The Kiss of Death

You’ve been immortal for as long as you can recall. Countless yearn for your ‘luck’, desperate to extend their lifetime to grip onto their mortal passion and power. Only you know the bitter consequence behind it all. Immortality is not a blessing. Rather, a curse. To see your loved ones slip away while you remain youthful brings agony beyond belief. Time goes on; all life must come to an end, but you remain the same. Unchanged. Except, amidst your loneliness, you discover the existence of a remedy. If anything can cure your immortality, it is the embodiment of Death. Further more, it seems that Death himself likes to possess the bodies of royalty, in particular, princes. And so it seems, the only way that you can meet the Prince of Death is through the annual royal ball…

The perks of having immortality include having connections, which allows you to enter the next ball with ease. You venture through the crowd, dressed in a pale shimmering gown. Many ask for your hand in a dance, but you have eyes for one person. At last you spot him: the Prince of Death.

The Prince is tall, but he walks with ethereal grace. The shadow behind him seems to melt into his step, akin to his gaze in which his eyes as well, which catches your attention first. He seem to know that you are looking for him. The Prince extends out a gloved hand. You take it, and with the rise of the orchestra, the two of you begin a steady waltz under the glittering chandeliers.

“I know why you search for me,” the Prince remarks, his voice as deep as the shadows surrounding him. You raise an eyebrow. “Then you must know what I need from you.” “I may be Death,” he laughs, “But to take a life so soon? That would be unseemly.” “I have lived for hundreds of years,” you reply dryly “Soon is not a matter of concern.”

“So, shall I kill you now?” he suggests. You wouldn’t mind it, but then, he laughs again. “You do not expect me to do it with my bare hands, do you?” “Shall I bring you a dagger?” you propose, almost as a joke. Against your expectations, he replies with a pleasant smile, “Please do, my dear.”

The orchestra concludes the song with a flourish, and he bows. You have mare to say, questions to ask, but he vanishes in a flash, leaving you alone in the center of the ballroom. You leave, contemplating in you should really bring him a dagger. However, the opportunity was lost, and the annual ball passes. You attend the next one, a dagger sheathed in the folds of your gown, yet you are greeted with news that the Prince has died. It seems that the Prince of Death has moved on.

You find the Prince a century later, in a different kingdom, a different ballroom, a different royal family. It had taken attendance to thousands of balls for you to find him. He wears a different face now, but you knew it was him by the way he carried himself with elegance or the look of utter darkness in his eyes, all familiar to you from the first time you met him. He sees you, and he bows. “You look the same as always,” he says. You would have laughed if you hadn’t spent a hundred years looking for him. “And you look quite different.” He holds out his gloved hand, inviting you to a dance. You take it grudgingly, and the two of you waltz for the second time. As you spin with him under the glimmering lights, for a moment, you seem to forget the reason behind your search, caught in the sway of the waltz. His hand holds yours, the other resting on your waist. Yet, the song comes to an end, and you are thrown back into reality. He looks at you, as if waiting for something from you…

You take out a dagger, unsheathing it as you hand it to him. He looks at the dagger and grins. “My lady, I nearly forgot about out little deal.” “So do it,” you say, letting your arms fall plainly, palms up. “Kill me now.” “Always quite urgent to end out meetings, aren’t you?” He sighs, as if he truly valued the conversation the two of you had. “We can talk more in Hell.” He spins the dagger in his hand, then catches it, poising it at your chest. “Farewell-” he begins. Then he stops, interrupting himself. “-Would be a pity so early.” He drops the dagger and it clatters to the floor. “Why can’t you just kill me?!” You exclaim, feeling your patience snap. “Dear, you’re immortal. You can’t just die like that.” “But you’re Death.” “Yes?” “So you can kill me just like that.” “I would prefer not to get my hands stained with your immortal blood. Do you truly wish to die to this extent?” You blink. “Is that even a question?” “Then,” he hums, “Find me at the next ball. I’ll kill you then.”

You have no choice. He vanishes just like before. Following his instructions, you search after him again. This time, it only takes a year to find him at the next ball. And then the next. and the next. Each ball, the prince of death waltzes under the melody of one song with you. The two of you talk as you dance, again and again, years after years. Each time, he suggests one way you can release yourself from immortality. Perhaps a vial of poison will do the trick, or a flame-tipped arrow. But it never truly works. each time he lies, and you have no choice but to always foolishly believe, for what else can you do, when death himself is refusing to let you die? You’d hate to admit it, but as these dances go by, you find yourself growing more fond of the prince. There’s something odd about it, but he’s the only other immortal. Even as he changes from body to body, the prince of death is still death, your only everlasting companion. You wonder if it is the same for him. Otherwise, why would he continue to prolong each dance, each meeting? Why would he continue allowing you to seek him out? But on one dance, centuries later, the prince appears a little different. Perhaps it’s in the way he looks at you. Or perhaps it’s with his hesitation this time to accept your hand for a dance. “This has gone on for long enough,” he murmurs. You reply softly, “Then let me go. Or shall you continue dragging on my misery?” “It’s enough,” he tells you. “Be it daggers or poison or arrows, the only way for you to truly die by me… is a kiss from death.” The revelation seems almost ridiculously simple. Yet… it makes sense, all the same. “A kiss?” you echo. He nods solemnly, and there is none of the usual jest or delight. “But not today,” the prince whispers. “Next ball.” And then he departs once more.

For what must be the final ball, you dress in all black. Suiting, you think. it has been a year since you’ve last seen the prince of death. And now, as you walk into the ballroom, a train of black flowing behind you, you know that you will find him here. And indeed, there he is, standing in the center of the ball. Your eyes meet across the crowd. He holds out a gloved hand, as usual. You glide towards him, accepting the hand.

Wordlessly, the two of you dance and dance to one song. When the melody closes to a slow, long note, he takes you to a balcony under the night. it seems that even the stars draw attention to the two of you, glittering from far above. a slight breeze flutters through your hair. “My dear,” he says. Now, he slips a glove off one hand, then raises the hand to your face. For the first time, he touches you with bare skin, and you shiver. His touch freezes with ice, yet is gentle all the same. “You must know something,” he continues, “About who you are.” “An immortal,” you say. He affirms, “An immortal, yes. But beyond that, you and I are the only immortals.” “To be the only immortal besides death…” “Yes.” He nods. Thoughts flash through your mind. But it could not be. There was no way. “You seem to know now.” “I-” you pause. “No. That’s impossible.” “But it is true,” he says. Death looks at you with his dark gaze. It said so much when the two of you first met. And it says the same thing now. “My dear, you are Life.”

“All along?” You whisper. “All along.” He tucks a strand of loose hair behind your ear. You notice that black smoke has begun to swarm around his fingertips, as if he was decaying into the shadows. “You have always been life,” he goes on, “So brilliantly shining with light, so filled with warmth. And you will always be immortal, so that I shall never steal too much from you at a time.” “But I wish to die,” you insist. “And how ironic is that?” He laughs, though it’s not one filled with much joy. “I cannot defeat life, be it with mere daggers or poison or arrows. And neither can you defeat me, for I shall always exist till the end. But shall life be given the kiss of death… I suppose it would be something akin to mutual destruction, perhaps?” his voice trails off. You find it difficult to speak. “Is that the end?” “The end,” Death tells you. Your gaze meets his. He leans forward, close enough that the tips of your noses barely touch. You smile, a hint of tragedy behind your expression. “We were never meant to share more than one dance, were we?” His gaze meets yours. There is silence, but the silence is the only answer that you need. At last, he breaks it. “So, my dear,” he hums with a lilt of melancholy, “What will you choose?”