To reiterate, where in the name of all that is holy was she . The last thing she remembered was searching for the missing man in the forest with Elouan’s con artist, her chest getting tighter and tighter as the night went on, breathing getting harder and harder, until she collapsed and woke up here.

She would put every penny to her name to bet that that she was dead, and that this was some version of purgatory. 

Sighing and pushing her hair away from her face, Cyrille hauled herself up, stretched the soreness from her aching muscles, and started walking in the direction of the shack. Maybe there would be something- or someone- there that could help her figure out how to get out of this field. 

As she trudged towards the shack, she thought back to the events preceding her (presumed) death. As much as she doubted that necromancer was actually what he said he was, she hoped he would find his friend (partner?). And him, what had he called the missing man? Something with an R…Raziol! She hoped Raziol would be okay, and that he was found quickly, especially now that she wasn’t there to help out.

She had made it to the shack, and it seemed like there was somebody inside. She knocked, and a light voice called her in. 

“Cyrille Le Valois,” a lone woman said, her dark eyes meeting Cyrille’s before she could look away, “I have been waiting quite a long time for you to arrive.”

The woman stood and stepped towards her. Cyrille had frozen, whether in fear, confusion, or remnants of pain, she had no idea. What did she mean, she’s been waiting for me, and how does she know my name?

The woman spoke again, “I am Death, and I have been waiting centuries for you. Your name has been written in the passage of time since the beginning, remembered by the stones for millennia, and you will now fulfil your destiny.”

Before Cyrille could question what the woman- no, Death- was talking about, she continued, “Death is a mantle, worn by those the universe deems worthy. My time is up, and now it is your turn.” 

Chrille really didn’t like where this was going. One could just become Death, and the next was going to be her? She is- was- only an investigator, she wasn’t some important figure who would go down in history for their deeds. Why should it be her?

Death spoke again, “You will be eternal, alone in the neverending realm of the dead. You will mercilessly cut down lives, souls old and young, in peace and in violence. You will never again feel the touch of another, for even those who can visit cannot touch for fear of demise. You will forget those you loved, who loved you. You will be forgotten. You will never again be known, remembered, for your life as one of the living is to be over and forgotten. You will be afraid, you will be feared. You will be lonely, so painfully lonely you will wish you could die a second death. You will be Death’s incarnate, Death itself. You have the choice.”

Cyrille backed away a step, covering her ears as if it would help her hide from the weight of the words the woman- no- deity- was throwing at her. “Do I, though?” She protested, trying anything, everything to not take up the mantle of the ever lonely, ever monstrous being standing before her, “It appears that you’re saying I have the choice, but my options are nothing but eternal loneliness and the embodiment of the stories told to warn against alleyways, bridges, men, and all of the horrific, bloody, traumatic ways you could die, or eternal loneliness and nothing to gain from it besides being the story told to warn against leaving behind your station, family, livelihood, to ‘follow your truth’ and be nothing but the cheap imitation of a woman. I don’t want to live forever, and I certainly don’t want to live forever in whatever Hell is, because I am certainly not getting to Heaven.”

Death scoffed, stepping closer, closer to Cyrille until they were barely a metre apart. Cyrille watched, horrified, as Death’s form shuddered, then hair and skin, flesh and muscle, peeled away to a skeleton, radiating with so much sheer power she could feel it in her own bones, and deeper, into her soul, her lifeforce.

Death stepped ever closer, nose to gaping skull, “Is dying really so much more of a tragedy than living? You speak as if being alive is the closest to Heaven human souls will get while living, but I know your story. I orchestrated your story, I was your story. I know you, I am you. You can’t run from your fate Cyrille, you can’t run from your shadow. They are one and the same. You are Death, you will be Death, you were Death. And you will be magnificent .” By the end of her speech, Death was impassioned, skeletal hands laid upon Cyrille’s shoulders as if she could shake her argument into her. As much as she tried to deny it, avoid it, pretend it didn’t exist, Cyrille was…falling for the argument.

Would it be so bad, to be the one with the power, the one everybody feared, for once in her sorry life? To actually have power, rather than some semblance of it laid in sweet words, only to be taken at the drop of a hat at even the slightest fault? If she had been more powerful, more talented, more feared, more , she could have saved Émilie, allowed her to flourish in the ways she never could growing up. 

