[the first time Osvaldus sees Death, he's 14. He's not even Osvaldius yet; he's Tzadok bar Gilda, and Rome is burning. He'd snuck out that evening, of course. He's snuck out many an evening before. The streets of Rome are dangerous during the day, but at night? They're a minefield. Unless, of course, you know how to stick to the shadows and stay silent. And Tzadok has grown up among Rome’s winding, twisted streets and had once found places of safety within them.
Now, however, there is none to be found. The buildings burn, fire leaping quickly from one place to the next, lighting up any leftover shaded corners and quickly sending any hiding within them running, Tzadok included. He stumbles over uneven slick stone, the heat around him feeling nearly unbearable as he tries to get out—to get to some place that hasn’t wrapped him in an inferno. The sleeve of his toga is pressed to his mouth as he tries not to breathe too much of the noxious fumes. He can hear the creaking and breaking of wood as it splinters under the weight of buildings and the screams of those trapped inside.
He’s afraid. He hopes his mother got out alright, and that it hasn’t reached the room they share with two other families. He can hear his heart, as fast as a rabbit’s, pounding in his ears. Everything around him is fire, and yet….there’s a flicker, in the flames, dark as night, that catches his attention. His head jerks around to look, unthinkingly, catching sight of a cloaked figure. But it’s not the scarlet ones that gangs of men looking for a fight flock to; this one is as black as night. There’s a glint of gold that Tzadok catches briefly, the flames glinting in the surface of—is that a weapon?
Tzadok frowns, and in that moment, he thinks he almost sees a nose and the jut of a chin from the hood of the cloak. Then, his foot catches on a cobblestone, and he falls, letting out a cry as his ankle twists. He hits the stone hard, knocking the wind out of him—just before he hears the crash. He jerks, curling up into a ball on instinct held from years of street fights with people who love to kick you when you’re down. Tzadok breathes hard into his toga; but a moment passes, two, and he is not dead. His ankle hurts like it’s never hurt before (it may be broken) and he can hear the fire still crackling, but it’s muffled now.
Tzadok peeks an eye open…to find that he is being sheltered under a fallen wall, the angle of its destruction providing an unlikely stone tent that has shielded him from what seems to be the rest of the building almost collapsing onto him. Had he been standing, it is almost certain that he would have been crushed.
He coughs once, twice, at the dust and debris still rising from the rubble, and scoots closer to the wall. He can’t move like this; doesn’t dare to. But if he can keep himself small and just keep breathing, perhaps he’ll make it through the night.]
[Tzadok does, in fact, make it through the night. That night, and many others since then, as he’s now 16 years old. His ankle never healed properly, and it’s turned funny, giving him a limp. And yet, he survived the fires of Rome. His mother, Gilda ben Yakov, survived as well, and spent every last penny she had to move them back to Jerusalem to live with her parents. Unfortunately, her parents died just before their arrival, and instead of taking some time to recover with them before searching for work, both Tzadok and his mother went straight out to look for jobs instead, despite his ankle not being at all healed. Fortunately, the Temple was kind enough to help them—they gave Gilda a job cleaning the rooms, and Tzadok took some work in the kitchens. For a year or so, things have seemed to be calming down. Yes, the taxes on the Temple were getting more and more harsh and the citizens of Jerusalem were getting more restless, but for now, they did their best to stay out of the way of that. However, when a Roman house slaughtered poultry in front of a synagogue, making it ritually unclean, and as a result the Temple responded by refusing to pay tribute to Nero any longer, well….they should’ve gotten out, then.
Unfortunately, they hadn’t been given a chance.
Tzadok hears the screams and the shouting just before the doors to the kitchen burst open. It’s Aadam, one of the two senior cooks. Tzadok had come in to prepare for the Shabbat services and subsequent dinner, but this is rather unexpected. He’s the only one in here at the moment, after all, preparing the vegetables for the soup, when Aadam rushes towards him, grabbing him by the collar of his toga and shoving him into the pantry. Tzadok has no time to ask why before the door closes—and he hears another door slam open. From there, it’s shouting and Aadam yells before making a disgusting, wet choking noise. Then there’s a dull thud—and the sounds of people outside, giving instructions in Latin to search the place; and Tzadok’s breath freezes in his throat and he steps back, pressing himself against the wall, moving back into a corner. He can hear them arguing, turning things over in the kitchen. He can hear the screams louder now, and he thinks again of his mother.
