~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

This story is a fusion with Peter S. Beagle's short story Come, Lady Death. The plot belongs to him. The characters (except for two) belong to the guys who made up Gundam Wing. The words are, for the most part, my own.


This story takes place in England a long time ago, back when the king was German, and undergarments were really complicated. In those days there lived an Earl, one Treize Khushrenada. He'd been a soldier in his youth, and a statesman and an explorer. It had been exciting but lately he was starting to realize that he'd done so much in years past that there was really very little left for him to do now that he was getting older. He'd never married and he had no children (as far as he knew). He was very, very rich and he did have a number of acquaintances, most of whom were pretty important--or fancied themselves so--and he amused himself by throwing extravagant parties and designing guest lists that were aimed to ignite hostility as Earl Khushrenada had a talent for leaving out exactly those nobles who thought a little too highly of themselves.

     But even those wild parties were beginning to seem stale these days. He was bored with extravagance, bored with his many and diverse acquaintances, bored even with irritating the over-groomed and over-coiffed courtiers.

     “I'm beginning to feel the years,” he said morosely at luncheon one day.

     “You're not so old,” Lady Hildegard von Schbeiker protested.

     Treize smiled. Hearing the words from a pretty young lady--albeit one who a few years ago had cut her hair, dressed as a man, and gone masquerading as a soldier on Treize's last expedition in the West Indies--helped to ease his mood. “I am, though,” he said reluctantly, enjoying the fervent denial in the wide blue eyes. “I'm getting old and I'm getting very, very bored.”

     “Perhaps it would be wise to cancel your next party,” suggested Lord Quatre Winner, a handsome young nobleman. (It was fairly common knowledge, though never stated, that he was conducting a clandestine love affair with a handsome young flutist in Lord Treize's own chamber orchestra.)

     “Perhaps you are longing to be on campaign again,” said Contessa Dorothea de Catalonia softly. “This foppish life must be weary for one who has stood in the very jaws of death.” They all missed the wistful gaze that settled briefly upon the still-unfashionably short raven hair of Lady Hildegard.

     “The party will take place as scheduled,” said Treize. “I've already gone to the trouble of infuriating an entire faction of the court by neglecting to send an invitation to Lady D'Arlian. No, no, I think that what I'd like is if for once the exciting thing about my party could be who is invited rather than who is not.”

     So Treize and his acquaintances spent the better part of what remained of the afternoon trying to decide who should (besides themselves) attend Treize's last party.

     “And this will be my last,” he informed them with a resigned sigh. “As charming as some of you are at times...” And he smiled fondly at Lady Hildegard who, with Lady Dorothea and the curiously named Baron Zechs Marquise, was flipping interestedly through a very large war encyclopedia, searching for the names of famous military heroes who might still be in existence.

     “Well, what about the King?” Quatre offered as he toyed with a cream-daubed strawberry before popping it into his mouth. “It would be about time, too.”

     “So he'd be expecting it,” Treize vetoed. “And besides, the invitation should go to someone interesting, someone worthy.” He began to pace the terrace where they were all assembled. His gaze flicked briefly over Greek marble, magnificent Oriental hangings, woodcarvings from Africa. Each piece had a unique history, he knew, but at that moment they all seemed tawdry and uninteresting; he found himself wondering how and when he had acquired all of these things--including the people with him on the terrace. They simply accumulated, he mused, like the years. And now there was an abundance, but to what purpose?

     “Just once,” he said softly to himself, “just once before Death comes for me...”

     He never completed that thought; another leaped in to take its place.

     “Before Death comes for me...” Eyes alight, Treize turned to face his friends. “Well?”

     “Well what?” said Zechs.

     “Well, why not invite...Death himself? He is coming for me--for all of us, sooner than we'd like, probably--but I've never been one for waiting. Why not invite him?”

     “What makes you so certain Death is a him?” Hildegard asked pertly.

     “Death is a man,” said Dorothea with quiet certainty. “I have seen him. He wears a black mask, and his cloak is darker than the darkest shadow. He wields a knife and strikes out of nowhere, without forewarning.”