It was that thought that did her in and broke down her final, teetering barriers.

“I accept, I will take the mantle of Death,” her voice shook at her acceptance, wavering in her uncertainty. She pushed it down, deep into the cavernous depths of her body, into the gnawing, ravenous pit in the depths of her soul. This was the best option, the only option. There was no room for uncertainty at this moment. 

There would be plenty of time for the crashing, soul-crushing weight of what she had just committed to. An eternity of it, in fact. 

Death seemed to smile, as best she- they- it- could with nothing but a skeleton. 

“Come then, we must do this quickly. Now that you have accepted the mantle, I don’t have much time left. We must get to the source, quickly.” An unnervingly skeletal hand still on her shoulder, Cyrille was ushered towards the door of the shack.

“Wait!” she dug her heels in, resisting both the pull of Death and that of an unknown on the deepest parts of herself, “Will they be okay without me? Will Émilie survive Father’s hand, will Elouan move on?”

Death sighed, their empty eye sockets meeting her fear-filled eyes, “They will grieve. They will beg, plead, bargain for you back, but their prayers will go unanswered. It is said Life is kind, gentle, and Death is painful, aching. Those conceptions could not be more wrong, Life is unbearably, undeniably cruel and will revel in their grief. But grief will drown them less, they will see you in fleeting moments and happy memories, and they will move on. But they will not forget. They never forget, they will never forget. It will be painful, but you will never be forgotten, they will remember you, love you, until their dying days.”

Their words brought some semblance of peace to Cyrille. It would hurt, but they would move on she repeated to herself, a mantra of her impending loss. 

The next time Death pushed at her shoulder to usher her out of the door, she complied, stepping through the open door into the vast swaths of the fields. 

Cyrille was pulled along too quickly to fully take in the sheer vastness of the seemingly neverending fields, their shocking beauty. She was surprised at her own surprise, surely she should have conceptualised that the land of the dead could be so beautiful in its bleakness. But was it so bleak? The neverending golden wheat was peaceful, drawing her memories to the warm spring days when she had the time to fall asleep in a garden somewhere, in her Father’s countryside manor with the windows open. 

They stopped at a river, wide and flowing gently. “The river Lethe,” Death said, “As you have taken the mantle, you are to be spared from its effects for long enough to cross. Until you have taken the title and the power, though, you can still be washed away if you linger. Traverse quickly, for remembering your life is the only thing that will get you through some days, centuries. It will be a small comfort in your eternity. You must go alone, so you will meet me on the shores of the sea. Straight ahead.”

Cyrille closed her eyes and breathed. Calmed her racing heart. She had wanted this, agreed to this. It was her mantle, her burden. Her title.

She stepped into the river, wading deeper and deeper until her hair floated around her like a sea of golden seaweed. She kept on, resisting the current tugging at her, desiring her body and memories to be dragged away.

The banks of the Lethe were different on this side, she thought. Ruins littered the land, standing grey and worn against the golden wheat of life. Death’s skeletal figure stood out among the landscape, yet simultaneously fit seamlessly. She stepped towards them, clenching her shaking hands to fists so tight she could feel the bite of her nails into her palms. 

As she got closer, Death’s form fractured, and she saw swaths of figures behind the scythe-wielding skeleton that was the second most powerful being in the entire universe, to her knowledge. It clicked, then. She wasn’t special, she was simply yet another body to wield the title and power of the final judge. It was a shocking comfort. 

Death spoke, their voice echoing around her, inside her, layers and millennia of people chosen to hold the title, “You will take the scythe, go deep into the sea, to the source. Immerse yourself in it completely, allow it to be within you, around you, you . You will take the title of Death. We will be with you, within you, and you will learn the ways of Death,” every figure turned to her, then, their voices layering to a bone-shaking echo, “Good luck, Cyrille Le Valois.”

Cyrille took the scythe, pushing down a flinch at the raw power she could feel resting innocently in her hands, and stepped into the sea.

