A Fragile Thread Between Love and Hate

The night was quiet... too quiet. Even the wind seemed to hesitate, unwilling to stir the ruins that had once been a thriving city. Alfred sat on the edge of a broken fountain, his hands curled loosely in his lap, eyes lost in the empty horizon.

He had stopped counting the days. Time no longer held meaning when death had become nothing more than a fleeting moment, a sensation that burned and twisted and then disappeared into the void.

He should have been used to it by now.

But pain was something no one ever truly got used to.

A shadow shifted in his peripheral vision.

He didn't need to turn to know who it was.

"You again," he murmured.

She stood there, silent as always, a specter draped in black. The moonlight turned her skin ghostly pale, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders like silk spun from the night itself. She was as beautiful as she was terrifying.

And she was watching him.

"Tell me something," Alfred said, finally looking at her. "Why do you come here? Why do you always stand there, watching?"

She didn't answer, but he hadn't expected her to.

A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. "I used to dream about you, you know," he confessed, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "When I was a boy, I imagined what Death might look like. I thought maybe you'd be some hideous creature, something monstrous that would send men screaming to their graves."

His blue eyes met hers, searching, daring her to deny him even this moment of honesty.

"But you're not." His voice dropped lower, almost as if speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile air between them. "You're beautiful."

Something flickered in her expression. It was gone before he could place it.

Alfred let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "It's funny, isn't it? I spent my whole life fearing you. And now... I'm starting to think you're the only thing left that's real."

Silence.

Then, finally, a whisper so quiet, he almost thought he imagined it.

"You fear me no longer?"

Alfred blinked. The weight of those four words pressed against his chest, heavier than any grief he had ever known.

Fear? Did he still fear her?

No. That wasn't the right word.

He was drawn to her.

He had been since the beginning.

Even when she took everything from him, even when he hated her for it—he couldn't look away. He couldn't stop wanting to understand.

Alfred stood, closing the distance between them. The air felt electric between them, something unspoken crackling in the space where their bodies did not quite touch.

"I don't know what I feel anymore," he admitted. "But I do know this..."

He reached out—not to touch, but just to see if she would pull away.

She didn't.

His fingers hovered just inches from hers, close enough that he could almost feel the cold radiating from her skin.

"If I'm cursed to wander this world forever," he whispered, "then I hope you never stop following me."

This time, she didn't vanish.

This time, she stayed.

in the next day, The fire crackled in the ruins of what had once been a home. Alfred sat against the remains of a collapsed wall, his arms wrapped around his knees, staring at the flickering embers. The smell of smoke and scorched wood clung to the air, a scent that had become far too familiar.

There was nothing left.

Nothing but him.

The weight of loneliness settled deep into his bones, heavier than the fatigue gnawing at his limbs. His fingers dug into the fabric of his sleeves, gripping them tightly as if holding himself together.

He should be dead.

He should have died with the others.

But he never did.

Alfred exhaled sharply and tilted his head back, eyes tracing the endless stretch of the darkened sky. Somewhere beyond it, he imagined the gods looking down, laughing. Watching him struggle like a marionette with severed strings, forever caught between life and death.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he muttered bitterly. "Watching me suffer. Watching me break over and over again."

Silence was his only answer.

Of course, there was no one left to hear him.

No one except her.

She stood beyond the dying fire, shrouded in the same unnatural stillness that always surrounded her. The long folds of her black cloak barely moved, untouched by the wind that rustled through the crumbling ruins. The firelight cast shadows across her pale face, making her look even more ethereal—like something caught between reality and illusion.

Alfred clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists.

"You could end this, you know." His voice was hoarse, raw from the unspoken screams buried inside him. "You could just let me die."

She didn't respond.

She never did.

His anger burned, sudden and consuming, rising like a storm that had been waiting to be unleashed. He shot to his feet, his body trembling with frustration, exhaustion, grief.

"Why won't you take me?" His voice cracked as he stepped closer, the firelight casting long shadows behind him. "Why do you let me suffer like this? Why do you keep watching me, following me, but never letting me go?"

Still, she remained silent.

Alfred let out a short, bitter laugh, raking a hand through his disheveled golden hair. "Is that it? Am I entertainment for you?" His words dripped with venom, but beneath them was something more fragile. Something dangerously close to desperation. "Are you just toying with me, Death?"

At that, she finally moved.

It wasn't much, just the slightest tilt of her head, the barest hint of a shift in her expression. But it was enough.

Enough for Alfred to feel the weight of his own words.

His chest tightened. He turned away sharply, cursing himself, cursing her, cursing everything. His breath came in uneven shudders, his hands pressing against his face as he tried to bury the whirlwind of emotions clawing at his insides.

He hated her.

He hated her for what she had taken from him.

For what she refused to take from him.

But beneath that hatred was something else. Something far more dangerous.

A yearning.

A pull he couldn't understand, couldn't fight, couldn't accept.

Because she was the only constant left in his world.

She had taken everything from him.

And yet, she was the only thing that hadn't abandoned him.

Alfred let out a broken chuckle, lowering his hands from his face. His eyes met hers, and for the first time, he thought he saw something there, something not cold, not distant.

Something almost... human.

It made his stomach twist.

"What are you?" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the crackling embers.

Death did not answer.

But she did not look away.

And that, somehow, was worse.