This story was in part inspired by "Godmother Death" a short story by Jane Yolen, published in the fairy tale anthology "Black Swan, White Raven." (Edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling)

I say "in part" because it really has no relation to that story, but after reading that story, I kept having visions of this story. So, I had to write it down. Hope this isn't too creepy or off the wall, but that's how I'm feeling, right now. Sometimes revisionist fairytales do that to me.

For those who care. Loreena McKennitt's "The Visit" set the mood for writing this piece. The way she put Tennyson's "The Lady of Shalott" to music is amazing.

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He'd killed. He'd aimed a gun at another living soul. He'd pulled the trigger. Just as Walter had taught him. He'd witnessed the light blink out of that being as its body rocketed back from the impact of his bullet. He'd stood over that body, the full effect of what he'd done threatening to rip him apart. While no one else seemed concerned.

Worse than that, he'd done it again, and again, and again. And again tonight, he had taken more lives. As Jurgen had told him he must if he wished to go on living. By now, he should be numb to the horror of his actions, but he was not. He just knew he couldn't do it any longer.

From streetlamp pool to streetlamp pool, he trudged through the gathering leaves that crunched beneath his feet. The park was empty at this late hour. The moon obscured by the heavy autumn clouds overhead, leaving nothing to lighten his heart. His index finger caressed the barrel of the gun he carried.

His honor and dignity prevented him from betraying those who'd trained him. Instinct, instilled by his training, kept him from making mistakes on his missions. They would never have reason to cancel him - he was their consummate operative. He would never be free unless he were to claim that freedom for himself.

It would take very little to put the gun to his own head, as he had done to others in his first year as an operative, and pull the trigger to end his life. A life that was unworthy of continuing.

He stopped in his blind wanderings at the edge of the lake. The water rippled with the harsh wind, beckoning him to surrender himself to its solitude, its peace. He shifted the gun in his hands, index finger sliding to the trigger. His arm hung stiffly at his side.

He would do this. It was the only way.

With determination, he lifted the gun to his forehead. His eyes drifted closed.

As his finger twitched in front of the trigger, he felt the wisp of a touch between skin and bullet barrel, like a lover's caress, too deliberate to be the breeze. He jerked the gun away, and his eyes snapped open to scan for a threat, as he brought the gun up defensively.

A force he was unable to fight pushed the weapon down.

A voice of silken clarity winged around him. She said, "You will not die."

"Who are you?" His voice tremored, hands quaked. "Show yourself," he demanded.

In a breath, the air around him changed; stilling briefly, then rising up with more force, this time. Once more, the wind died. He heard soft foot falls behind him, and fearful of turning around he waited, with eyes fixed on his feet, as the figure stepped in front of him. When she was before him, he slowly let his gaze rise.

The feet which had made barely a sound against the dried up leaves, lay hidden by the folds of a long, black skirt that fell in waves of velvet. He followed the line of it up to an impossibly slender waist and trim torso. Long slim arms, incased in that same velvet, hung loosely at her sides. A willowy throat rose up to support a triangular face. Skin, colorless in the dim light, was in stark contrast with the dark tumble of hair which fell about that somberly beautiful face. Finally, with courage he'd summoned up many times, he met her eyes. They held no white in them. They were bleak as the night sky.

He shuddered, almost dropping his gun. "What do you want with me?"

He'd heard of beings sent to claim souls when it was their time to leave this life. But, what would a being of light want with his dark and tarnished soul? She was definitely not one of those. She must be a fallen angel, sent to damn him.

Fabric rustled, as she moved toward him. He fought the urge to run. If she was here to take him, let her. It was what he wanted. An end to it, whatever that might be.

Her cold hand touched his cheek, gliding down to linger over his bottom lip, grazing his teeth. His breath caught, at the sensual touch.

"Michael." Her voice dove deep, swirling through him. "What an appropriate name, for one such as you. Archangel. The soldier of God. Conqueror of Satan. My harbinger."

"Are you here to take me?" he asked, his tone near a plea.

"No. I cannot take you, yet. And, I will not let you claim what is not yours to wrest." She swayed before him, as if to take in his face from all angles. "You are too valuable to me. My beautiful angel. Michael. Herald to Death." She continued to stroked his face, sliding her hand into his hair.

"You bring me too many. You are mine. I will not give you up. Not yet. Not until you have lived out your life." Her thin fingers tangled in the long curls behind his left ear, her body brushed with seductive grace against his. "You belong to me, my dark angel. You will be my instrument of death. You will witness my coming for those you love, and those you hate. But always you will remain. As a testament to my power."

His face tightened into a grimace, contorting into sheer agony. But the tears that should follow failed to surface.

She had come to damn him. But not to an eternal Hell. Instead, it would be to a living Hell.

His eyes shut tightly against the alluring sight of her. Her ethereal kiss of possession swept over his lips, chilling him bone deep.

*****

From that day forward, his transformation was begun. He abandoned color for the uniform of mourning. His unrelieved black served to signify to everyone his alliance with Death. His eyes were cold and hollow.

He became a wild thing. A thing of single purpose, to kill or be killed. Sometimes he was silent, invisible; always he was swift and merciful. To witness his approach was to behold your future's end in his fluid stride. Though, his hand might not be the one to bring about that end, he still had brought that life to Death.

