When you think of an angel, you think light.

Halos maybe. Pristine purity and wings of healing. Twinkling, soft music that plays in the mountain ranges of childhood memories. Workers of heaven.

But Death has her angels too.

Nearly no one expects me.

Not my darked skin like that of the deepest night. Not the gold markings that swirl across my skin as a living reminder of the good that I’ve done. Not my dark cloak that smells faintly of thyme. Not the molten silver arm bands that drip from my biceps. A silver contrast just as permanent as the golden tattoos. Arm bands. The mark of a Concealed Eternal. The mark of a prisoner yet none would utter such out loud. There’s no point.

Standing in a field of lilies, I contemplate life. I frown slightly at the scythe I twirl between my palms. Intricately detailed with the souls of the condemned suffering in their fate. If you look closely enough you can almost hear their heartbreak. The sharp blade reminds me of the gravity of my position. I gently shake the thought away and instead watch a glittering butterfly stitched into my skin lazily make its way up my forearm to wrap its delicate wings around my pointer finger. I rub slightly at it but it doesn’t move more. A mother grizzly walks across my broad chest disturbing dozens of metallic fireflies that flee out of the way. A smile almost touches my solem lips.

Then the scene around me rains. The colors of the flowers melt away like wax. The blues, yellows, and pinks of the setting sun splatter on my skin mixing with the golden swirls.

A call.

Soon all I can see is color. Vivid and blinding.

As my vision begins to clear soft sobbing can be heard.

I take in the scene before me.

An innocent.

A young boy stands over a crying mother. A boy is in the bed. The mother has her face buried into the sheets around him. The machine next to him is silent. Eyes are closed and a look of peace rests on his face. As I walk closer, glistening tears become visible falling silently down the boy’s face who stands over his mother. My hand falls on the boy’s shoulder like a whisper. A shudder runs through him as a silent sob wracks his little chest.

“I was all she had.” He manages quietly.

A golden tear drips onto the hospital floor.

“I know.”

His eyes are wide when he finally lifts his gaze from his mother to me.

“Can I stay a moment more?”

I nod.

The ticking from the clock on the wall can be heard between the woman’s broken sobs over her only son.

The boy leans down and kisses his mother on the top of her head and then takes a step back.

He looks to me.

I nod once more and open my arms.

“Time to go.”

It is the boy this time who responds with resignation:

“I know.”

Every cross-over is different. Sometimes its anger and fear from the condemned and the scythe is necessary. Other times, there is frightened bravery and willing resignation.

This boy is of the latter.

He hesitates a moment before taking a deep breath.

He then leaves his mothers side. Leaves her to grieve over his corpse.

He curls into my embrace and I wrap my arms around the boy. He shoves his face into the folds of my cloak mirroring his heartbroken mother. Ever so slowly, his soul drifts away. He holds on tighter as the fabric of his soul disintegrates into shimmering golden dust. Another golden tear wets the floor.

My arms close empty around myself. I then watch the metallic butterfly from earlier seep from my skin and follow after the young souls material to make sure he doesn’t get lost along the way to the other side.

The cold room is silent in the absence of the son’s soul.

I put a hand on the mother’s shoulder offering a bit of comfort. I send her to a dreamless sleep to escape her agony, if only for a moment.

Then I walk away.