✯✯✯✯✯

Today, if you happen to hold the title of Necromancer, you may have been given the ability to access the land of the dead, the never-ending fields of golden wheat. If you go, you will arrive in a cabin, warm, with an open book laid aside on a chair. Shelves full of books, trinkets, an old scythe hung on the wall. 

If you look closer, you will find a sheet of parchment laid carefully on a shelf, folded and refolded so many times it looked close to splitting into two, four pieces from use. If you unfolded the letter, curious, you would find it was not one, but two distinct letters. One, with scrawling cursive, poetic, romantic lines uttering well-wishes and sweet nothings to the recipient. The other, the words of a child, innocent in their content and unconditional in their love. 

If you then ventured out of the cabin, letters in hand, you would see, far within the fields, wielding a shining scythe, a lone woman with trailing golden hair amidst the stalks. You will know who the centuries-old letters were for, then, as you caught a glimpse of her expression- lonely, yearning, empty. For Death is an everlasting, lonely job, and passing on is no more inevitable for the wielder.

__________

Hello! This fic came to me like a lightning strike while I was at rehearsal for my university's spring show (Eurydice) and I then proceeded to write more words in one sitting than I ever have. Now at least there'll be something posted while I fight with the Novae/Cyrano AU! About 90%, if not more of this fic, is me taking KaiJu's amazing world and adding onto it while I can, so extra big kudos to the authors for letting us play in their sandbox. Title is from 'Momentary' by Jake Wesley Rogers Again, this fic is entirely un-beta'd (save my roommate reading the very end section), so any (constructive) criticism is appreciated. Preemptive T/W: Self-inflicted transphobia; Frank discussions of death (and Death). No actual description of dying though, if that makes it easier to stomach

“I said: I’m in a bit of awe, I thought you were Cyrille’s sister or something. You could go to court in a dress and no one would be able to tell you were born a man. And then you punched me for being insensitive.”

“I did…and it seems to have worked. You’re the only person who really sees me. But…I don’t know…are you sure nobody will recognize me? If even one person thinks they’ve seen me before and puts it together, I’ll lose my job, my status, and will be decapitated and burned alive!” She was getting frantic, her heart pounding through her chest, breath quickening to a frantic wheezing. 

“It will be fine, everything will be fine. Here, breathe with me,” Elouan grabbed her hands and tucked her further into his chest, encouraging her to match her breathing to the movement of his chest, “If it gets to be too much, then we can just come back home, make a nice cup of tea, and I’ll read you some poetry or something.”

“That sounds a lot nicer than what I thought I’d do,” she replied, muffled into her lover’s chest. It was becoming easier to breathe, easier to exist without the world seeming like too much. 

“And what would that be? I’m assuming something impulsive, knowing you.” Elouan wasn’t as subtle as he liked to think he was. Cyrille was well aware that he was trying to distract her out of her panic, and worse yet, it was actually working. 

Sighing, she responded, “Maybe…I was probably going to get overwhelmed and run back home as quickly as I could. Probably be crying as well, then shut myself in here, never to be seen again.” 

Elouan laughed at her dramatics, a lovely, undignified snort that made her giggle every time. “Yeah, I think my idea is better.”

“You think pretty highly of yourself, Elouan,” she teased, pulling away from his embrace to get dressed into her favourite outfit- her sole dress, the solitary set in her vast closet that actually felt like herself. 

Wriggling into her stays, she turned to Elouan, silently requesting his help in lacing everything up and adjusting the extra bits and bobs that gave the illusion of a full bust and wide hips, rather than her narrow chest and narrower pelvis. 

Elouan sighed affectionately at her as he responded, “Shush, Cyrille. What do you say?”

“Alright,” she sighed, running her fingers across the luxurious blue silk of the dress she held. Spinning to face her lover, she put on her best ‘you love me so you’ll do what I want’ face, and asked, “Can we go to the library? I’d like to see if they have some texts about demonic possession and witchcraft.”

“Is this about that necromancy expert I hired? Again?” She knew her lover well enough to know he was exasperated at her bringing up his ‘expert’s’ questionable expertise, but all the while amused at her sincerity. 

Well, Elouan would say she was like a dog with a rope, stubborn and unwilling to let go of a topic. Tomato, tomato.