     “Death does not keep to the shadows,” said Zechs, who had also been a soldier in his youth. “Why should he? No man can stand against him. No woman either,” he added with a dry glance at Hildegard. “I've seen him, too, and I can tell you he rides a black horse and his armor is dented and splattered with the blood of his victims. His face is always hidden.”

     “We should place bets,” said Treize, whom the debate amused. “And we shall see on the night of my last ball who is right.”

     “Providing he comes,” said Quatre.

     Lady Une, silent ere now, spoke in a tone that brooked no argument: “No one would dare refuse Earl Treize's invitation.”

     There was another problem, and that was how to deliver the invitation to Death.

     “I would suggest sending the invitation with one of our soldiers bound for the war in the Americas, but unless there were an accident at sea I doubt it would reach its destination in time,” the Baron mused.

     “And besides,” said Treize, “there'd be no knowing whether or not the invitation was accepted.”

     Lady Une looked mutinous at these words, but Treize silenced her with a smile.

     “I could slit my wrists,” Lady Dorothea volunteered. “And you could wait with a physician until I was on the brink of death. Then--”

     She closed her mouth when Treize laid a hand on her shoulder. “I would not have your blood spilled, Lady. Not even for my party.”

     They thought a while longer, and in the end it was Treize himself who found the solution. “It's the best way, perhaps the only way. The wife of the king's Master of Arms was thrown from her horse three days ago, and lies close to death. There is no hope of her recovery. I shall summon the Master of Arms and give the invitation to him to deliver.”

     “But that would be cruel,” Quatre began.

     “Quatre Winner,” Dorothea cut in, “the woman is dying. This is our only chance. Do you want to behold the might and majesty of Death or not?”

     Quatre would have protested further, but Dorothea's frosty blue eyes flashed and he desisted.

     The Master of Arms was summoned and he listened to Earl Treize's instructions without expression.

     “Do you understand what is required of you?” Treize demanded when he had finished explaining the situation.

     The Master of Arms only looked at him, his black eyes betraying nothing.

     “His lordship asked you a question,” Lady Une reminded him.

     “I heard,” was all he said. Then he took the invitation and left without another word or backward glance.

     After that there was nothing to do but wait, and wait they did. By and by word of the woman's death reached them and a few days later the Master of Arms returned to Earl Treize's residence. He placed a small white envelope in the Earl's waiting hand and made to leave.

     “Did you see him?” Dorothea demanded in a voice that was full of anticipation. “What did he look like? Did you speak with him?”

     “Yes, yes,” the others echoed. “What was he like?”

     The Master of Arms only looked at them and then he left again without a word.

     Treize called for a knife and once it was delivered sliced open the envelope, unfolded the note it contained, and read its contents aloud:

Sounds like fun. Your place, a fortnight hence, eight-ish. I'll be there.

     Treize and his friends looked at one another.

     “What kind of English is THAT?” the Baron spluttered.

     “Death defies time and change,” Treize said thoughtfully. “Perhaps he uses a dialect long forgotten, or one that has not yet come into being.”

     Hildegard peered at the note. “Such messy handwriting! No doubting it now: Death is a man.”

     Quatre frowned. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable about this idea. “How do we know this note came from Death himself?” he asked hopefully. “This could have been written by the Master of Arms. Or some other mortal.”

     “No one would dare defy Earl Treize,” Lady Une purred. “And no one would dare refuse his invitation.”

For the next fortnight all energies were concentrated on the party's preparations. The chamber orchestra practiced night and day, all manner of foreign delicacies were imported, gowns and wigs were ordered, and the great ballroom was decorated with unequalled elegance and polish.

     On the night of the party everyone invited arrived punctually and in their very best finery. Everyone, that is, except for the guest of honor.

     “He is not here,” Lady Hildegard whispered as Treize filled her wineglass. “Unless we were all wrong.”

     “Would you be disappointed if it turned out Death looked like one of us?” Treize asked, smiling, but beginning to worry.

     Hildegard shrugged. “I shall find out when he makes his presence known, I suppose.” She tossed her head, causing shiny raven ringlets to bounce about her shoulders. “Lady Dorothea will be disappointed if he is anything less than the King of Assassins.”

