Page 37 of Death’s Gentle Hand

Where We Begin to Fray

Cael

C ael woke in the pre-dawn darkness with the immediate, bone-deep certainty that something fundamental had shifted within him during the night.

For the first time in eons, he experienced warmth not summoned by will or purpose, but earned through connection, given freely by another soul.

Damian's body radiated heat beside him, creating microclimates of comfort that Cael's newly mortal nervous system registered with startling intensity.

The sensation of shared body heat was revolutionary—proof that he now existed in the same physical reality as the man he loved rather than simply visiting it like a cosmic tourist.

But underneath the wonder was terror so profound it made his throat close with panic.

Every sensation felt simultaneously too much and not enough, overwhelming in its immediacy while carrying the constant threat of being stripped away.

This was what mortals called happiness, he realized—joy shot through with the awareness of its own fragility, pleasure made precious by its temporary nature.

He traced gentle fingers along Damian's sleeping face, memorizing the peaceful expression that only came in dreams. The healer looked younger in sleep, the lines of chronic pain and accumulated sorrow smoothed away by unconsciousness.

His dark hair fell across his forehead in soft waves that invited touch, and his breathing created small clouds in the cool air that spoke of biological processes Cael was only beginning to understand.

“Beautiful,” Cael whispered to the darkness, the word carrying cosmic weight because Death itself had learned to find beauty in temporary things. “Absolutely fucking beautiful.”

Rising carefully to avoid disturbing Damian's rest, Cael dressed with movements that felt foreign to his transformed body.

Fabric against skin registered as texture rather than mere physical fact.

The weight of his clothes pulled at shoulders that now had to support actual mass instead of cosmic approximation.

Even the simple act of walking required conscious attention to balance and momentum in ways that would have been inconceivable during his ethereal existence.

Stepping outside the clinic into the grey morning light, Cael immediately sensed the wrongness spreading through Varos like infection carried on supernatural winds.

The city's usual rhythm felt disrupted, its temporal heartbeat stuttering with irregular spasms that spoke of fundamental damage to reality's underlying structure.

Time stalled around his presence in ways that made his newly formed stomach clench with dread.

Birds froze mid-flight in impossible suspension, their wings locked in positions that defied physics and biology alike.

Clock towers throughout the district pulsed erratically as their mechanisms struggled against temporal distortions that emanated from his transformed essence like ripples from a stone dropped in still water.

Shadows bent toward him as if drawn by gravitational force that shouldn't exist in someone supposedly mortal.

When he stepped on fallen leaves, they aged decades in seconds, crumbling to dust that scattered on winds that moved in patterns too organized to be natural.

The very air around him tasted of ozone and copper, metallic with the flavor of reality under strain.

“Fuck,” he breathed, watching a nearby fountain run backward, its water flowing upward in defiance of gravity and common sense. “What have I become?”

The question echoed in the empty courtyard, unanswered and terrifying in its implications.

He'd assumed that choosing mortality would make him safe, controllable, contained within normal human limitations.

Instead, his transformation seemed to have created instabilities that threatened the fabric of existence itself.

When Cael attempted to access the Threads seeking answers or comfort from the cosmic realm that had once been home, the silver pathways slammed shut before him like doors barred from within.

The rejection was violent and immediate, sending shockwaves through his consciousness that left him gasping and disoriented.

A voice spoke from the cosmic void, ancient and implacable, carrying the weight of universal law made manifest: “You have chosen mortality over purpose. You are now bound by consequence rather than duty. The Threads reject what you have become.”

The words hit him like cosmic fire, each syllable burning through his transformed awareness with surgical cruelty.

This wasn't mere punishment or temporary exile—it was fundamental severing from everything he'd ever known, every source of power and identity that had defined his existence since the beginning of time.

“Please,” he whispered to the empty air, his voice breaking with desperation he'd never known he was capable of feeling. “I just need to understand what's happening to me. I need guidance.”

