Page 19 of Death’s Gentle Hand
I could end this, he thought, power crackling at his fingertips. One touch, and the noble dies. The Hollow finds peace.
But intervention would reveal him, would expose his presence in the mortal realm and bring cosmic consequences he wasn't prepared to face. Not yet. Not until he understood what he was becoming and what he was willing to sacrifice for it.
For the first time in his existence, Cael felt revulsion rather than duty toward the cosmic order he'd served for millennia.
The Time Exchange claimed to operate within cosmic law, to provide a service that balanced life and death in accordance with universal principles.
But what he was witnessing had nothing to do with balance and everything to do with the concentration of power in the hands of those already wealthy enough to purchase immortality.
In the reflection of the cathedral's crystal walls, Cael caught sight of his own image and recoiled from what he saw.
His face shifted constantly—sometimes the ancient, austere avatar of Death he'd been created to be, sometimes something more human and vulnerable, sometimes a chaotic blend of both that seemed to war with itself for dominance.
He was no longer constant, no longer the unchanging force he'd been designed to be. The instability terrified and exhilarated him in equal measure, proof that his connection to Damian was fundamentally altering his nature in ways he couldn't control or predict.
But even as fear crawled up his spine at the implications of such transformation, Cael found himself grateful for the change.
The creature he'd been before meeting Damian would have observed the cathedral's rituals with detached interest, cataloguing them as curiosities within the broader tapestry of cosmic function.
Now he felt moral outrage, ethical revulsion, the burning need to do something to stop such systematic cruelty.
As he left the cathedral, one thought echoed in his transformed consciousness with crystalline clarity: what they did to each other was worse than what he gave them.
Death, he realized, could be mercy—a release from suffering, a passage to whatever peace awaited beyond the threshold.
But this systematic exploitation of mortality was pure evil, the transformation of the sacred process of ending into commodity for the pleasure of those who had never earned their extended years.
The revelation fundamentally altered his understanding of his cosmic purpose. Perhaps his function wasn't simply to end things when cosmic law dictated, but to ensure that endings served justice rather than cruelty, mercy rather than exploitation.
Walking through the city's predawn streets, past vendors setting up stalls with goods they could barely afford to sell and children whose laughter carried notes of desperation even in its joy, Cael began to understand why Damian fought so hard against the system that governed Varos.
Every healing, every moment of freely given comfort, stood in defiance of the city's commodification of life itself.
Damian chose to absorb suffering rather than profit from it, chose to ease pain rather than exploit it, chose to give rather than take even when taking would have been easier and more profitable.
The thought filled Cael with something that might have been pride—pride in the man whose connection had changed him so fundamentally, whose gentle defiance of cosmic order had taught him that some things were worth fighting for regardless of universal law.
When Cael arrived at Damian's clinic, he found it closed, with a simple note in Braille attached to the door: “Gone walking. Back before sunset.” The message was clearly meant for Corrin or other regular visitors, but seeing it made panic flare in Cael's chest—an entirely new sensation that left him breathless and disoriented.
His borrowed lungs worked frantically, drawing air that felt thin and insufficient. What if something happens to him? What if he's hurt, or captured, or ? —
The spiral of anxiety caught him off guard with its intensity. When had Damian's wellbeing become so important to him? When had the abstract concept of a mortal healer transformed into someone whose safety mattered more than cosmic law?
Following instincts he didn't fully understand but couldn't ignore, Cael began tracking Damian through the winding streets of Veil Row.
The healer's signature was easy to follow once Cael learned to look for it—a warm thread of compassion and absorbed pain that stood out against the general background of human suffering like a candle flame in darkness.
He found Damian at the Ivy Steps, the ancient ruins where few people ventured during daylight hours. From the shadows, Cael watched as the healer moved through his world with quiet grace that spoke of years of practice navigating without sight.
Damian's white cane tapped out a steady rhythm as he climbed the worn stone steps, but his movements were confident, sure, guided by senses that had adapted to perceive the world in ways most people never learned.