     “She envisions Death as the man who assassinated her father, the General,” Treize agreed, looking across the ballroom at Dorothea, who stood alone, looking remote and strangely beautiful in her silver gown, with her pale hair piled high on her head.

     Treize turned back to his slender companion. “Well, even if Death is not yet here, there's no sense in letting good music go to waste or giving my musicians a break. Will you dance, my dear?”

     Hildegard took his arm and together they moved out onto the floor. In due time they were joined by other couples.

     One hour went by, and then another. The musicians played, the guests ate and drank and danced and ate and drank some more. Quatre hovered near his flutist, Dorothea hovered near the door, and Treize watched wistfully as Hildegard chatted gaily with some young officers who were in attendance and who were not scandalized by the idea of a girl on the battlefield. In Treize's mind, though, and probably in the minds of the others, a big clock ticked.

     Where was Death?

     Treize left off watching Hildegard and made another round of the ballroom, observing his guests carefully. Some appeared nervous, others relieved, and some were chuckling over the failure of the Earl's great idea.

     Let them laugh, Treize thought. Let them laugh. He will come. He must. Still, it is good this is my last party. If he does come there is no way I can top this, and if he doesn't...

     He must come.

     By eleven the atmosphere in the ballroom had shifted subtly. At eight, when people had first begun to arrive there had been a pervasive nervousness that was almost tangible. Now as the hours wore on the nervousness was beginning to ebb, to be replaced by relief and even, to Treize's alarm, scorn. It was only a whisper--Lady Une was quick to scold--but Treize heard it, for he was beginning to feel it himself.

     “The people begin to lose faith,” Zechs murmured as he came up behind him. “A distraction might be advisable.”

     “I think most of them will be relieved. Lady Dorothea will be disappointed.”

     “Lady Dorothea longs to join her father. A shame she was not born a man. She might have made a good soldier.”

     “Lady Hildegard is very much a woman.”

     “She is a child, unfocused, and quick to change sides. Look at her flirting with those officers.”

     Treize did not look; he had seen enough already.

     “Lady Une, now...is most devoted.”

     “Lady Une makes me nervous.”

     “A shame, for here she comes.”

     “Lady Dorothea is talking of slicing her wrists again,” Lady Une said conversationally as she approached, the full skirt of her deep garnet gown rustling like dead leaves. “But your guests do not mock. I have seen to that.”

     “A dance, Lady?” Treize suggested, offering her his arm somewhat reluctantly. He raised his hand to signal the orchestra, but a quick glance informed him that he was short a flutist. No doubt Quatre had found a more attractive way to pass the time. He would have to have a word with the young nobleman; tongues would soon be wagging and there was only so much obscurity money could purchase.

     He was about to say something to Lady Une when the clatter of hooves sounded on the flagstones outside and a sharp wind blew the heavy velvet curtains in. The people in the ballroom fell silent, save Lady Dorothea who said with breathy excitement: “He has come!”

     No one moved as the great rosewood doors opened slowly. Lady Une, standing like a statue at Treize's side, hardly seemed to draw breath.

     Then slowly, one by one, the guests revived. The chatter resumed, low-pitched, but audible.

     “...truly frightened for a moment...”

     “...a good joke, though...”

     “...could have done better...”

     Treize went forward to greet his guest, with Lady Une and the Baron a few paces behind him.

     “Welcome to my home,” he said.

     “Thanks for the invite,” the young man who had just entered said. “Nice place you got here. Sorry I'm late. Had a few--little errands, if you know what I mean.”

     “I'll have my groom attend your horses.”

     “Better not,” said the young man. “They're not really horses, and they're pretty fierce.”

     He tilted his head back and turned about slowly, taking in his surroundings and allowing Treize and his companions to scrutinize him.

     He wore a suit of indigo velvet; it was of excellent quality, but simple design, plain really, compared with the suits worn by Treize's mortal guests. He did not wear a wig; his own chestnut hair was pulled back from his face and fell down his back in a long glossy tail. His eyes were twilight-colored and surprisingly large, giving his clean-shaven round face a rather unnervingly boyish quality.

