Her ink-dipped hair danced with the ash of the sky, and for a moment she turned her gaze to mine, her piercing eyes sending me into an oblivion of obsidian. Her touch leaves decay in its wake, as the seasons crumble to ash and time unravels itself in a flurry of cold, deadly beauty. She drifts through lands leaving a string of bones at the hem of her trail. There is no soul lonelier than hers, bound to solitude, her dress trailing to transcend the souls that no longer exist. 

She walks the fine line of living and existing in memory, where the living should be but are not,  for one cannot find company among the dead. Spirits do not talk, they drift an endless path of longing, left with nothing. She finds companionship only in herself–death, her inevitable fate, the end she brings to all. Intent never mattered; no one will hear her story, for the living are all blinded by the weight of their own pain, ignoring hers.

She is death, forced to traverse a path marked by seclusion. Poets will allude to her, kings will wage wars praying for her absence,  the living will fear her, the great will cheat her, the gods will forsake her, and the silence will follow her–but none will ever know her, see her, love her. After all, who is so foolish as to love death? Some may call her fate fair, but I do not know.