Tension bled from me as Death granted my request. Raising one spindly arm, his robes dragging across the cave's floor, he pressed his crooked fingers to my hollow chest. With a sudden shock, I awoke, my heart thundering in the silence.
I could feel Death's aura lingering in the corporeal world, dissolving back into the ether in those few confused moments between unreality and life.
I opened my eyes in the dim light.
As I rose, I felt no apprehension, no fear at his final words, only a lightness of spirit. Death was mistaken. I knew in my heart I would never kill anyone—my whole life I had preached peace, practiced benevolence, turned the other cheek. Had I been willing to coax myself to acts of violence, I would not have arrived at Death's doorstep bathed in my own blood at all. Surely, that ultimate trial—that test of my nonviolence by blood and fire—would absolve me of a damned fate.
In the darkness, I raised my trembling hands to my cheeks and found them damp with tears. I staggered against the rocky walls, weeping with joy, overwhelmed by my reawakened senses.
This couldn't be Death's doing—no, this second chance at life, this opportunity to complete my unfinished journey, could only be a blessing from God. I resolved, then, to preach that this was God's doing. To rewrite the story and leave Death by the wayside.
How could my words of humility provoke violence? If I walked a path of righteousness and preached peace itself, then how could countless souls die in my name?
It would never come to pass.
I wouldn't let Death poison my work.
I had awakened from darkness, baptized in blood, the Son of God.
wp_trash_acc t1_jauu2ur wrote
Reply to [WP] During a near-death experience, you came face-to-face with the God of Death, and pleaded to be returned to the world of the living. He granted your request, and sent you away with the chilling parting words: "Why should I regret letting one soul go, when I stand to gain so many more in return?" by PluralCohomology
Tension bled from me as Death granted my request. Raising one spindly arm, his robes dragging across the cave's floor, he pressed his crooked fingers to my hollow chest. With a sudden shock, I awoke, my heart thundering in the silence.
I could feel Death's aura lingering in the corporeal world, dissolving back into the ether in those few confused moments between unreality and life.
I opened my eyes in the dim light.
As I rose, I felt no apprehension, no fear at his final words, only a lightness of spirit. Death was mistaken. I knew in my heart I would never kill anyone—my whole life I had preached peace, practiced benevolence, turned the other cheek. Had I been willing to coax myself to acts of violence, I would not have arrived at Death's doorstep bathed in my own blood at all. Surely, that ultimate trial—that test of my nonviolence by blood and fire—would absolve me of a damned fate.
In the darkness, I raised my trembling hands to my cheeks and found them damp with tears. I staggered against the rocky walls, weeping with joy, overwhelmed by my reawakened senses.
This couldn't be Death's doing—no, this second chance at life, this opportunity to complete my unfinished journey, could only be a blessing from God. I resolved, then, to preach that this was God's doing. To rewrite the story and leave Death by the wayside.
How could my words of humility provoke violence? If I walked a path of righteousness and preached peace itself, then how could countless souls die in my name?
It would never come to pass.
I wouldn't let Death poison my work.
I had awakened from darkness, baptized in blood, the Son of God.