He paused occasionally to speak with street vendors whose stalls occupied the lower terraces, his voice carrying genuine warmth as he inquired about their health, their families, their struggles with the ever-present burden of time-debt.
“Good morning, Henrik,” Damian called to a flower seller whose stall overflowed with wilted blooms. “How's your granddaughter feeling?”
“Better, thanks to you,” the old man replied, his voice rough with gratitude. “That tonic you gave her broke the fever. She's asking when the 'kind doctor' will visit again.”
Damian's smile was radiant, transforming his entire face. “Soon. I'll bring more medicine when I come.”
A child selling wilted flowers approached Damian with the fearless directness of youth, chattering about her sick grandmother and the medicine they couldn't afford.
Instead of dismissing her with empty platitudes, Damian knelt to her level and listened with complete attention, his responses thoughtful and kind.
“My flowers look sadder than a Hollow's smile,” the girl confessed with dramatic despair that was pure childhood theater.
Damian laughed with genuine delight that made the sound echo off the ancient stones. “That's the most creative way anyone's ever described wilted petals. But you know what? Sometimes the saddest-looking flowers smell the sweetest.”
He accepted a drooping daisy from her with careful reverence, bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply. “See? This one smells like sunshine and hope.”
The child giggled, instantly brightened by his attention and kindness.
The sight of that easy interaction, that effortless humanity, made Cael's throat tight with emotion he couldn't name.
Damian embodied everything Cael was learning to value about mortal existence—the capacity for joy despite suffering, the choice to connect despite the risk of loss, the determination to care even when caring brought pain.
Observing Damian's gentle engagement with the world around him, Cael thought with growing wonder: You are alive in every way they are not. No wonder I'm being drawn toward you like gravity.
Every gesture, every moment of freely given kindness, stood in stark contrast to the calculated cruelty Cael had witnessed in the wealthy districts.
Where the nobles treated other people's lives as resources to be exploited, Damian treated every person he encountered as worthy of respect and care regardless of their ability to pay for his services.
As Damian prepared to descend the steps and continue his walk, Cael made a choice that would have been impossible weeks ago.
Instead of remaining hidden in shadow and suggestion, he allowed himself to become fully visible, stepping out of the concealment that had defined his existence since the beginning of time.
The morning light felt strange against his skin, warm in ways he was still learning to appreciate. His form cast an actual shadow on the ancient stones, proof of his increasing corporeality and the choice he was making to exist in the same reality as the man who had changed him so fundamentally.
The city around them seemed to hold its breath—birds falling silent in nearby trees, the distant sound of vendors calling their wares muffled as if by invisible glass. Even the wind paused, leaving the air unnaturally still.
Damian didn't flinch or startle when Cael appeared. Instead, he turned toward the sound of footsteps with a smile that carried warm familiarity, as if he'd been expecting this encounter all along.
“You're late,” Damian said simply, his voice holding the kind of fond exasperation usually reserved for old friends who couldn't keep appointments.
The casual acceptance, the assumption that Cael belonged in this moment and this place, made his borrowed heart skip in ways that should have been impossible.
For the first time in his existence, Cael understood what it meant to be expected, welcomed, wanted for himself rather than feared for his function.
“I was observing the city,” Cael replied, surprised by how natural conversation felt when conducted in daylight rather than shadowed secrecy. His voice carried new harmonics—not quite human, but not entirely otherworldly either. “Learning about the world you choose to live in.”
“And what did you learn?”
Cael considered the question, thinking of the child who would never age, the Hollow being harvested for temporal essence, the nobles who laughed while purchasing years they hadn't earned.
“That most people don't deserve the deaths I give them,” he said finally.
“And that some people don't deserve the lives they've taken from others.”
Damian nodded slowly, as if this was exactly the answer he'd expected. “Welcome to moral complexity, Cael. It's messier than cosmic law, but it's more honest.”