     Lady Dorothea will be disappointed, thought Treize. Aloud he said, “My Lord Death...” He could think of no other way of addressing the young man... “My house is yours.”

     “Why yes, it is,” Death agreed, looking at his host and smiling slightly. “That is, it will be. As will everyone's.”

     Treize half-expected Lady Une to voice her opinion of such impertinence. To his relief, she held her tongue.

     “My Lord Death,” said the Earl, “would you care for some refreshment? Or a dance perhaps?”

     “Dancing.” And the young man's eyes shone with youthful excitement. “I haven't danced in a long time, so I'm not really up on today's moves. Would anyone teach me?” He turned to the other guests, who were watching him from a careful distance. “Will anyone dance with me?”

     They will not, Treize thought. He is not what they pictured, but in their hearts they know what he is. Handsome as he is, they won't dance with him. And he felt a flush of shame that his honored guest should be so disgraced.

     “Lady Une,” he muttered. “You're fearless. Dance with him.” But she did not speak and when he slid a glance in her direction he saw that she had retreated a few steps and stood clutching Zechs' arm more tightly than she had ever clutched Treize's.

     He scanned the throng. “Lady Hildegard,” he said when his gaze lit upon that raven head.

     To his surprise she ducked her head and blushed as brightly as any maiden who had never cut her hair and taken up arms.

     Will no one dance with him? Treize thought as one by one the women in the room turned to avoid his gaze. He may be death, but he has a human face and form. I don't fear him. Why should they?

     “I shall dance with you.”

     “Lady Dorothea,” said Death, his smile deepening as that young woman stepped forward from the others. “I was hoping it would be you.” He extended his hand.

     Earl Treize gestured, and the orchestra--including a rather flushed flutist--began again, a stately waltz. Dorothea came into Death's arms. Treize heard her whisper, “You are not as you were when I saw you last. Where are your cloak and mask?”

     And Death replied as he danced her in slow, graceful circles, “I could hardly come dressed like that to a gathering like this.”

     “But why did you take my father?”

     “I come when I am called. I don't decide who lives or dies. I just show up when it's time. Believe me, were it up to me...”

     And the rest of what he said was lost as the music surged and other couples joined Death and Lady Dorothea on the dance floor.

     Treize danced with Lady Hildegard. “Why, he is not frightening at all,” the young woman said with some bravado. “He is not what I pictured in the slightest. Indeed, he is quite handsome.”

     “So will you dance with him when Dorothea's had her fill?” he asked gently, half-hoping that she would, but half-glad when she shook her head.

     “Not yet. Maybe...later. I am enjoying looking at him.”

     But the hours whirled by and Death danced only with Lady Dorothea.

     “You should dance with him,” Treize told Lady Une, when he was partnered with her for a reel.

     “He seems quite content with the Spanish woman,” the woman said huffily. “Look at them. Seeing them...makes me feel young somehow. But I know the truth.”

     When the clock struck two the music and the dancing stopped. Outside, Death's horses--or whatever they were--stamped the flagstones and whinnied like real horses.

     “Time to be going,” said Death. “Thank you,” he said, turning to Treize. “This was nice. Really, really nice. I haven't had this nice a time in...well, a long time.” Turning to Lady Dorothea who stood pale and gleaming like a ray of moonlight, “And thank you.”

     “Must you be going?” Treize heard himself say.

     “'Fraid so,” said Death. “This was really nice, but there are a few--ah, errands I need to run, if you know what I mean.”

     “Stay,” said Treize. “Won't you stay? Dawn is still hours away. The musicians can keep playing. There is still food and wine...and I would like it if you stayed. Won't you stay?”

     “Won't you?” said Lady Dorothea softly. “I feel as though I could dance with you forever.”

     “You haven't danced with me yet,” said Lady Hildegard. “Please stay. I realize now...I know so little about the world, and you could teach me. Please stay.”

     “Stay,” said Quatre, unexpectedly. “Seeing you...makes me want to write music again. It makes me want to love...as much as I can.” He did not look at his flutist as he spoke, but at Death.

