The old woman, Elara, always said I was born under a bad star. Or maybe it was a star that burned too brightly, she couldn't quite decide. Either way, she'd clutch her worn rosary beads, her knuckles white, and whisper about the "balance" and how some souls just weren't meant to linger.
I knew what she meant. Everyone in Oakhaven knew. I should have died when I was five.
A fever, they said. One of those nasty childhood plagues that swept through the village like a grim reaper, leaving tiny graves in its wake. My mother had already picked out the plot, a small patch of earth beside her own mother, under the shade of the ancient oak tree that gave our town its name.
But I didn't die.
The fever broke on the third night. I woke up drenched in sweat, weak but…alive. My mother wept with relief, thanking every saint she could name. Elara, though, just stared at me with those unsettlingly knowing eyes.
"Marked," she'd muttered, just loud enough for me to hear. "That one's marked."
Marked by what, she never clarified. But as I grew older, it became clear that whatever had spared me wasn't exactly a blessing.
Accidents seemed to flock to me like moths to a flame. A runaway cart nearly crushed me, only for the axle to snap at the last second. A swarm of wasps descended on me in the woods, but every single one dropped dead before it could sting. I even choked on a stray chicken bone once, but it miraculously dislodged itself with a violent cough.
Each near-death experience was followed by whispers, sidelong glances, and the persistent feeling of being…watched. People started avoiding me. Children wouldn't play with me, and adults crossed the street when they saw me coming. Elara's words echoed in my head: "Marked."
Lucky, some called me. Cursed, others whispered. I just felt…different.
I tried to live a normal life. I helped my mother in her herb garden, learned to bake bread that even the grumpiest villagers grudgingly admitted was delicious, and spent hours reading dusty books in the attic, dreaming of faraway lands.
But the feeling never faded. The feeling that something was protecting me. Something…other.
Then, when I was seventeen, he arrived.
It was during the autumn festival. The air was crisp and cool, filled with the scent of woodsmoke and roasted apples. I was helping my mother sell her herbal remedies at a small stall near the town square. The crowd was thick, a swirl of brightly colored fabrics and boisterous laughter.
Suddenly, the music stopped. The laughter died. A hush fell over the square, so complete it was almost suffocating.
I looked up, my heart pounding in my chest. Everyone was staring in the same direction, their faces a mixture of awe and terror.
He was standing at the edge of the square, near the old stone well. He was tall, impossibly so, with hair as dark as a moonless night and eyes that seemed to absorb all the light around them. He was dressed in simple black clothes, but they moved with an unnatural grace, as if woven from shadows themselves.
He wasn't handsome in the conventional sense. His features were too sharp, too defined. But there was a beauty to him, a terrifying, magnetic beauty that drew you in even as it made you want to flee.
It was a beauty that spoke of power, of ancient secrets, of something beyond human comprehension.
I knew, without a doubt, who he was.
Death.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His gaze swept across the crowd, lingering for a moment on each face, as if taking inventory. Then, his eyes met mine.
The world seemed to vanish. The noise of the festival faded into a distant hum. It was just him and me, connected by an invisible thread that stretched across the crowded square.
His expression didn't change. But I felt…something. A flicker of recognition, a hint of…longing? It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by an unnerving stillness.
He started walking towards me.
The crowd parted before him like the Red Sea, their eyes wide with fear. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. I wanted to run, to hide, but my feet were rooted to the spot.
He stopped in front of my stall, so close I could feel the faintest chill emanating from him. He was even taller up close, his presence overwhelming.
My mother gasped, clutching her rosary beads. Elara, who was standing nearby, simply closed her eyes and began to pray.
He ignored them. His gaze remained fixed on me.
"You," he said, his voice a low, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate through my very bones. "You are not meant to be here."
It wasn't an accusation. It was a statement of fact.
"I…I don't understand," I stammered, my voice barely a whisper.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. It was a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"No," he said. "You wouldn't."
He reached out a hand, his fingers long and pale. I flinched, expecting the cold touch of the grave. But instead, his fingers brushed against my cheek, a feather-light caress that sent a shiver down my spine.
"But you are," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "And that is all that matters."
Then, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd as silently and mysteriously as he had arrived.
The spell was broken. The music started up again, the laughter resumed, but everything felt…different. Tainted, somehow.
I looked at my mother, her face pale and drawn. Elara was still praying, her lips moving silently. The other villagers avoided my gaze, whispering amongst themselves.
I knew, with a chilling certainty, that my life had changed forever.
The next day, Thomas, the blacksmith's son, tried to kiss me.
I'd known Thomas since we were children. He was a big, clumsy boy with a heart of gold and a hopeless crush on me. He'd always been sweet, if a little awkward.
But as he leaned in, his face red and earnest, I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. The air around him seemed to thicken, to grow heavy and oppressive.
He stopped abruptly, his eyes widening in alarm.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice strained. "You look…sick."
He stumbled back, clutching his chest. His face contorted in pain.
"I…I can't breathe," he gasped, collapsing to the ground.
Panic erupted. People screamed, rushing to his side. My mother pushed her way through the crowd, her face a mask of terror.
I stood frozen, watching in horror as Thomas writhed on the ground, his face turning blue. His breathing became shallow, ragged.
Then, he stopped moving.
The silence was deafening.
The village healer, a wizened old woman named Agnes, knelt beside him, feeling for a pulse. She looked up, her face grim.
"He's gone," she said, her voice trembling. "He's…dead."
A collective gasp swept through the crowd. Everyone stared at me, their eyes filled with fear and accusation.
I knew what they were thinking. They didn't need to say it.
Cursed.
I backed away, tears streaming down my face. I didn't understand what was happening. I only knew that I was responsible.
I ran. I ran as fast as I could, away from the village, away from the accusing eyes, away from the suffocating feeling of dread that had settled over my life.
I ran into the woods, the dense trees swallowing me whole. I didn't stop running until I reached the edge of the Whispering Falls, a secluded spot where I often went to escape the prying eyes of the village.
I collapsed on the mossy bank, sobbing uncontrollably. The sound of the waterfall was a constant roar in my ears, a deafening reminder of my isolation.
"Why?" I cried out, my voice hoarse with grief. "Why is this happening to me?"
A voice answered me, a low, familiar rumble that sent a shiver down my spine.
"Because you are mine."
I looked up, my heart leaping into my throat.
He was standing behind me, near the edge of the falls. The water cascaded around him, but he remained dry, untouched. He looked like a god of the forest, a creature of shadows and mist.
Death.
He stepped closer, his eyes fixed on me. There was no pity in his gaze, no remorse. Only…possession.
"You should have died years ago," he said, his voice soft but firm. "But I couldn't let you go."
"Why?" I whispered, my voice trembling.
He tilted his head, as if considering the question.
"Because," he said, "you are…interesting."
He reached out and took my hand, his touch cold but strangely comforting.
"And," he added, his eyes locking with mine, "I do not share."
That was the day I understood the truth. I wasn't just marked. I was protected.
By Death himself.