Years went by, each one an unremarkable copy of the last. Though, somewhere along the way he gained a mate, a companion in his torment. They became a source of comfort, each for the other - he and Simone - in body and in mind. And from the moment of their joining he'd prepared himself for the day when Death would claim her.

So, it came.

Gunfire came from all around him. He fired back. He witnessed Death place her unwelcome kiss on four men, that day. He watched Simone fall, but he missed seeing if Death came to her side. For he had been hit and fallen unconscious. When he awoke to the cool, stark, sterility of Medical they told him that Death had claimed his beloved.

Still, he could not believe it was true. Only if he had seen her death with his own eyes. Yet, there remained the undeniable fact that his love was gone. Her side of their bed was empty. Her laughter no longer rang through their home. Her touch would never again heat his cold skin. So, he let himself accept her death, after a time. And he shuttered his heart.

Leaving bleeding wounds to fester. Only to be blasted open when he found his wife huddled in a cage, tortured and crazed. Death finally came for his Simone, then. He saw the apparition standing next to her too thin figure, as she prepared her revenge on her tormentor. The blessed oblivion luring her away from his love.

Two more lives he'd brought Death. One she had let him believe already in her possession. He confronted Death, that night. In the park. By the lake.

She stood close before him, her chin tilted up toward his face.

"You do not play our game fairly, lady." He bent his head, their breath mingled, hers sickly sweet.

"Death is not fair, sweetling." In a proprietary gesture, she laid her hand over his heart. "Your dear love was dead anyway. I just had to wait until her captor had worn her out. She is dead. It does not matter to me when or how. Why should it matter to you, my angel?" She rose up on her toes, then, to press her lips to his.

"It matters to me," he said against her lips, "because I loved her."

She snapped away from him. Her coal black eyes flashing with white hot fury. "Then, perhaps I have chosen the wrong one to be my presage."

Her hand snaked around the back of his neck, drawing him close, lips parting in a parody of a lover's kiss. He fought against her pull.

"Lady," he breathed, using his voice to seduce her. "I have served you well for seven years, now. You could not find a better servant. No one could be more cooperative, than I."

She smiled at him, an eerie curve of her ruby lips, then loosened her hold. Her hand strayed up his neck and jaw, finally to caress his lower lip.

"I suppose our kiss will have to wait, my dark angel." Her hand wandered down his chest, as she backed away, then left him.

He smiled to himself and he started back for home. There was a certain amount of pleasure one could take in cheating Death.

*****

A year had passed. A year in which he was forever changed.

Two years he'd observed Nikita's training, fighting the inevitable effect she would have on his hollow self. Then, when she'd reached out, in his grief, to shine her brilliance over him, his chilled body began to warm. And over the following year that warmth became a vital element to his being. Desperate, he cheated Death many times, to keep that heat with him, because his Lady had wanted this luminous creature from the day she had entered his life. She was fiercely jealous of his need to safeguard this being of light, this usurper who'd invaded his soul. Death would be rid of her.

Knowing this, he had always been prepared for his Lady. Being acquainted as he was with her, he managed to always stay one step ahead of her. So, when the decision was made that Nikita should die, by his order, he waited until Death thought her prize was within her grasp. Only then did he send a warning to his cherished one, leaving her just enough time to escape. And leaving him to question.

Six months he spent in anguish, because Death refused to come to him, to offer assurance that his beacon still lived. Death left him to his mournful state. Until the night when he'd been reunited with his soul, and satiated himself in her radiant warmth.

*****

Another year had passed. This time, they cheated Death, together. Now knowing that each needed the other to be whole.

Until Nikita stood before her adversary. Tempting Death with her disobedience. Refusing to bargain for her life. Needing to know that all the immoral acts which made up her present life ultimately came to good.

He was helpless, for all his pleading with her to run went unheeded. She would face Death with her head held high.

"I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid." He'd heard her profess, as he lumbered away.

Yes, she had no reason to fear Death. And neither did he.

Six hours he had. Six hours to deter Death from her desire to claim the only thing which kept him alive. He would see that it was done.

Fifteen minutes later he stood at the shore of the lake, deep in the park's shadows. There he waited.

Before long, he felt her familiar touch on his shoulder. He turned to gaze into her onyx eyes.

"She will be mine." Her declaration was firm.

"You say you need me alive." Boldly he reached out to trail a finger along her hollow cheek.

"You know I do, my angel."

"Then you cannot have her." He snatched his hand back from her face. "I will cease to exist without her. And you will not have what you desire most."

Her delicate features twisted with fury. "You think you can bargain with Death."

"Yes. And I am." Triumph swelled in him. "You need me. What choice do you have?"

Her perfectly bowed lips curved in a derisive grin, as she drew back from him. She would continue to possess him. There was no question of that. They were irrevocably linked. Yet, to him, his fate was inconsequential, as long as he knew that his Nikita was safe.

"You think you've won? I will have you both," she hissed. "I am nothing if not patient."

The air around him swirled, driving brittle leaves into his face. He shut his eyes against the dust. When he opened them, she was gone.

He watched the leaves settle quietly to the ground, before returning to his love. Rejoicing in the fact that he had cheated Death, once more. Giving no thought to how much longer he could hold her at bay. However long they had together would be enough. For now, he remained secure in the knowledge that when his Lady came she would take them both, as one.

-- The End --

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