DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling.

~ The Sins Are Scattered Everywhere ~

"Once upon a time Death fell in love with Life, and the balance of order in the universe... well, it went a bit wonky, dinnit?"

"It... did?"

"Eh, so it did, so it did."

"It seems fine now, though."

"That's what you'd like to think, but let me tell you-"

"I don't really want to hear it, thanks."

"As I was saying-"

"Shut up already! I don't want to hear it!"

The mage-training academy is like a microcosm unto itself, Pestilence muses to herself, as she stares at the twisting tree upon its grounds that reminds her somewhat of another tree, a hated tree...

Ah, yes, and here come the creatures to frolic around it: three young men with fluid souls that change form from man to animal and animal to man at their will and one who carries Hecate's wrath within his body. There, Ratatoskr climbs among the branches while Duneyrr and Nidhoggr escort cursed Fenrisulvr to the place of his imminent binding.

It's not the tree's fault, of course. The tree is but a tree. This tree, with its twisted trunk and whipping branches... and that other tree.

And if War whispers in Duneyrr's ear that it would be a harmless prank, Pestilence will not interfere. War will do as War will, and his efforts will not make up for Death's renewed disinterest in carrying out his primary function.

Life was the sower of souls,
Fate was their keeper,
Three riders their wardens,
And Death their reaper.

Death was not a creature of high emotion. He felt, yes. Most of what he felt was pity for the poor souls he escorted to the underworld again and again. Whether they were destined for Niflheim or Valhalla, to wander the Elysian Fields or the banks of the Cocytus River, to be washed clean in the waters of Lethe in preparation for reincarnation or consigned to the fires of Phlegethon and removed from the cycle permanently, he pitied them their transient existence.

It was the Black Rider, Famine, who first beseeched him to travel to the mortal plane for a reason other than the reaping of souls - to watch, to observe, to see what life was about. They, as immortals, experienced existence in a different way than the creatures of flesh and blood.

Pestilence objected, arguing that it was unnecessary.

War's sole contribution to the conversation was a meager mouthful of words (fun place if you like your job) coupled with a careless shrug of one pauldron-clad shoulder.

From earth to sacred spring to sky,
Life flows and ebbs all along,
Each branch and root and leaf,
Of the great ash tree,
Yggdrasil.

Death went. He visited the land of mortals, not to carry out his purpose, but merely to observe. To look, to listen, to learn.

He did not intend to love.

But love he did. And how could he not? Upon seeing the beautiful fragile things, the flowers of the lives from which he would later harvest the fruits, the climbing vines and stalwart trunks, the Pale Rider's cold stone of a heart was moved - at first by only a faint fraction, but the more he observed, the more it budged, until it was that he found himself completely in love with Life itself.

And these fragile creatures, they know that they will break one day, yet still they find the will to go on.

His words ring hollow in her memory. The creatures with whom he is most fascinated are much more hardy than Death seems to believe.

She would know, because she is Pestilence, and these beings have begun to find ways to thwart her - her, the White Rider! They will pay for slipping their chains, and defying one of the most basic rules of natural order.

Death seemed only too happy to hear that she has a plan. He thinks he will be content to leave the culling of souls in the hands of the remaining three Riders.

He would not be happy if he knew what her plan was. With Death idle in his duties, the human population has grown exponentially in a few generations. In a few more, they will be a plague upon the Earth.

And she will do nothing. Because she is Pestilence.

Death curled up at the base of Yggdrasil, letting his head fall against the trunk of the great tree. He would let the other Riders take care of the problem with the non-magical mortals. Pestilence should have it well in hand on her own, but she had War to back her up, and Famine to step in if all else failed.

And they say he would be sleeping there still were it not for three troublesome brothers who called his wrath down upon them with their foolish quest, but that is another tale entirely...

~end~