His heart jumps in his chest, and all of the sudden he’s in a haze, rushing to the door and moving to push it open…but he can’t. There’s something heavy in front of it—and Tzadok shoves, again, with his shoulder, but to no avail. In the small gap at the bottom of the stone door, there is a flicker of cloak. Tzadok pauses when he sees it, trembling for a moment. Even just that flicker seems familiar, and it’s enough to make his blood run cold.
Whomever is in there seems not to have noticed the movement of the door or the sounds behind it. Tzadok will find out, later, that it’s Aadam’s body, throat slit and run through with a Roman sword, that’d both kept him inside that pantry and probably saved his life.
His mother, Gilda, however…isn’t so lucky. She’s one of the over six thousand Jews murdered in the raiding of the Temple, and when he finds her on the floor, neck broken from being pushed off of the stairs, he gathers her up in his arms and wails. She’s cold by then; her toga spattered with the blood of others. He holds her close and swears revenge.
Later, he prepares her body for burial himself, as he has no one to help him while sitting shiva, and stands at her grave as she’s lowered in next to her parents. No one urges him away; no one stops him from staying there until nightfall—until his ankle aches and he’s shivering in the night air.
The next day, he enlists talks himself into Gessius Florus’ house.
That is, he calls himself “Osvaldus” and talks himself into a servant’s position in the kitchens. The current Procurator of Judea is the one that ordered the raid, after all; they would never hire a man with a Jewish name. Not with all the unrest.
Besides, revenge is a dish best served cold, and Osvaldus is willing to wait for it.]
[Osvaldus does his best to make himself useful and well-liked to the kitchen staff, so when Florus is removed a year later and replaced by a new Procurator just as things get exponentially worse, he is invited to come along when Florus’ household moves to Rome. Osvaldus finds himself returning to the city of his birth in the back of one of the wagon carts of the man who murdered his mother.
That’s fine, though.
He still remembers where the old apothecaries are in Rome…and which ones will brew you poison, for a price.
So the first time he really meets Death, face to face, is when Osvaldus, now aged 18, formally Tzadok ben Gilda, decides to build up an immunity to poison. Unfortunately, the poison is a bit stronger than he bargained for.
At first it’s just uncomfortable…until it becomes excruciating. And then he’s on the floor, curled, clutching his stomach as it cramps from the inside and the world around him swims. He sinks into delirium, willing his body to hang on and push through.
Even with that thought, though, he doesn’t miss the movement of a dark, black cape.]
There are many he sees more than once, of course. He sees everyone, eventually. It's common for many to be gathered around someone whose time has come to an end - either for love or for hatred. He remembers them, all, even as they all blur into one in his mind. But the meeting? The meeting is once and over with. Quick. Cold, some say (accuse).
Exceptions are rare. Maybe this is what makes them stand out.
He remembers this one. Twice over, now, was he meant to go. Twice over, now, has he stayed right here. He'd think it to be some form of divine favor, perhaps. An Olympian up on their high seat taking notice or pity. Except there is nothing here quite so exceptional to get their attention, he doesn't think. His relatives tend to be rather picky and this one has yet to accomplish anything quite worth their eye. Besides, they're rather unsubtle.
...Just fortune, then.
And fortune always runs out.
Perhaps it's impassive, the way he looks down at the figure on the floor. Certainly from the boy's perspective, if he even has it in him still to look up. The truth is, of course, that death is not cold or cruel, even if it doesn't feel quite so at the moment. It simply is.
[he can't help but roll his eyes at that--before flinching again as his stomach cramps again. He breathes through it, breath hissing through his teeth.
He's sweating, and he blinks it out of his eyes before he tries to focus on the...person???...above him again]
Oh, come now. Your name isn't really just Death is it?
[It doesn't sound harsh, when he says it. More of a reassurance than a warning. There's a slight ethereal quality to his voice. Subtle and almost gentle, but... there.
Becoming acquainted, though. What a concept. Well, there's no real harm in it.]
...There are a lot of different names for me. Some just call me Death. I've also been called an Ankou. Several different names further north, they can't seem to make up their mind there. ASTWIHĀD, to some, Śmierć, to others. Mors around these parts. Thanatos, closer to my home.
[It's getting to the point where it feels excruciating. Oswald sucks in a gasp, arm nearly buckling under him--but he grits his teeth and gets himself into a sitting position, panting. He looks up again at the figure, which swims a bit before his eyes]
Enygma. A mysterious moniker for a mysterious individual~ [he smirks] Do you look this pretty for everyone you pick up, or am I just special?
[It's been a little bit since they've met up. Death is very busy, always, and to slip away without reason -- without a work related reason, at least -- is no easy thing. He tries, when he's in the area, but consistently finds himself getting pulled away again.
