Death took many forms over his long years but for his new master he took the form of a small, black house cat. No bigger than a kitten. His master was a peculiar one, never asked why he couldn’t die. Never tried to get around that rule like the rest. He simply existed.
It was That Day, the day that his master would leave his small secluded house in the middle of nowhere in Ireland. The day he went to that small church with Death trailing after him and visited that grave. Death couldn’t read so he had no clue who his master was visiting. Just someone who, from what he could understand, hadn’t died in the fighting but had died because of the war.
His master felt something for this person that Death had heard of but didn’t comprehend. Love. It wasn’t an emotion that Death usually had to deal with. He dealt with misery and grief, sometimes anger, but very rarely love.
His master would always bring flowers from the garden that grew behind the cottage. Mainly gladiolus in all sorts of colors and of course, a single deep red rose that had the thorns cut off.
Master would spend most the day talking to the tombstone before pressing a kiss to it and heading to a large mansion that smelt of death. He would spend the evening with a woman, frail looking but still aristocratic. Death knew this place well since he had collected many souls from it during the war.
Master would have a lavish dinner with the woman before joining her in a room filled with books and drinking wine. Master would only have one glass, maybe two, while the woman drank until she was asleep. Master would then carry her upstairs to a bedroom that Death assumed was hers and tuck her in. He would give her a gentle kiss on the forehead before returning to the cottage and getting ready for bed. Death would guard over his master while he slept that night, more so than any other night. For that night his master was closer to dying than any other. That night, his master dreamed of dying with the man he loved.