Chapter Text
“Cats are like witches. They don’t fight to kill, but to win. There is a difference. There’s no point in killing an opponent. That way, they won’t know they’ve lost, and to be a real winner you have to have an opponent who is beaten and knows it. There’s no triumph over a corpse, but a beaten opponent, who will remain beaten every day of the remainder of their sad and wretched life, is something to treasure.”
― Terry Pratchett, Witches Abroad
Death didn’t walk far from the battlefield. He still had a life to collect, after all. As Jack Horner climbed his way out of the bottomless bag and the fight over the Wishing Star resumed, the wolf took a few minutes to compose himself.
Blood was still coursing through his veins. His corporeal form wasn’t supposed to react this way. Bristling fur, goosebumps, a racing heart, those were mortal concerns, things Death relished and constantly caused in his prey, his food. And yet…
The wolf inhaled a long, grounding breath of the electric sulfur that permeated the crackling star, and let it out in a shaky puff. He had a job to do, and he would not let himself get distracted by a blasted gato at a moment like this.
He only allowed himself a quick look at Puss in Boots’ bright silhouette as the cat jumped off the collapsing star after his companions without a backward glance, abandoning his wish for nine lives without an ounce of regret or hesitation. Death would forever deny the flash of reluctant admiration he felt at the sight.
No distractions, he reminded himself, and walked to the center of the crumbling meteor, where Jack Horner was sinking among stubborn protests. Death didn’t have much time before the star shot back where it came from; this would have to be quick. He drew his sickle and rushed ahead.
To his mild surprise, Jack Horner had more tricks up his sleeve - or magic bag, as it were. The man was downing the content of a small bottle simply labelled ‘Drink Me’ and shrinking rapidly, slipping through the cracks. Death jumped after him, swiftly avoiding the star fragments as they took to the sky in a reversed multicolored meteor shower.
He had a brief thought of what such a spectacular light show must look like reflected in wide, bright green eyes right now. Death extinguished the ludicrous notion from his mind with a swipe of his sickle.
He needed to get out of here. He would just reap the falling man’s soul, and…
"Oh no you don’t!"
Something clanged against the handle of his sickle and forced it up, pressing hard against his paw. Jack Horner sneered at him over the gold statue of a pointing hand.
Midas’ Touch.
"So you’re Death, huh?" Jack Horner cackled. "You won’t get me so easily, you…!"
The man’s skull cracked open when it hit the ground. Death landed lightly beside his corpse and used his second sickle to reap Jack Horner’s soul clean off his body.
"Oh come on, that’s not fair!" the soul protested when it floated past the wolf. "Don’t tell me you’re immune to magical items?"
"Yes, I am," Death answered, deadpan, and sheathed his sickles.
With a jolt of surprise, he realized he couldn’t let go of the right one. He unsheathed the weapon and lifted it to his face.
"Oh, are you really?" came a taunting chortle from the rapidly fading soul.
Death barely heard him. All the wolf’s attention was on the gold stain slowly spreading up the handle of his sickle and down his paw, freezing them together. Numbly, he realized this was the exact spot where Puss in Boots had managed to land a hit and disarm him.
"Pah! It serves you right! I am dragging you down with me, you useless mutt! You call yourself Death, but you couldn’t even handle a little cat!"
"¡Silencio!" the wolf growled as he put his sickle to the soul’s neck. Jack Horner gaped at it:
"Did you seriously carve crossed out kitty faces on your weapon? Don’t tell me those are…"
The man finally shut up when his soul finished fading away along with the last twinkle of stardust in the air, leaving no sound but the rising wind in the trees overhanging the large star-shaped crater. Death blew on the spreading gold stain, letting up a cloud of golden sand. The gold slowed its progress near his wrist, giving off a faint coppery smell. The sparkling sand stayed suspended in the air, refusing to disappear.
With a resigned grunt, Death pulled out an empty hourglass from the folds of his cloak and popped the upper side open with a flick of his claw. The golden cloud was absorbed into the glass like a contained sandstorm, which the wolf made haste to trap by flicking the hourglass shut. The object turned from dull gray to bright gold, and the sandstorm settled into a miniature desert inside the upper glass bulb. Like quicksand, the gold sank. A soundless trickle started from the thin neck to the lower bulb. The gold on Death’s wrist was still spreading, at the exact same pace.
He snapped his teeth at the offensive golden sand, but only his own reflection snarled back at him, glowing red eyes glaring fruitlessly under his deep frown.
It was impossible. This was absurd.
"I don’t understand!" a buzzing voice startled him out of his impotent rage. "Why wouldn’t a crime family of bears be interested in ethical business practices?! Everyone loves work ethics!"
The wolf turned a dispassionate scowl towards the voice. The flying insect let out an alarmed gasp at the sight of him. Then a shrill scream. Then panicked babble:
"P-Pardon me good sir I didn’t see you there lovely night isn’t it I hope I am not bothering you I will be on my way please spare me -"
"Relax," Death rolled his eyes. "I am not here for you."
"O-Oh," the bug let out a shaky sigh of relief. "I am glad to hear that, sir… Oh crickets, is that Jack Horner?!" he added with sudden horror when he saw the body at the wolf’s feet. "Did you…?"
"The fall killed him," Death said and hid the hourglass back inside his cloak before the bug saw the cursed artifact clutched in the corpse’s gloved hand and drew any conclusions. No one must know the wolf’s condition until he found a way to fix it.