The first time he tries and almost gets away with it, he's called away at the last moment. A big battle requiring his attention, involving some quality time with Ares. Lovely.
The next, a mass drowning. He know which sea it is in the moment, but once he leaves it fades into a blur, as they all do. He doesn't spot Poseidon, but he feels his influence here, even now that the sea appears once again calm. Deceptively so. It makes the sight of the bodies all the more disconcerting.
He takes them, one at a time, gently to their proper place. As he always does. As he does with the ones that come next. The problem with his own perspective is that time slips away.
He's... not entirely sure how long it's actually been, by the time he makes it to Osvaldus again. Not too long, he hopes. But that by now familiar chill will hang in the air, before he appears, the normal shadows of the world becoming deeper, darker.
[for Osvaldus, time has also flown by. But for him, he's far more aware of it. When Enygma approaches, he'll find that he'll be tracking him down in a much larger house than the small apartment he had before. Significantly larger, actually, in a much nicer part of town. Not quite as high as the upper class, but it seems he's in the Merchant's district.
The house is attended to by servants, and Enygma will find Osvaldus in his study, pouring over ledgers at his desk, ticking things off on an abicus and muttering to himself. The station he has now seems to have afforded him more comfort, as he's put on some weight. He's also dressed nicer, fabrics finger, and his hair swept back. He barely notices the shadows or the chill; merely an after thought. And he does seem to think to assign a personage to them, either.]
[...That is surprising. Enygma tilts his head a little as he takes in this place. Large. It's... fancy? Osvaldus looks different, in that way mortals tend to when you haven't seen them for a bit.
Enygma, of course, looks the same as always. Though he doesn't approach or make his presence known properly. Rather than any of that, he's going up to the abacus and... idly moves one of the beads.
[THAT will get Osvaldus' attention. He startles, head jerking up--before he blinks, staring]
....Enygma? [he sounds...surprised. Very surprised. His face also isn't as young as it was--he's starting to show some wrinkles here and there, but mostly at the corners of his mouth. Light ones]
[He frowns a bit, though, tilting his head as he looks over at Osvaldus. He sees that, now, the signs of aging. He didn't think it had been so long since their last meeting. But now...
Not that it tells him much. The particulars of mortal aging are still... confusing to him.]
I--[Oswald just...pushes to his feet]--around eleven years and a handful of months, give or take.
By your count, I'm sure that's not long, being as you are. [he's...he seems to be hesitating to touch him--but the corner of his mouth twitches and curls in an easy smile] I'm sure you've been busy.
["Oh", indeed. Had it been-- Time always feels so odd to him. He thought it had been weeks, maybe. A decade and change? The realization sinks into him, and he feels that... disconnect, suddenly, that he usually does when he's working.
I-It's alright, really-- [he's immediately moving to come around the desk--to reassure him. He's limping as he does so, leaning on the desk with one hand. It seems that limp of his has gotten worse. But he's reaching out to put a hand on his arm--and his smile grows, warms]
[For a moment he reconsiders being here. If maybe it isn't his place, after all, and he should just meet Osvaldus again once it's his time, instead of fitting in a visit like this.
But then there's that smile, that touch on his arm, and...
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Somebody Mixed my Medicine (1/3?)
Now, however, there is none to be found. The buildings burn, fire leaping quickly from one place to the next, lighting up any leftover shaded corners and quickly sending any hiding within them running, Tzadok included. He stumbles over uneven slick stone, the heat around him feeling nearly unbearable as he tries to get out—to get to some place that hasn’t wrapped him in an inferno. The sleeve of his toga is pressed to his mouth as he tries not to breathe too much of the noxious fumes. He can hear the creaking and breaking of wood as it splinters under the weight of buildings and the screams of those trapped inside.
He’s afraid. He hopes his mother got out alright, and that it hasn’t reached the room they share with two other families. He can hear his heart, as fast as a rabbit’s, pounding in his ears. Everything around him is fire, and yet….there’s a flicker, in the flames, dark as night, that catches his attention. His head jerks around to look, unthinkingly, catching sight of a cloaked figure. But it’s not the scarlet ones that gangs of men looking for a fight flock to; this one is as black as night. There’s a glint of gold that Tzadok catches briefly, the flames glinting in the surface of—is that a weapon?