The silence that answered carried its own message: he was truly alone now, cut off from cosmic support and left to navigate mortality without the guidance systems that made such transformation survivable.

Whatever he'd become, it was unprecedented enough that even the Eternal Accord couldn't predict its consequences.

The rejection triggered the appearance of the Elder Wardens, faceless beings of pure cosmic law whose presence made reality straighten and conform around them like iron filings aligning to magnetic force.

They materialized in the clinic's courtyard like living statues, their forms shifting between states of matter as geometry reasserted dominance over the chaotic energies Cael's presence generated.

Their unified voice carried the weight of absolute authority: “Cael of the Last Reaping, you have until the next full moon to sever the mortal bond voluntarily, or both anchor and entity will be erased from existence.”

The ultimatum hit him like a cosmic sledgehammer, each word precisely calculated to convey the magnitude of consequence awaiting any continued defiance.

Not death—that would have been merciful.

Erasure. Complete removal from existence, as if he'd never been created, never served, never learned to love someone worth dying for.

“How long?” Cael asked, his voice barely audible in the face of such devastating certainty.

“Seventeen days,” the Wardens replied with mechanical indifference. “Seventeen mortal sunsets to choose between love and existence.”

The beings faded like smoke, leaving only the acrid scent of cosmic authority and the terrible weight of limited time pressing against Cael's consciousness.

He stood alone in the courtyard, understanding that their love had become a countdown to mutual destruction, that every moment of happiness they stole made the eventual price higher.

Seventeen days to love someone completely before losing them forever. The cruel mathematics of cosmic law turned affection into weapon, intimacy into countdown timer, hope into the cruelest torture imaginable.

Returning to the clinic, Cael attempted to mask his cosmic distress, but Damian noticed immediately. The healer's supernatural sensitivity to emotional undercurrents made him impossible to deceive, especially now that their souls had intertwined at the most fundamental level.

“You're different today,” Damian observed quietly, setting aside his morning preparations to focus entirely on Cael's transformed presence. “Cold, but not like before. This feels like fear.”

The accuracy of the assessment cut through Cael's defenses like a blade through silk. Of course Damian could sense the terror radiating from him—their soulbond made emotional concealment impossible, created transparency between them that was both gift and curse.

“Everything's fine,” Cael lied, the words tasting like ash on his tongue. “Just adjusting to mortality. It's more complicated than I expected.”

Damian's expression shifted to something between concern and skepticism, his enhanced senses clearly detecting the deception even if he couldn't identify its specific nature. “Since when do you lie to me?”

Since telling the truth would destroy what little happiness we have left.

Cael thought desperately, but couldn't bring himself to speak the words aloud. Instead, he deflected with attempted normalcy, watching Damian chop herbs with methodical care, listening to his unconscious humming, memorizing the domestic rituals that made mortality precious.

Every moment felt simultaneously too good to be real and too fragile to last. The knowledge of the Wardens' ultimatum poisoned every interaction, turning simple gestures into potential final memories.

When Damian laughed at some private thought, the sound hit Cael like revelation and heartbreak combined—beautiful beyond description and doomed beyond salvation.

“Tell me about your day,” Cael said, desperate to fill the growing silence with something other than dread. “What patients are you expecting? What healing work needs to be done?”

Damian paused in his herb preparation, clearly sensing the forced quality of the conversation but choosing to play along.

“Mrs. Chen is coming back for another treatment on her time-burns.

That young man with the soul-fracture needs follow-up care.

And there's always the usual stream of people who can't afford legitimate healing.”

As Damian spoke, Cael found himself cataloguing details with desperate intensity.

The way morning light caught the planes of the healer's face, casting shadows that changed with each gesture.

The particular cadence of his voice when he talked about his work, carrying notes of compassion that had first attracted cosmic attention.

The unconscious grace with which he moved through his domain, every motion speaking of years spent navigating the world through senses other than sight.