Death was slight of frame and small of stature, the upper half of his face hidden behind the mask of a skull. The bottom half was full with the roundness of youth. A black cloak covered much of his frame and trailed behind his bare, bone-white feet. In one hand, he held a sickle. He slouched forward slightly—his posture was terrible—and it gave him a look of frailty.

He was only a child, perhaps two or three years younger than myself. There was nothing menacing about him, but somehow I knew him instantly. I deflated, the last bits of my energy and will leaving me in a rush. "I've died then," I said. "You're here to reap me. Shepherd me. Whatever it is you do."

He studied me. "Your death was painless and quick," he said in a voice like a whisper, a rasping breath against his teeth. "Vitals struck coldly and precisely. Instantaneous almost."

"I was executed." I didn't know why I was telling him or why it made my eyes water, but it felt nice to say out loud. "All so that I might become useful, a piece in some game."

Death lifted his head to meet my gaze. Beneath the heavy shadows of his skull mask, his eyes were dark and hollow but not unkind. They swam with sorrow, and I saw the reflection of all the children he had sent back. "But you are so young. They are always so young."

Like a fish out of water, all I could do was open my mouth and close it again, strangled for words. What was there to say? I could have argued that he looked even younger than me, but that seemed like a box I would do well not to open. Instead, I began to fidget, the cold petals of the flower soothing against my fingers.

He followed the motion, and as he noticed the flower, his face softened more. "This is from my grave."

"Your grave?" I asked, but he was already extending a hand and calling the flower toward himself. It drifted through the air on a phantom breeze, soft as though its petals were formed of water, not stone and crystal. The blue brightened against his thin fingers.

For a long moment, he held the flower in reverent silence. I didn't dare disturb him with more questions (especially since he seemed more interested in ignoring them), so I merely stood and pondered my terrible situation. I wondered what Mother was doing, if she had simply gone back to work and a normal life. I wondered how long it would be before news reached her. The hollowness inside me twisted, ached, and wept.

"I had resolved that there would be no more," Death finally said, never looking up from the delicate flower. "I cannot bear the number of children I see. I had almost forgotten what it is all for."

My brow furrowed slightly. I had never heard of a purpose in magic, though I supposed it wasn't too surprising. It had come upon Aetheria suddenly and clung specifically to those who were young. "And what is that?"

"I will send you back," he said, "and I will grant you power, but you must find my grave." He turned to me, empty eyes boring into mine, and extended the flower to me as a peace offering.

I nodded dimly as if I understood. In truth, I was more confused. I accepted the flower anyway. "How will I do that?"

He nodded at it. "It will take you."

"What must I do there?"

"You will know when you arrive."

"How will I—" But then I awoke, suddenly and violently as if from a dream, and plunged head first into my nightmare. I was lying on a cold table beneath sterile lights, still matted with blood and grime. Above me was my uncle's face, the face of the scholar from before, and the guard whom I couldn't quite shake and was beginning to question the importance of his name.

"Marvelous," my uncle said, first to break the dull silence. "I knew she would return."

Things could only go downhill from there. 

It's a short update this time! I hope you enjoy the little crumbs regardless, and I'll see you next week for chapter five! :D

Also I think I've settled on Monday for the update day. It just seems right for Grave Bell somehow.