Tzadok frowns, and in that moment, he thinks he almost sees a nose and the jut of a chin from the hood of the cloak. Then, his foot catches on a cobblestone, and he falls, letting out a cry as his ankle twists. He hits the stone hard, knocking the wind out of him—just before he hears the crash. He jerks, curling up into a ball on instinct held from years of street fights with people who love to kick you when you’re down. Tzadok breathes hard into his toga; but a moment passes, two, and he is not dead. His ankle hurts like it’s never hurt before (it may be broken) and he can hear the fire still crackling, but it’s muffled now.
Tzadok peeks an eye open…to find that he is being sheltered under a fallen wall, the angle of its destruction providing an unlikely stone tent that has shielded him from what seems to be the rest of the building almost collapsing onto him. Had he been standing, it is almost certain that he would have been crushed.
He coughs once, twice, at the dust and debris still rising from the rubble, and scoots closer to the wall. He can’t move like this; doesn’t dare to. But if he can keep himself small and just keep breathing, perhaps he’ll make it through the night.]
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Unfortunately, they hadn’t been given a chance.
Tzadok hears the screams and the shouting just before the doors to the kitchen burst open. It’s Aadam, one of the two senior cooks. Tzadok had come in to prepare for the Shabbat services and subsequent dinner, but this is rather unexpected. He’s the only one in here at the moment, after all, preparing the vegetables for the soup, when Aadam rushes towards him, grabbing him by the collar of his toga and shoving him into the pantry. Tzadok has no time to ask why before the door closes—and he hears another door slam open. From there, it’s shouting and Aadam yells before making a disgusting, wet choking noise. Then there’s a dull thud—and the sounds of people outside, giving instructions in Latin to search the place; and Tzadok’s breath freezes in his throat and he steps back, pressing himself against the wall, moving back into a corner. He can hear them arguing, turning things over in the kitchen. He can hear the screams louder now, and he thinks again of his mother.
His heart jumps in his chest, and all of the sudden he’s in a haze, rushing to the door and moving to push it open…but he can’t. There’s something heavy in front of it—and Tzadok shoves, again, with his shoulder, but to no avail. In the small gap at the bottom of the stone door, there is a flicker of cloak. Tzadok pauses when he sees it, trembling for a moment. Even just that flicker seems familiar, and it’s enough to make his blood run cold.
Whomever is in there seems not to have noticed the movement of the door or the sounds behind it. Tzadok will find out, later, that it’s Aadam’s body, throat slit and run through with a Roman sword, that’d both kept him inside that pantry and probably saved his life.
His mother, Gilda, however…isn’t so lucky. She’s one of the over six thousand Jews murdered in the raiding of the Temple, and when he finds her on the floor, neck broken from being pushed off of the stairs, he gathers her up in his arms and wails. She’s cold by then; her toga spattered with the blood of others. He holds her close and swears revenge.
Later, he prepares her body for burial himself, as he has no one to help him while sitting shiva, and stands at her grave as she’s lowered in next to her parents. No one urges him away; no one stops him from staying there until nightfall—until his ankle aches and he’s shivering in the night air.
The next day, he enlists talks himself into Gessius Florus’ house.
That is, he calls himself “Osvaldus” and talks himself into a servant’s position in the kitchens. The current Procurator of Judea is the one that ordered the raid, after all; they would never hire a man with a Jewish name. Not with all the unrest.
Besides, revenge is a dish best served cold, and Osvaldus is willing to wait for it.]
3/3
That’s fine, though.
He still remembers where the old apothecaries are in Rome…and which ones will brew you poison, for a price.
So the first time he really meets Death, face to face, is when Osvaldus, now aged 18, formally Tzadok ben Gilda, decides to build up an immunity to poison. Unfortunately, the poison is a bit stronger than he bargained for.
At first it’s just uncomfortable…until it becomes excruciating. And then he’s on the floor, curled, clutching his stomach as it cramps from the inside and the world around him swims. He sinks into delirium, willing his body to hang on and push through.
Even with that thought, though, he doesn’t miss the movement of a dark, black cape.]
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There are many he sees more than once, of course. He sees everyone, eventually. It's common for many to be gathered around someone whose time has come to an end - either for love or for hatred. He remembers them, all, even as they all blur into one in his mind. But the meeting? The meeting is once and over with. Quick. Cold, some say (accuse).
Exceptions are rare. Maybe this is what makes them stand out.
He remembers this one. Twice over, now, was he meant to go. Twice over, now, has he stayed right here. He'd think it to be some form of divine favor, perhaps. An Olympian up on their high seat taking notice or pity. Except there is nothing here quite so exceptional to get their attention, he doesn't think. His relatives tend to be rather picky and this one has yet to accomplish anything quite worth their eye. Besides, they're rather unsubtle.
...Just fortune, then.
