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Memento Mori

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The First Beginning 

 

In the beginning, Darkness reigned supreme. Light did not exist, and time was an unmeasurable notion. Magic was unfeasible, and life impossible.

                Nothing was permitted to grow within this endless dark.

                Nothing existed, for there was nothing to exist in.

                There was only Darkness.

                A Darkness that ruled an empty Kingdom for a long, long time.

 

When the change came, it came with such suddenness that the Darkness did not see it coming.  Oh, it had been there, lying in wait, since the beginning. It had been part of the Darkness itself, a small and unused part, lacking form and strength.  

                Yet idleness invites scorn.

                As the Darkness continued its totalitarian reign, it grew smug in its power and rule. With nothing there to challenge it, somnolence took over.  It became idle, content in its lone existence.

                In the carelessness of the Darkness, a shape was forged and made. Power was stolen and bent to the will of another. Slowly, an intelligence grew that rivalled the Darkness, sentient and able. It was as much alike as it was different to its forbearer.

                When the new being reached its maturity, it took a moment to gaze at the kingdom in front of it. It looked at the dark and saw nothing.

                It did not like it.

                So it decided to change it.

 

First came light.

                Revealing its form with a white light that lashed at its surroundings, the new being rose and tore the cloak of shadow that had been hiding it for so long. The light was blinding, pure and untainted by ill will. In tangent with the light, the new being threw all of his strength against the Darkness, bringing pain and hurt with it.

                The Darkness, unused to any resistance, recoiled away from the blinding light before him. Never before had it been subject to a power as large as its own, to a light so different to its own.

                It was torture. Torture on a level that the Darkness could not comprehend. Torture that he could not fight -

                Could not survive.

                With a scream of pain that reverberated through its entire kingdom, the Darkness fled.

                A new King was born.

 


The First Born  

 

Mortem, the God of Death, stood floating above a lone planet, and gazed with sadness at the life underneath him.

                Due to his power and the very nature of it, Mortem could not touch any living being prematurely – for one touch would have them depart the land of the living, and tip the balance over.  He could not talk neither, for his voice was only heard when the souls were at his door, and ready for him to shepherd them to a better place. So he stood afar, watching the worlds grow without him.

                For many eons, Mortem had toiled over the worlds in his care, content with the job that was given to him by his Father the Creator. There was never a quiet moment, for death touches all at the end. Gathering souls and ferrying them across the border was a ceaseless job – a necessity. Mortem may not have been happy, but he was content. After all, who was there to complain to? His Father? No, he could never bring such a whimsical complaint forward to his Father. Who then? The other Gods? He scoffed at the very idea of that! He was the First and the Last – the first of the Gods to be born and the Beginning of the End. He would gather the souls of his brothers and sisters when the time came, and so refused to show weakness in front of those who were weaker than him.

                He would have to suffice being on his own.

 

The ages came and went. Planets died and new worlds grew. New species were discovered, whilst others died. The cycle of life continued. Mortem remained on his own.  

                Yet…every now and then, when Mortem found a moment of respite, a thought would come to him. A fleeting idea, nothing more.  It disappeared more often than not for centuries, reappearing on the rare occasions where Mortem saw something that reinforced his loneliness. As the years continued to stretch, however, the thought grew louder, until the idea took root. And as the ages came and went, it grew bigger. So much so, that Mortem found himself constantly thinking about it.

                He didn’t need to be alone.

                He was Death. His powers were the strongest from all the Gods, second only to his Father, stretching boundlessly from him into the distance. If he was doomed to wander the universe forever, the least the universe could do was give him company. Someone that would stay with him till the very end, bound to him in every way that mattered.

                Mind set up, Mortem began planning how he would bring this person into being. It would undoubtedly take time, most probably eons, for the being to be created. It would need power too, power as thick and endless as his own, maybe more.  He refused to accept anyone lesser than he to be his companion. He wanted someone who would accept him through everything, an equal that could stand up to him and compliment him at the same time.  

                A warrior, a leader, and a friend.

                A lover.

 



The First Master

 

When Harry Potter woke up to see the vast spectrum of space before him, he immediately knew that he was dead. The last thing he remembered was facing off Voldemort one last time, seeing the emerald killing curse hurling towards him as his own shot out to hit Voldemort. Seeing as he was now seemingly floating in space, it didn’t take a genius to realise that he was dead.

                Yet the thought of being dead did not worry him. He had done all that he could for his people, had sacrificed everything to help them. He had cried, bled and tortured himself for their sanity, giving up his very humanity to help them. He could no longer remember a time without Voldemort, his very life belonging and ending with the other. His friends had died in the early years of the war, leaving Harry alone with Voldemort and a horde of scared witches and wizards. The years had stretched for so long, until Harry had grown weary of the constant battle between Voldemort and himself.

                For a long time now, he knew that it could only end one way. Perhaps now, seeing as his assumption was right, he could finally rest and join his family.

                The returning veteran for his final rest.

                Feeling more at peace than he ever remembered being, Harry stared at the endless expanse in front of him. Whole galaxies seemed to stretch in front of him, beautiful stars and planets swirling around him with indescribable colours.  No words existed to describe what Harry felt looking at all the creation in front of him.  It was-

                ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

                Startled, Harry turned abruptly. There, on his right, was a tall man making his way towards him. The man was floating languidly; seemingly content to reach Harry at his own time.  The man was shrouded in shadows and wisps; they curled lovingly around him, shying away when he moved, but curling back around him when he stilled. He was handsome, exceedingly so (though Harry could not distinguish any features, no matter how hard he looked).

                ‘Yes,’ Harry answered. ‘It is’.

                Perhaps Harry should have felt frightened about this stranger, or questioned what he was and how he came to be here, but Harry could only feel a calmness sweep through him at the other’s presence.

