Cold hands seize your ankle, dragging you under—a quicksilver descent through shadow and light. The world blurs, then shifts, and he’s there again, reaching for you. Sheets melt beneath your spine as you arch, your skin alive, pulsing beneath his breathless touch. Above or below, it’s never clear—sometimes he’s bearing down, sometimes you’re rising over him, and it’s impossible to say if this is war or worship. The god of Death and the goddess of Life entwined, in a dance of opposites that repeats through the ages.

In some far-flung battlefield, when kingdoms rise and topple, when armor shatters, and banners fall, you feel his hand on you once more. This is the cycle, the meeting that surges and sparks with every clash of soldiers and break of spears. The air thickens with the weight of shattered shields and broken bodies, each time bringing you back to him. You—hope and light, the spark of life on every blood-soaked field. He—cold certainty, the end that reaches to claim what you create.

When the world breaks at Hastings, when the earth shatters beneath the stampede of man and metal, you almost find refuge in his castle—an ethereal citadel untouched by mortal soil. But Death never lingers long in one place, always chasing the fading light. You’re there, always, in front of him or trailing just behind, when the swords are drawn, and the spears miss their mark. You lean into him again, defying him with the vibrant pulse of your existence. Together, you weave through the carnage, an intimate performance in the theater of human strife.

In the stillness of the chamber, the clash fades. You sit up, the remnants of your struggle evident in the slow rise and fall of your chest. He steps back, his form composed yet unyielding, eyes fathomless as they trace the bloom of life within you. For a moment, there is silence—a fragile balance suspended between breath and finality.

"Life," he murmurs, his voice smooth and unyielding like obsidian, "you are a stubborn guest, but I will always bring you home."