The Domain of Death Himself

Xanthus is Death, and Death has a busy life, as you'd imagine. What with the scythe work and the whole soul collecting stuff. His days are long and kind of dull, until he meets a certain, someone.


1. Introduction to the work of death.

The domain of Death himself.

This is kind of connected to thelupyjotter’s story “I’m not mafia, I’m freakin’ death” as you’ll see in hers the company Mors Principium est. is mentioned which is the company my dear version of death is part of. Hers is set quite a few years later than mine… so… yeah. So don’t be worried, as she’s said she has not kidnapped my character. Dear lupy has given me permission to use some of her stuff so don’t worry. I am no thief.



All life begins with death. All death ends with death.

                In this never ending cycle of death, decay, sorrow there is no light to brighten the darkness. No angel to guide the way. Only death.


It’s an indescribable thing… dying. People say you look peaceful. That you’ life long suffering is over.

                They’re wrong.

                Only pain lies beyond the crackling sun in the day and the glowing moon in the night. There I no sun. No moon. All that is spared are the precious memories of the life you had. A torcher in itself.

                Remembering the things you used to have. You used to take for granted. When you could eat, sleep, laugh, cry….

                Nothing remains. Nothing.




“The dead stay dead. It’s a hard reality.” The man reached down to pat the boy’s head, but was flinched away from for his troubles.

                He shuffled his long legs uncomfortably, waist length black hair swishing gently into his completely white eyes. The man’s legs were almost ridiculously long. They stretched down to the floor, the fact he was wearing skinny trousers didn’t help with the fact either.

                His skin was deathly pale (wrong choice in words…) and almost glowed in the dusky light.

                It didn’t surprise even himself that the boy was afraid of him. Death was a frightening man to meet.

                “Won’t you hear me out?” Death, (also known as Xanthus Malcolmson) asked in a voice that was supposed to sound comforting but turned out like a threat. The silky tone of his voice seemed to do that on its own…

                The quivering child swept his shaggy blond hair out of his blue eyes and nodded.

                Death smiled. Another mistake on his behalf, as his teeth were a serrated mess, holding two sets of them like a shark.

                A tiny yelp escaped the boy… Nathan… Xanthus couldn’t really remember the name. With so many people coming each day who had the brain capacity to remember every single dead person’s name he met?

                “Sorry… sorry.” He muttered. If he was capable he probably would have blushed or something. But that was something human and trivial. Death did not need that particular action. “Anyway you know the drill… heaven, hell blah, blah, blah… anyway here’s the part that usually gets people. To get into ‘heaven’” He twitched his fingers in sarcastic quotation marks.  “You have to donate at least two parts of your tiny little body. But nothing too disgusting. I am the one who has to hold it.” Death watched with darkened pleasure as the boy stared at him with petrified, fearful panic.

                “No pain, I promise.”

                “But-but…” His desperation was pitiful.

                “Though you could give hell a go.”

                The boy squeaked and murmured madly.

                “Um, you can have two of my hairs..?” It was a question. Xanthus felt slightly irritated ad may have accepted the offer if the boy hadn’t phrased his answer as a question. A hate of Death’s.

                “Living parts of your body. Hair is dead.” He said remembering a lately found out fact on the spot.

                “Uh… my appendix, and-and.”

                “If you don’t choose in five seconds I’m choosing.”



                “Take a tooth.”

                “No. Four.”



                “An eyelash?”

                “Hair. No. Two.”

                “Plea-please!” The boy began to sob.


                “No! Wait!” His echoing scream was cut off by the hand that reached through into his throat and drew a sticky, pipe-like object that oozed with blood.

                The boys hands flew to his throat. A gurgling sound emanated from the blood filled mouth, open and dripping.

                “Off you go my child.” The child was tugged out the metal room by what seemed like invisible hands, his gurgling breath echoing down the hall. Don’t get me wrong. Death was no liar. The boy felt no pain. He was simply silenced for ever.

                “Hard day.” Xanthus mumbled, and sank into an office chair, slipping a crimson covered hand through his silky black hair.

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