist."

​

"Well, I suppose, if you insist. . ."

​

"Indeed, I insist."

​

Gentleman Death tugged at the crimson tie wrapped loosely around his collar, wiped a dribble of blood from one cuff, and cleared his throat. Much to Father Destiny's shock, there was a hint of hesitation to his words, and a speck of doubt to his voice, and when the scythe meister spoke, one could perhaps sense — if only a tinge — tingles of fear. Certainly nothing like the once murderous, apathetic horseman Escardia came to despise. "Fear has returned, Father. She and the horsemen have arisen."

​

"Oh, she has, has she?" a manic laugh erupted from Father Destiny's lips. The soldier looked over, raising an eyebrow. "What fun! A family reunion — you and your sister must have so much to share, so much to catch up on!"

​

"One, she is not my sister."

​

"Mhmm."

​

"Two, this is no family reunion."

​

"Oh?"

​

"And three, humanity's very existence hangs upon a thread — here you are, laughing. How unbecoming of you, Father."

​

Father Destiny willed a cup of tea into one palm, took several sips of the steaming drink, then let both glass and saucer slip from his hands. They came to be nothing but dust before even grazing the crisp white floors, and soon thereafter, nothing but thin air. "Forgive me, Death, my humblest apologies. This is simply utmost amusing — certainly a remedy to my eternal boredom! Have you any idea how long I've awaited such a catastrophe? Have you any idea just how. . . Stale the humans have grown to be? It's like reading the same book over and over and over aga—"

​

The horseman leaned in. His brows furrowed. "You. . . You knew of this."

​

"Why, of course, Death! I know everything."

​

"And you chose to do nothing."

​

"A god cannot be expected to interfere with his creations; you know this to be true. What point would there be then? What point would there be to your existence should I have chosen to snap my fingers upon every whim of a crisis?"

​

The shadows came to Death's hand. "They are going to die."

​

"Things die all the time, Death; is that not your purpose in life? What would you have me do? Make them immortal?"

​

"They are going to go extinct."

​

"What, the humans?"

​

"Yes, father. The humans."

​

Both Divines turned, stared, watching as the soldier fiddled with his very own pocket watch, and for the longest time, there was complete, utter silence. It was as if the world itself came to a standstill.

​

Father Destiny was the first to speak. "You know I cannot interfere."

​

The horseman, second. "I am well aware, yes."

​

"Then you know there is nothing I can do for you — for them."

​

"Then, they shall perish."

​

"Or perhaps. . ."

​

Gentleman Death looked to his maker. "Perhaps?"

​

"Perhaps there is something you can do."

​

"Me?"

​

"Oh, yes, you."

The soldier looked to the two Divines, matching Father Destiny's smirk with a puzzled look of his. The creator was first to speak, once again.

​

"You are awaiting resurrection, are you not?"

Gentleman Death sighed. “I still have to find a soul — a right soul.”

“Oh, yes,” Father Destiny waved at the soldier. “A right soul, indeed.”