"Ah, I see," the cricket turned to the dead man with a somber look and took off his little hat in a show of well-ingrained deference to the departed, no matter how they were regarded in life. It was the kind of gesture Death appreciated as a show of respect for his work, and his tolerance for the bug’s presence grew significantly. "Well, I am not one to speak ill of the dead, but this person was a truly despicable human being, and got what was coming to him. I just wish I could have met him earlier. Had I known him at a time when he was more open to change, I might have been able to help him. Maybe, then, he wouldn’t have caused so much death and suffering…"
"This is a little late for wishes," Death said with a bitter look towards the three peaceful stargazing animals huddled up on the grass above. It was ironic, really. A wish might have been a way to lift the wolf’s curse, but with the map destroyed and the star gone, there was nothing for it. To think he had mocked Puss in Boots for placing all his hopes in a desperate wish…
"With all due respect, sir, it is never too late for wishes!" the bug hovered near his shoulder, eager to speak but hesitant to land. "Or for a change of heart! As long as there is a will, there is a way, as they say…"
"You should save your asinine maxims for mortals, insecto," the wolf drawled.
"Of course I wouldn’t want to impose, but mortal or not, everyone should lend an ear to their conscience…"
"And what, pray tell," Death snapped at the insect, "would you suggest?"
He didn’t have time for this, but frankly, he didn’t care right now. The wolf needed to blow off steam, and the meddling creature was a convenient target to vent his anger on.
"If I may be bold, sir," the cricket pulled at the collar of his suit with a shaky finger. "I couldn’t help but notice that your work ethics left…a little…to be desired…as of late…"
His tiny voice got gradually smaller as Death glared daggers at his terrified bulging eyes.
"Please, do go on," the wolf said with a toothy mock-polite grin. "How, specifically, have I failed to follow these so-called ‘work ethics’?"
"W-Well," the cricket pressed his tiny hands together in a vain attempt to hide their shaking. "You are really not supposed to attack the living before their time has come…"
The wolf’s cursed arm stiffened at that, drawing the attention of the cricket, who screamed:
"Oh my Word! Your arm…!"
The wolf sighed in exasperation, and the force of it sent the insect flying with a distressed shriek. Death really needed to stop playing with his food when he was in a foul mood. He was tempted to extinguish the bothersome bug’s life right here and there to spare himself further headaches, but, loathe as the wolf was to admit it, he had abused his power already, and it was what landed him in his current predicament. He wasn’t stupid, he could recognize Karma at work, and further dissidence wouldn’t help lift the curse.
But did the Ethical Bug have to be so damn persistent?
"Come on, sir, you can’t just ignore something like this!" the cricket flew back into his field of vision and waved his numerous limbs wildly. "This is…!"
"My comeuppance," Death gave a sour laugh. "Isn’t it? As you said, I have been abusing my power, and got a taste of mortal dread as a result. Not that this will actually kill me, of course," he stared at his gold stained wrist with fake-thoughtfulness. "But you get the idea."
"Sir!" the bug started weeping. The wolf almost gagged. "Y-You are really listening and reflecting on your actions…!" the insect wiped a tear from under his eye. "I am so proud!"
Ugh, bugs. Such silly animals. They died so quickly and easily they were no fun to crush at all, and the talking ones got sentimental over the stupidest things. At least they hardly lived long enough to be a real bother.
Except fleas. Fleas went through a lot of trouble to make sure you gave them your undivided attention for the entirety of their ephemeral, miserable lives, not to mention that their propensity to spread deadly diseases gave Death a truly unreasonable amount of extra work. But even a flea had redeeming qualities, like its aforementioned short, single, life, unlike some other species Death could name.
"Do not despair, sir!" the bug sniffed decisively, thankfully pulling the wolf out of his thoughts before they could spiral again. "Since you have learnt your lesson, I am sure we can find a way to lift the curse!"
"‘We?’" the wolf repeated testily.
"Not to brag, but I have worked with fairies in the past, I am quite knowledgeable in the field of magic!" the cricket stuck out his chest proudly. "I will help you find a cure to Midas’ Touch, for you have proven yourself worthy of redemption!"
Death furrowed his brows. He would much rather give the little busybody a swat and be on his way. However, healing or lifting curses was not Death’s forte, and he was unlikely to find help anywhere else. Whether or not the cricket could be helpful remained to be seen, but he had identified Midas’ Touch on sight, which was promising.
"Let’s hear it, then," Death crossed his arms. "Is there a cure for Midas’ Touch, to your knowledge?"
"That is an excellent question!" the cricket said excitedly. "You see, sources differ, and how Jack Horner took possession of King Midas’ severed hand is a mystery… Some say King Midas died of starvation, unable to ever lift the curse that turned everything he touched to gold, including his food."
Well, that wasn’t right, although the foolish king had certainly come close to Death at the time, after he cut off his own hand in a last-ditch attempt to rid himself of his curse.
"Others say he became disgusted with opulence," the cricket went on, "abandoned all his riches, went to live with satyrs, and eventually got another curse when he offended a God during a music contest." Ah yes, the donkey ears. Death remembered the departed king’s outrage when the wolf came to reap his soul and the ears failed to disappear. That had been mildly amusing. "Yet others say…"
"No mention of a cure, then?" the wolf groaned. He could be patient, but time was of the essence.
"I was getting there," the cricket cleared his throat. "One version of the story mentions that King Midas got rid of the Golden Touch curse by bathing in the Pactolus river: its enchanted waters absorbed his power, and turned the river sands to gold. According to legend, whatever cursed object he put in the water would be reversed of the Golden Touch! This is the only cure I read about for this specific curse, but you may also try the most common and powerful remedies against evil spells, such as…"
"It’s worth a shot," Death nodded and tuned out the rest of the insect’s chatter. The issue was, the curse had trapped the wolf in a physical body, which neutralized most of his reality-altering powers, including teleportation and the ability to be in different places at the same time.
He did know of a certain greedy governor he could persuade to send a boat to the legendary river that turned sand to gold, however.
