Chapter 9: 9. Arguing
Henry was falling. Again.
Wind screamed around him, yet there was no air. Just the echo of something tearing—like the fabric of space itself unraveling. The darkness below was endless, and above, only a memory of light.
He didn't scream. He'd done that the first time.
Then— Silence.
Like a hand cupping the world, it caught him.
Henry opened his eyes. Blinding white stretched in all directions—no walls, no ground, no sky. Just void. Soft, silent, suffocating in its perfection.
He groaned, pushing himself upright.
"Not again."
A flicker danced in the corner of his vision.
A flame. Floating. Burning soundlessly in midair. Small, but sharp. Unnatural. Its light cast no shadow, and its heat felt ancient.
Then, it spoke.
"You fall quite often, Henry."
He froze. The voice wasn't loud—it was quiet, personal. Almost amused. It didn't echo, but it sank into him, like smoke curling inside his chest.
"Who… who are you?" he muttered.
The flame pulsed.
"I am Death."
Henry tensed. "That's not—You're not what I expected."
"I never am." The flame crackled. "I appear as the end. I am what mortals fear the most… or what ends them. It varies."
As if to prove the point, the flame shifted.
For a heartbeat, it turned into a swarm of writhing worms, then a bloodied noose, then a void-shaped child screaming silently, and finally, back to fire.
Henry flinched. "Alright, stop. Just… stay a flame."
"Better?" Death asked, now flickering calmly again.
He sighed and rubbed his arms. "You could've at least given me some clothes this time."
A pause. Then, without a gesture, pieces of sackcloth drifted down like lazy feathers. They smelled of old burlap, cold air, and faint ash.
Henry frowned. "Seriously?"
"It's all the dignity the dead deserve," Death replied dryly.
A torn, antique sofa appeared next—deep red velvet, fraying at the edges, planted on the white void like it had always been there. Henry sank into it, still adjusting the rags.
"Where am I now?"
Death floated a little higher.
"This is the Hole of Origin."
"…That sounds made up."
"It was. By something that never should've been allowed to think."
Henry scowled. "Great. That's comforting."
Death dimmed slightly, as if amused. "The Hole is a Divine Act. One of the first. A wound left by thought itself."
Henry rubbed his temple. "You're really bad at explaining."
Death ignored that.
"Divine Acts come in two kinds: Prime and Primary."
"…And that means what, exactly?"
"Prime existed before existence. Before time. Before meaning. They are things that shaped even the gods."
"Primary are younger. Made. Born. Created by necessity or whim—divine, yes, but bound by rules."
Henry sank deeper into the sofa, frowning. "Why am I here?"
A long pause.
The flame dimmed. A whisper of something familiar curled in Death's voice now—affection hidden under cold logic.
"Because even the Hole remembers you."
"Because before you were Henry, you were something else."
Henry glanced sideways. "What do you mean by that?"
Death hovered close, voice low. "You are not ready to know… master."
Henry blinked. "What?"
"…Nothing," Death said quickly, the flame twitching.
But something in Henry's chest stirred. Not memory—no, deeper than that. A rhythm. A shadow of command. Of old promises.
He didn't understand it. Not yet.
But Death bowed slightly and waited.
Henry sat still. The ragged sackcloth hung loose on his lean frame, soaked with silence. The torn velvet sofa groaned beneath him, half-sunken in the blank vastness of the white void. And ahead of him, the small flame still hovered—steady, patient, eternal.
But something had changed.
A crack, like glass splintering inside the soul, had echoed in Henry's mind moments ago. A realization—not born of thought, but of revelation. This place wasn't a dream. It wasn't a feverish hallucination. It was real—more real than flesh, more real than breath.
This was where existence wept from its origin.
The Hole of Origin.
A Divine Act.
Henry whispered the words under his breath like they carried weight. And they did.
"This place… it's not a reflection. It's the underside of reality. It's... me, being seen from the other side."
The flame that called itself Death flickered in approval. "Now you begin to see. You are not dreaming. You are remembering."
And then—
They came.
Thousands. No, millions of souls—formless, translucent spirits. Some shrieking. Some crying. Some laughing without mouths. Human, beast, child, warrior, king—all rushing past them in chaotic streams, running without direction, without peace. A parade of the forgotten.
Henry stood. "What are they?"
"Spirits denied their ends," Death said. "Some are echoes of you. Others, echoes of gods."
Henry turned slowly. The air had become wet. Something flowed beneath the white—an endless body of water, hidden under the illusion of blank space. It moved now, stirred by the presence of so many dead.