And fortune always runs out.
Perhaps it's impassive, the way he looks down at the figure on the floor. Certainly from the boy's perspective, if he even has it in him still to look up. The truth is, of course, that death is not cold or cruel, even if it doesn't feel quite so at the moment. It simply is.
And he is nothing if not patient.]
...No further, I don't think.
[Is it to himself or the human? Uncertain.]
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It speaks.
And Osvaldus starts laughing. His stomach seizes in cramps that make him writhe, but he twists his neck so he can look up at the figure above him]
You think? [he's smirking, almost, though it's closer to a grimace, a grit to his teeth] You don't sound very certain.
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...The if is always certain.
It's the when that's less clear.
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Your eyes are very green. I would've expected something like red or black. Something mysterious~
[at the mysterious, he lifts a hand shakily and waves it in the air, as if it could indicate the mysteriousness of red or black eyes.]
I'm Osvaldus.
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Odd.]
Introductions seem rather pointless on my end.
And yours, for that matter.
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He's sweating, and he blinks it out of his eyes before he tries to focus on the...person???...above him again]
Oh, come now. Your name isn't really just Death is it?
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[he flinches again, but this time he swallows, and presses a hand against the ground, moving to sit up]
Also, not to sound arrogant, but you're a bit premature, friend.
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[It doesn't sound harsh, when he says it. More of a reassurance than a warning. There's a slight ethereal quality to his voice. Subtle and almost gentle, but... there.
Becoming acquainted, though. What a concept. Well, there's no real harm in it.]
...There are a lot of different names for me. Some just call me Death. I've also been called an Ankou. Several different names further north, they can't seem to make up their mind there. ASTWIHĀD, to some, Śmierć, to others. Mors around these parts. Thanatos, closer to my home.
But... you can call me Enygma.
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Enygma. A mysterious moniker for a mysterious individual~ [he smirks] Do you look this pretty for everyone you pick up, or am I just special?
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death's at the door
The first time he tries and almost gets away with it, he's called away at the last moment. A big battle requiring his attention, involving some quality time with Ares. Lovely.
The next, a mass drowning. He know which sea it is in the moment, but once he leaves it fades into a blur, as they all do. He doesn't spot Poseidon, but he feels his influence here, even now that the sea appears once again calm. Deceptively so. It makes the sight of the bodies all the more disconcerting.
He takes them, one at a time, gently to their proper place. As he always does. As he does with the ones that come next. The problem with his own perspective is that time slips away.
He's... not entirely sure how long it's actually been, by the time he makes it to Osvaldus again. Not too long, he hopes. But that by now familiar chill will hang in the air, before he appears, the normal shadows of the world becoming deeper, darker.
Death approaches.]
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The house is attended to by servants, and Enygma will find Osvaldus in his study, pouring over ledgers at his desk, ticking things off on an abicus and muttering to himself. The station he has now seems to have afforded him more comfort, as he's put on some weight. He's also dressed nicer, fabrics finger, and his hair swept back. He barely notices the shadows or the chill; merely an after thought. And he does seem to think to assign a personage to them, either.]
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Enygma, of course, looks the same as always. Though he doesn't approach or make his presence known properly. Rather than any of that, he's going up to the abacus and... idly moves one of the beads.
Like a curious cat.]
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....Enygma? [he sounds...surprised. Very surprised. His face also isn't as young as it was--he's starting to show some wrinkles here and there, but mostly at the corners of his mouth. Light ones]
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...An interesting contraption.
[He frowns a bit, though, tilting his head as he looks over at Osvaldus. He sees that, now, the signs of aging. He didn't think it had been so long since their last meeting. But now...
Not that it tells him much. The particulars of mortal aging are still... confusing to him.]
...
Was I away a long time...?
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By your count, I'm sure that's not long, being as you are. [he's...he seems to be hesitating to touch him--but the corner of his mouth twitches and curls in an easy smile] I'm sure you've been busy.
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["Oh", indeed. Had it been-- Time always feels so odd to him. He thought it had been weeks, maybe. A decade and change? The realization sinks into him, and he feels that... disconnect, suddenly, that he usually does when he's working.
That reminder that he's not part of all this.]
I'm sorry. And after I promised to visit soon...
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I'm just glad to see you.
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[For a moment he reconsiders being here. If maybe it isn't his place, after all, and he should just meet Osvaldus again once it's his time, instead of fitting in a visit like this.
But then there's that smile, that touch on his arm, and...
...maybe it's fine if he stays.]
...You seem to be doing well.
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[He blinks a little bit.]
Is it that big?
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