Scythe enters the church and sees the Magician in his orange trench coat, sitting at the front. As he walks down the aisle, he considers turning back, but knows he would be dead before reaching the door. With one last deep breath, he stops next to the pew and waits for the Magician to notice him.
“Are you religious?” The Magician flips through an old Missalette he found lying torn on the floor.
Scythes looks at the orange, pointed hat resting next to him.
He shrugs. “No, not really.”
“So if I killed you right now,” the Magician discards the text as he turns to glare at Scythe, “you think that would just be it? Nothing more to come?”
Scythe stands in silence.
“Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me,” the Magician says. “Have you heard that before?”
Scythe shakes his head.
“Of course not. Orphans are never properly educated.” The Magician clasps his hands into his lap. “Now tell me…why haven’t you gotten the girl?”
“It’s not that easy,” Scythe snaps. “Jensen Saint Clair showed up and nearly killed me. And Sadie Hawthorne is here now, too. ”
“Oh, Scythe.” The Magician snorts. “You really expect me to believe that?” He shakes his head. “Come on. You’ve been here now on your own for several months, following her, learning her schedule, studying her every move. You’ve had plenty of time, even before their recent arrival.”
Scythe says nothing.
The Magician sighs. “Look,” he places his hat back on his head as he stands, “I get it. She’s a girl. You’re a guy. Feelings, emotions, urges.” He slaps Scythe’s shoulder. “It’s all normal. I, too, loved a woman once. But it only ever ends in heartbreak.”
“I don’t know what—”
“I told Valkryn it was a bad idea to recruit your help. But she insisted that someone Genevieve’s own age would make this easier.” He shakes his head. “Of course, it’s only complicated things.”
“Sorry…” Scythe mutters.
The Magician stares at him until Scythe shifts on his feet.
He pats Scythe’s shoulder once more and brushes past him.
“Get the girl before we do,” the Magician calls, as he nears the church’s exit. “Or I will kill you.”
Scythe lets out a long sigh as he collapses onto the church’s pew and buries his face in his hands. From the moment he became an orphan at the age of ten, his life had been nothing but miserable. No memories of his parents, no memories of his childhood, no memories of…happiness. All he has known are the cold, sterile walls of the Orphanotrophium, the harsh punishments dealt out by the Voidweaver soldiers, and the constant angst of feeling that at any moment his life was dispensable, like a quick puff of air extinguishing a candle—no existence to be remembered.
He recalls the words the Magician just spoke. Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me.
As Scythe sits there in the church’s stale air, he can’t help but wonder, Maybe it would be better to stop for Death.
Maybe that’s the best he can hope for.