✯✯✯✯✯

Ambling their way through the streets hand in hand with Elouan, Cyrille was not freaking out, thank you very much. She was fine. Not nervous. Completely normal, going about her completely normal day with her completely normal boyfriend. She’s not nervous, shut up. 

“So…how is it?” Elouan spoke up from beside her, his warm brown eyes focusing on her face. 

Nervously tapping her fingers across the back of the hand she was holding, she responded, “It’s not as bad as I thought it’d be. Nobody’s giving me weird looks yet. I am still very nervous though.”

“See! I told you! Unrecognizable, especially with your hair up. Everything will be fine, trust me,” Elouan said, beaming, as he ushered her up the steps of the library. 

“I’ll try,” she sighed, dropping her voice to a whisper as they entered the quiet environment. She may have trouble with situational awareness, but she knew enough to know you were quiet in a library. Thanks , mother. 

“But you might have been right on coming out here. A rare occasion,” she continued. 

They were deep within the folklore section by that point, and Cyrille was left hoping that there would be at least one text that was missed when any and all of the books containing topics ‘wrought upon by the devil’ had been last purged. Alas, her luck was nonexistent. 

She groaned and dropped her head onto a bookshelf, hoping they were deep enough in the bowels of the library so she wouldn't be stared at too closely. 

“Hey! I’m right most of the time,” Elouan responded, reshelving a book she had pulled out in her research. 

“Sure, Elouan. Say whatever you need to make yourself feel better,” she quipped.

“Oh, be quiet Cyrille.”

Giving up, she returned her final book to its spot and turned to her lover. “I think not. Anyways, do you want to go to the market? I want some flowers for our bedroom.”

“Sure, I think we may need some bread as well. And I’d like to buy you a new hair ribbon.”

“Elouan! You don’t have to,” she protested. It seemed like every time they went to the market for one thing or another she returned with yet again another hair ribbon, sparkly trinket, or some other object that had caught Elouan’s eye.

“I want to! Pretty ladies shouldn’t have to buy their own hair ribbons,” he said, ushering her from the library, offering his arm as they made their way back down the stairs. A true gentleman, her lover was. 

“Well, if you are insisting, I won’t stop you,” she teased. 

Elouan laughed, victorious, as she turned her gaze to her lover, basking in his vibrant joy. 

____Author's Note____

I wanted to get SOMETHING out for Novaember before November actually ends, as I am a full-time student about to go into final exams (rip), and am by far a much better (and faster) academic writer, so here's something that's been in my drafts for months half-finished. I'm planning on doing a bunch more of the prompts, but no promises that anything else will actually be out during November.

This is completely un-beta'd, so some grace and/or tips on whether this is actually accurate to the characters would be appreciated- especially since I've never a) written men or b) dated/liked men so hopefully Elouan doesn't read too much like a butch lesbian. Big thanks to my roommate for listening to my complaints and questions while writing this- especially considering the fact that she's never read the comic lol.

Title is from 'Crying During Sex' by Ethel Cain

Historical notes:

-- Cyrille isn't being dramatic when she's talking about how she would be murdered for being trans- if anything she's understating. The likeliest punishment would be decapitation, since she's canonically nobility, and/or burning at the stake, for 'gender fuckery'. -- All of the outfit pieces described are historical pieces that would have been worn at the time- with some additions based on what I think would have been done for gender affirmation, as I couldn't find any sources on what that would have looked like at the time. The best place for accuracy in historical clothing that I've found is costuming books, if you're interested. -- This isn't explicitly talked about in this fic, but Elouan's last name (Losa) indicates that he is either Spanish or Italian, and means 'slate'. Cyrille's surname (Valois) definitely indicates French nobility and may have connections to the historical House of Valois, who ruled France for about 250 years (would LOVE author confirmation/denial on this at some point). If she is descended from the House of Valois, it's likely through her mother's line, as the reason they lost the throne was that there was an absence of men the crown could go to (I like to think that Cyrille, by either a family curse or simply bad luck, is the first AMAB person in the Valois line since)

Not a historical note but still kind of important:

-- I write Cyrille as Autistic (or at least somewhere on the ASD spectrum) because I can see a ton of similarities between how Cyrille is written and my personal experiences with being Autistic, so she's also autistic. If you want the meta, let me know lol :)