     “Stay,” said the Baron, “and let me look upon the face of the one who laid low my men.”

     “Stay,” the other guests implored with one voice. “Stay, stay.”

     “Stay,” said Treize. “We are weak and foolish people growing old uselessly. Stay for an evening. Stay forever.”

     “Forever?” Death's twilight gaze slipped over the guests. They glimmered with a faint light and a smile tugged at the pale lips. “You want me to stay with you?”

     “Yes, yes,” they all said. “Stay with us.”

     “Then I will,” said Death. “Because you ask it of me.” And he blushed shyly. “I'll stay--and I'll be Death no longer, but a mortal man and live among you.”

     And so the ball continued, but Death danced only with Lady Dorothea. Treize watched them and once again felt the pressure of the years heavy on his shoulders. In the light of Death's smiling face, Lady Dorothea's plain countenance was transformed to one of real prettiness.

     But she IS young, he mused as he danced with Lady Une. And youth IS pretty. And he looks no older than eighteen. He looks as human as any of us. Perhaps he IS more human than any of us, because of what he has seen. I should be happy if this night could go on forever.

     But nothing goes on forever, and not all the fervent wishes in the world could change that. Dawn began to flicker in the eastern sky and little birds began to sing in the trees outside. The musicians, exhausted and sore-fingered, laid down their instruments and the dancers moved apart.

     “The night is over,” said Death, “but I am still here. I have agreed to become a mortal man and live among you again because you asked it, but Death must exist in the world. There must be a sacrifice.”

     The people watched him, horror creeping into their faces.

     “What kind of sacrifice do you require?” Treize asked palely.

     “Someone must take my place. One of you must agree to become Death. It is not what I require,” he added to Treize. “That's simply the way it's done. Which of you will trade places with me?”

     But no one spoke or moved.

     We were fools, thought Treize. What blind fools we were!

     “No one?” said Death. “Then I must choose.”

     He moved forward and the people drew back fearfully, but there was nowhere for them to go. Treize watched them and listened to their whimpers. How ridiculous they all looked in their finery in the wan dawn light, beside the handsome, evening-colored stranger who moved among them, considering, choosing.

     “Lady Une,” Death said softly, and that lady gave a little shriek. But Death smiled. “No, that would be silly,” and Lady Une flushed and hid her face against the Baron's shoulder, ashamed at having been found unacceptable.

     Death continued to walk between the guests, who scurried aside to let him pass. “Never Quatre Winner or his paramour,” he said almost to himself. “They are both too much in love with another person to take any pride in being death. Not Dorothea de Catalonia. It would be cruel to make her Death; she wants to die so badly. And not Lady Hildegard von Schbeiker. She knows so little about the world, and I like her.” He winked roguishly at the girl, who gasped, but then managed a trembling, awkward curtsey.

     Death stopped. “Earl Treize,” he said.

     “Yes?”

     “You are the only one. It must be you.”

     Treize felt a little thrill of fear. “Are you sure?”

     “Yes.” Death smiled. “No one else here has such little regard for human life. The Master of Arms and his wife,” he reminded him, with a slight lift of one eyebrow. “It will not hurt,” he went on. “At least, I don't remember it hurting. It was such a long time ago. We must kiss. That's how I became Death. Oh, I can't wait to be human again!”

     “But...” Treize faltered. Suddenly he was very aware of the blood rushing in his veins, of his heart pumping, of each breath of air that entered and left his lungs. “But...” He looked at the faces of his guests. Not one would step forward to take his place, he knew. Well, he had lived a long life, if a cold one. “So be it,” he murmured. “I am...honored.”

     Death drew close, and Treize was aware of the fresh, fragrant smell of him, and of very wide, waiting twilight eyes. He could have been Treize's own son. “Hurry,” Death said breathlessly.

     “But...” And Treize said in a low voice that was for Death alone, “Why did you become Death?”

     “I don't know,” the other replied. “It was so long ago I can't remember. Come now. It is almost dawn. Think, you will still be whole and handsome when I am old. Be kind to me then.”

     “I shall.”

     And Treize leaned down to kiss Death's smooth cheek.