He Was Death Full of Glory

Title: He was Death Full of Glory

Rating: PG

Type: Drabble

Warnings: FYI this is not a spoiler to Crimson Midnight. It is, however an AU in which Zim, Dib, Red, Purple and what have you don't even exist.

Summary: It is rare that Death would stop to speak with those he would merely kill later.

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He glances up at the metal ceiling, closing his only good eye because the light pouring from the lamps is harsh and abrasive and it's hitting them... hitting him and he can feel what's left of his insides twist and turn and sink into his feet because the light removes the shadows. The light removes the shadows and shows him what he has become.

The bright light makes the metal a lighter pink, a sort of maddening faded color, of torn and rendered scabbing flesh. So he moves his eye away from the ceiling from the light and further down which is an easy task for him since he is lying on the floor. He is not alone in the cell.

He did not think, however, he would have been granted such an honor of gazing upon the other so simply like he was. The other is not and could never be, affected by the harsh light like his eye was. Instead the other sucked in light. Every inch of his skeletal thin body took it in and made the darkness of his soul even greater. The air around the other was cold and bleak, dead air, the sharp air of ice without the reassurance another spring would come.

He is so tall, the other, so tall, a tower, a pillar, a statue who is just gazing at him calmly, amused almost. He is so thin but there is not a single flaw to him, no scar, no wounds, nothing, despite the millions of battles the other had seen. The other wasn't scarred like he should be. He should have been nothing but wire and thread, ready to fall apart at a single wrong pull. But then again, it was not only rude, but wrong of him to assume anything about the other.

"Tomorrow then?" he asks out loud the words unbidden from his mouth; but his voice even to his own senses is scored and worn.

His words had been so thoughtless, so despicably stupid of him. He watches, a deep shiver running down his exposed spine as the other turns his head to look at him and he nearly screams as the eyes lock with his own.

"It is," the other replies with the timber of calm, almost amused.

He imagines - wrong of him though it may be - that Death is amused only because no one has asked Death when they will die.

"You will be there?" he knows it is a stupid question for the answer is obvious. He waits for Death to taunt him, but the Great Equalizer merely tilts back his head and a small "hmmm" slithers deep in Death's throat.

"Yes, I will be needed," he replies just as calmly as before, almost soothing him of the transgressions that will happen tomorrow. But he knows that that cannot be true, that Death be so comforting to one such as him, so he chides his mind.

"I'll be going as well?" and again he feels like a fool in the other's presence because Death must have already known. Death likely already had his demise planned out, whether he would die on the battlefield or in this cell.

Death looks at him again, a pitying amusement in those soulless orbs that broke apart the souls of all creatures.

"No," Death states calmly, always calm, "your demise is here."

He gulps, and it hurts, but the action comforts him. He feels honored that Death would inform him of the where, yet he was filled with a sickened dread that he would not go protecting his people.

"I-I'm scared," he confesses in a whisper to the entity that ate the fear of creatures' like the finest feast.

Death turns fully to face him, capturing his gaze and he wants to look anywhere but those endless orbs. He knows he should look away, he should not stare Death in the face. He is trapped, in his mind, in that gaze. He is trapped in the eternity and intensity of those eyes; he knows they will suck him into depths deeper than the seams of space and he will be lost there forever. He can feel himself gasp and shiver and scream and not say a word or a sound all at once; he can hear the chains shake and shudder as he scrambles back as the steady black gaze merely lies across his body.

"It is alright for you to be afraid of dying."

"I-Is there anything that scares you?" he asks in a squeak; and wonders if it's possible for Death to feel anything at all.

"Fear does not equate to weakness," Death chuckles, still just holding him in that intensity, "but yes. There are a few things I fear."

And he understands, truly, he does. He understands now, and he will know it later, that even if Death did fear something, Death could never be weak, could never be weakened.

The door to his cell opens and his aching body, his dismantled shape shudders, wondering if more experiments are about to be scored into him. The guards bow low in respect, as any should, to Death. He thinks it's foolish that the guards appear only when Death is about to leave. After all, he cannot escape, even if he was not chained as he was, even if he had not been broken.

"W-Will I see you tomorrow?" he calls out as Death heads towards the doorway.

The Irken guards move to strike him, for his arrogance to ask Death to speak with him, to visit him once again before he finally must die. Death holds up a claw to stop them and he gives a small tilt of his head in consideration to the question.

"Perhaps," Zabius says, always calm, before he gestures for the guards to close the cell door behind him.