                The man drew nearer, so that he was floating a few inches in front of Harry. A smile stretched his face, so that his face transformed from handsome to otherworldly. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and rich. It was heavy with power, but soft with love.

                ‘Harry Potter. I have waited for you to die for a long, long time. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.’

                Harry felt himself flush at the words he heard. Here was a strange man, beautiful and powerful, who seemed ecstatic at his death. Yet his excitement did not stem from malice, that much was clear. No, what was making Harry turn red was the love and adoration that the man was looking at him with.  Having never been at the end of such love before, Harry felt both flattered and shy.

                ‘Who are you?’ Harry asked softly.

                The man smiled in response and curled a hand lovingly around Harry’s face. Before he knew what he was doing, Harry was leaning in to the touch, closing his eyes in pleasure as a link between himself and the other was forged, allowing him to see the others story.

                ‘My name is Mortem, Harry. I am what your people call Death. I am tied to every world in the universe, and I ferry the souls of the dead to their final rest. It is a heavy duty, one that I do not take lightly, for I alone can carry it out.’

                Almost at once, Harry felt a swell of emotion rise up in him. He knew what duty felt like, knew first hand what it demanded of its sacrifices. Tears filled his eyes as his heart bled out for this God in front of him.

                ‘I’m sorry,’ Harry whispered softly. ‘No being should ever have to carry out a duty on their own.’

                Mortem’s eyes shone with pain as they looked at Harry, well aware of the sacrifices that Harry had made over the years fighting Voldemort. Leaning down, Mortem pressed a soft kiss to Harry’s forehead, tucking the other into his arms.  ‘I am no longer alone, my Master.’

                Harry’s face was bright red now and he silently thanked Merlin his soldiers weren't here to see him pressed against this God's chest like a newly born babe (he knew for a fact Malfoy would be laughing at him - his lieutenant was an arsehole like that).

                Yet, despite how embarrassed he felt, Harry couldn’t help but enjoy the comfort Mortem was willing to provide him. It was…nice.

                The minutes passed in silence, both content to lie in each other’s arms. Yet, unbidden, something Mortem had just said caused concern to rise up in Harry. Raising his head from where it was resting on the God’s chest (and Harry’s flush deepened at that, because since when was he comfortable being this close to someone?), the dead wizard met Mortem’s eyes.

                ‘What did you call me?’ he asked curiously.

                Mortem smiled. ‘I called you Master, Harry, for that is what you are. You collected my trinkets, when millions have tried and failed before. You alone met the criteria that I set up eons ago, passing all the rules and security measures I had put in place. You were destined for me, Harry.  Destined to be my Master and my equal.’

                Harry furrowed his brows as he let the words sink in.  Despite his shock at hearing that he was apparently the destined partner to Death, the words Mortem used grabbed his attention. They rang with familiarity, as if he had heard them somewhere before. But when did he hear them? And who said them?

                Hermione.

                After Ron had left Hermione and him – joining the rest of his family in death– Harry and Hermione had taken to sitting curled together in front of the fireplace at Headquarters. He would more often than not be dreaming about the Hallows, or with his gaze turned inwards to his connection with Voldemort in a vain effort to find him. Hermione, on the other hand, would be curled over one of her books, trying to come up with new strategies and ideas to pitch against the devil. One night, when they were both feeling particularly drained, she had turned to him and voiced her concern about his growing obsession with the Hallows. She had looked at him with pity and sadness, as if she knew something he did not. Yet Harry never could figure out why she had looked at him with such anguish, for though he had been set on stopping Voldemort from getting the hallows, his obsession did not stretch to himself. Yet when he explained this to her, Hermione’s eyes turned sadder.

                She knew, Harry suddenly realised. Somehow, Hermione had known that he would become the Master of Death.

                Whispering the words she had told him then in warning, Harry felt something click inside him when his gaze met Mortem’s.  Power crackled the air as he unknowingly began the ritual that would begin his transformation.

When all three objects are brought together…the Master of Death shall be made anew.

He will rise from the ashes bearing a new form, untainted and untouched.

This form shall belong to Death alone, an oath between the two.

To spend eternity as one being, through all of time and space.”

 

As the words to his oldest ritual fell from Harry’s lips, Mortem could barely restrain his power from lashing out. His magic screamed in defiance at being held back from its promised one, wanting to touch and caress the one that would belong to them.

                With a resounding boom, Mortem’s magic broke out of its confines and rushed towards Harry, enveloping the man in warmth and power. With a blinding flash, Mortem’s true form was revealed to Harry – a giant of immense power. Rising to his full height, the God grasped the awed man in front of him and drew him into his arms.

               The God bent down and kissed Harry lightly, a softness that belied the growl of possessiveness he let loose at the touch. Pouring his power through his kiss, Mortem watched with glee as a golden light covered Harry’s form, slowly changing his form and power.  

                The last words of the ritual fell from Mortem's lips, sealing the bond between them forevermore.

“And so Master and Servant unite as one, two souls guarding the dead,

Bond unbreakable, they alone shall remain when all others fall.”

 

Harry screamed as pain such as he had never felt before consumed his being. Ripping himself away from Mortem, the wizard fell to his knees and shouted his anguish to the silent universe around them. Gold filled his vision as little tendrils of power swept through his being, altering his flesh and bone, reconstructing his very atoms.

                Mortem, no longer gleeful at the sight of his lover in pain, watched silently as the wizard changed.  It would take hours for the change to finish completely, and until it finished, Mortem swore never to leave Harry’s side.

                He would protect his lover.

 



Somewhere in the heart of the universe, in an indistinguishable moment in time, Harry Potter died and the Master of Death was born.

All that once was is gone, and that which will be, is made.