#fatefulend

COMPARING HEIGHTS TO LOGAN! || ACCEPTING

Death @ Jim Corrigan: “ hey, sorry i’m late. i didn’t want to come. ” - @fatefulend​

Their aura has even the Spectre turning, white eyes flashing and green cowl half formed; not a warning, Jim doesn’t think. More a sign of respect, or perhaps acknowledgement at a force that wields a power even Spectre must respect. It doesn’t mean there isn’t a twist of something in Jim; a fear, perhaps, heralding from the days when he was entirely human.

"Hi honey, miss me?" With a kiss to the forehead, Norah had been brought here upon the scraping of fingertips upon the end of life. But those amber eyes lock upon the woman's through those thick lenses, before so very gently pushing her back and out of the realm all the same.

"It's not time yet, though, back you go--"

Prompted Asks

She laid on the ground where she had crashed, taking her right out of the fight. Guess it wasn't her time to shine yet. Weakly opening her eyes she realized maybe she wouldn't have a try two. She pulled herself up, pulling off the helm and setting beside her as her eyes laid upon Death, earning a smile as a kiss was planted on her forehead. "Yeah, I have,"

For such a long time, she thought the idea of a comforting Death was purely fiction. How happy she was when she learned she was wrong about that.

Norah nodded, not stopping her adoring look at Death. "Figures... well, wish me luck, and don't forget to visit?"

The helm came back on as she prepared herself to take her next breath. It was odd, to both want to live, but also not fear the end anymore. To have that balance.

"You're getting better at saving lives."

Times were a-changin'.

Seemed to him that's all what time was good for nowadays. Moving forward, ever steady forward. Seasons changing in the blink of an eye. Brick and mortar built atop aged wood and nail, vehicles of iron and steel paving the roads once trodden by horses and their like.

The Wild West, tamed at last.

A period of freedom and exploration, of the boundless frontier and infinite possibility, of action and adventure. Or, at least, that's how he reckons history will remember it. Glorified, bright and clean.

Yet, as he lays there, staring up at the sky, chest warm with blood yet increasingly cold, all he can think is the dirt. The cold nights, the brutal fights. Sickness and misery. Good people trying to do their best in a place that tried its best to reject them, and the bad that made sure that it didn't, with an endless amount of blood shed to drive their point home.

And the one, shining, beautiful bright spot among the muck that made it all worth it.

I'll see you soon, Kate.

An exhale, and the curtains fall. Hannibal Hawkes takes a bow, and steps off the stage. These times had no need for a gunslinger like him no more.

And then--- Encore.

No, not an encore. Backstage. Familiar, all too familiar.

Takes him a second for the memories to all come rushing back in; the countless times he found himself in these halls, under countless guises. Hallway of doors, funhouse of mirrors, and its lone, welcoming caretaker.

" Sure don't feel like it. Son of a bitch shot me in the back--" His response is absentminded, casual almost, his breath a wheeze, trying to catch up for the lack of air.

"La terra ti sia lieve, Terzo."

"Shit." In his accent, it sounds a lot like sheet. Quiet and sharp, almost as if he had spoken an exclamation rather than a single, filthy word. Terzo does not need an introduction to her, and that makes the bubbling rage inside of him all the worse; Death, oh. He swallows it, defined adam's apple bobbing with the physical effort -- is it physical, like this? Fuck if he knows. Still, it is not her fault, the plotting and the scheming and the what was the point of it all. He wonders if his brothers go with the same energy; Primo, he thinks, must be serene. Ancient bastard had to have seen it coming sooner or later, some way or another, and probably has met her with a genuine kindness Terzo only plays at now, plastering a smile he'd used to give to simpering sisters, fans practically melting at his feet. She is no more responsible for his head being cleaved from his body then he is.

Less, even.

"La bella morte."

Too soon, too soon! He had so much more to do, last and most successful son. His hair had not even begun to gray. Forever beautiful, forever young (ish).

"To hell, then?"

☽◯☾┄─ ❝ Memories consume like opening the wound ❞

@fatefulend