"Touch the surface," Death said.
Henry hesitated. "Why?"
"Because you can. Shape it. Mold it. Command it. You are more than memory."
His bare feet stepped down, and the whiteness rippled—liquid now, not light. The water shimmered beneath the thin surface like mercury and blood mixed into glass. Cold. Eternal.
Henry took a breath.
And then—he imagined.
A fortress.
Old, dignified, weathered by wars and silence. Gothic spires touched a sky that didn't exist. Thick bastion walls, lined with mournful statues. Iron gates taller than mountains. Towers stitched with scripture in a forgotten tongue. A citadel built not for the living, but for the broken, the divine, the once-chosen.
And the water obeyed.
With thunderous roars, the void surged. Infinite water rose like limbs of titans. It swirled, spiraled, clashed, carved itself into form. Walls snapped into place. Stone burst from cascading liquid. Turrets twisted up from the tides. Arches etched themselves with celestial symbols. In mere minutes, the fortress stood.
Majestic. Cold. Alive.
The spirits froze, then slowly moved toward it—drawn not by command, but by recognition. Like they belonged there.
Henry looked upon what he had made, his breath ragged, sweat dotting his brow despite the cold.
He turned to Death.
"…What am I?"
The flame floated, silent for a moment. Then:
"You were once a Prime whisper. The fortress is not new, Henry. You merely remembered what you were always meant to build."
And somewhere within the fortress, in a chamber untouched by time, something opened its eyes.
And waited.
Henry stood at the center of it all.
The fortress he'd imagined now loomed above and around him, a cathedral of stone dreams—vast and dignified, too ancient to be newly built, too sacred to belong to this world. Its iron gates sighed like they remembered him. Its watchtowers wept water down their sides like sorrowful gargoyles. The spirits—wandering, fractured things—gathered like pilgrims, resting their ghostly forms in archways, alcoves, balconies.
He could feel it: something deep had been pulled from him. Not power. Not memory. Something older. Something broken. The act of creation had stirred his blood, like a former god twitching in mortal skin.
But then—
A hum.
A sharp note beneath reality.
And it began.
The walls of the fortress shuddered. The towers swayed. The symbols engraved across the gate began to melt, dripping like ink under hot breath. The stones liquefied, running like molten wax. The high spires folded inward, deforming.
The fortress was becoming water again.
"Stop," Henry whispered.
But the tide had already returned. The entire structure surged—collapsing with a low, mournful groan—as if it had only been pretending to be solid.
Wave after wave swallowed the battlements. Gates burst into foam. Statues dissolved into silver-blue spray. In less than a minute, the entire citadel was gone.
Just water. Infinite water.
And above it all, Death still hovered—flame calm, unchanged.
Henry turned, anger simmering in his voice. "Why?"
"Apologies, what you build here cannot last—unless you accept what you are."
"I don't even know what I am!"
Death's flame dimmed. A pulse ran through it.
"Then descend."
Henry frowned. "Descend where?"
Death drifted aside, revealing a staircase that hadn't been there before—spiraling downward, built of dark obsidian and white bone. Each step floated above the infinite sea, sinking slowly as if daring him to follow.
"Downward, into your truth," Death said. "Into the drowned memory. Into the first thing you refused to become."
Henry's breath caught.
The spirits above cried again, drawn back into their frenzied wandering. But beneath… beneath was something still. Something waiting.
He hesitated.
Then placed his foot on the first step.
The air changed.
Time lost all sound.
Each descent was like shedding skin. He could feel his lungs tighten. His thoughts slow. Images cracked behind his eyes: blood on altars, hands of fire, stars buried in soil.
He was more than Henry. He had been more than Henry.
He was descending not into memory—
—but into his origin.
And behind him, Death followed silently, not as a master.
But as a servant.
Watching.
Waiting.
For his master to remember his name.
They sat beneath the endless white sky, where the illusion of light met the reflection of an infinite sea.
A black stone table stood between them, carved into existence by Henry's half-conscious thought. Upon it, a chessboard gleamed—pieces formed from bone and obsidian, shifting slightly when touched as if alive. The spirits no longer circled them; they kept their distance, drawn to the stillness like moths to silence.
Death, still in its flame form, hovered opposite Henry.
Henry stared at the board, sweat lining his brow.
"Again," he said.
Death didn't speak. It simply reset the pieces with a flick of thought. The new game began. Henry played aggressively, pushing his knight forward, building a wall of pawns. He tried to trap Death's queen.
Seven moves in, his king was cornered.
Checkmate.
Henry leaned back, groaning. "You've got to be kidding."
Death said nothing—just hovered there, radiating calm.
Henry frowned. "That's the third time in under ten turns. You don't even pause."
Death responded quietly, its voice like a spark behind ancient stone.
"Time does not pause for me. Why would thought?"
Henry folded his arms. "How old are you?"
A pause.
Then the flame pulsed.
"There is no number."
"But if you must measure—then I am older than quadrillions of your years. I existed long before the idea of existence itself. Before stars, before laws, before silence."
The flame brightened slightly, casting impossible shadows.
"From my gaze, I have seen galaxies burn like leaves. Civilizations born from screaming gods crumble into ash. I have watched kings kill suns for love, and prophets dissolve into madness as truth clawed through their skulls."
"I do not forget."
"I only collect."
Henry stared.
The board reset again on its own, the pieces clicking into place like bones fitting a skeleton. But Henry didn't move.
He simply smiled and leaned back.
"…So, you're ancient. Omniscient. Stuck playing board games with a half-naked mortal wearing sackcloth." He gestured to himself. "Living the dream, huh?"
Death said nothing.
Henry leaned forward again, grin widening. "Do you... want me to sew you a retirement robe? Maybe start a Support Group for Timeless Cosmic Concepts Who Can't Win a Game of Hide and Seek?"
A long pause.
The flame quivered.
Then—
Poomf.
The fire contracted. And in its place sat a tiny bear—plush and soft-looking—but composed of writhing shadows. Its glassy eyes flickered red. Little clawed feet. A stitched-on mouth. Around it shimmered a dark aura, thick like fog, cold as burial soil.
Henry blinked. "...You serious?"
The bear looked away, arms crossed. The shadows behind it twisted like enormous wings—silent and terrifying.
"…Did I embarrass the literal embodiment of Death?" Henry smirked.
The bear didn't reply.
Its head tilted slightly. Calm.
Deadpan.
But its voice came the same—unchanged and ancient—like steel whispering in fire.
"Mock me again, and I'll teach you the pain of a black hole collapsing inside your soul."
Henry burst out laughing. "I'm definitely getting you a scarf."
And from within the stitched face of Death, something stirred.
Not anger.
But the faintest... affection.
The kind even an eternal being didn't recognize anymore.
The game reset again.
And the bear calmly pushed its pawn forward.
....
A stillness hung over the room like a soft shroud.
The oil lamp on the wooden desk had long gone out, leaving only the pale glow of the moon to seep through the window. Crickets whispered outside. The old boards of the cottage creaked in their sleep.
Suddenly—
Tap. Tap. Thud.
Henry's eyes fluttered open.
A noise. Sharp and rhythmic.
He blinked against the dimness, sitting up on the straw mattress, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His blanket had twisted around his legs again. Somewhere nearby, soft breathing filled the silence—tiny and gentle.
Another sound.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Henry turned his head toward the window.
And there—perched on the ledge, silhouetted by the moonlight—was Mimi.
In her feline form.
Snow-white fur glowing like silk. Her small paws were tapping—punching—the window glass with awkward little smacks, as if trying to reach the glowing orb high above.
Her tail flicked. Her ears twitched. Her eyes, sharp as silver, were locked on the moon with intense focus.
Henry rubbed his face and chuckled softly. "You trying to pick a fight with the moon again?"
Mimi didn't answer. She tapped harder, meowed once—a short, frustrated sound—and then turned her head at last, noticing him.
He patted the mattress gently. "Come here, you lunatic."
With a graceful hop, she leapt down and padded over, tail curling like a question mark. She rubbed her cheek against his arm before settling beside him, curling tightly into a ball of warmth and fluff.
Henry stroked her back, slowly. "You'll get to the moon one day. Maybe punch a star or two while you're at it."
She purred—softly, rhythmically, like a lullaby.
A little movement by the wooden box nearby caught his eye. Inside, two tiny kittens—barely old enough to see properly—were curled together in a nest of cloth scraps and straw. One of them gave a lazy stretch, yawned a silent kitten yawn, then nuzzled closer to its sibling.
Henry watched them for a while.
No monsters.
No falling.
No holes in reality.
Just breathing.
Just moonlight.
Just… now.
He lay back again, one hand still resting on Mimi's fur.
"…Crazy little family."
Mimi meowed faintly in agreement.
And sleep took him once more—gentler this time, like the hush of night folding him in.