Chapter 4
It took the goddess of death three whole days to barely adapt to this new era of mankind. She had to work overtime to deal with the backlog of dead souls. Humans in the 21st century are no different from those in the Bronze Age - they still cry outside the ICU ward, collapse at the scene of a car accident, and brush "May there be no pain in heaven" in the Tiktok live broadcast of the shooting. But when they really see her, those pupils will still shrink to the size of a needle tip and curse her loudly.
"Why me?" She asked, clutching the corner of her father's robe thousands of years ago. At that time, the banquet hall of the gods was filled with the sweet fragrance of flowers and fruits, and her black robe was stained with the breath of the underworld. Her father stared at her and said: "Because only you can remain elegant in the millions of curses. The sharpest sickle must always be held by the most stable hand."
The goddess of death once believed this, but after a few days of headaches, she began to suspect that her father was lying. Work must continue. The goddess of death shook her head and threw these strange doubts behind her, and walked towards the fresh dead souls that were pulling her.
The place was still surging with the aftermath of magic, and fluorescent dust floated in the air. Several witches' bodies were lying on the ground - no wounds, no blood, only withered shells, skin shriveled like wind-dried bark, hair faded to gray, as if life was taken away by some force. The fingertips of the goddess of death trembled slightly. She was familiar with this scene - too familiar. A dull pain arose deep in her sternum, as if entangled by thorns, piercing into her flesh and blood, and then slowly tightened. She subconsciously grasped the edge of her black robe, and her knuckles turned white due to the force.
No, can't think about it.
She couldn't show any hesitation in front of the dead souls, especially these witches - they were proficient in the magic of life and curse when they were alive, and they retained their keen insight after death. She must not let them know that even the original green witch had a moment when she couldn't heal herself.
Death can't have weaknesses.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to move forward. The withered witches lay quietly, their empty eye sockets looking up at the sky, as if silently questioning - who drained their lives?
"You are really a witch killer! Look what you did!" A teenager's voice came, and the goddess of death quickly hid herself in the woods. The green robe made her hide well. As the teenager shouted, a silver-haired ghost in a purple robe floated over. The moment the goddess of death saw her, she felt that something in her sternum was rushing out again. She pressed her chest tightly, but a fragment of memory flashed between her fingers: she was kneeling in the withered flowers in a black robe, and a tear fell into the rotten soil.
"Who is there!" The teenager shouted, looking around but didn't see anyone.
"Teenager, what are you talking about? No one saw me kill them. Besides, they wanted to catch ghosts to study evil magic. I was protecting myself!" The silver-haired ghost came to the teenager and circled around him a few times. The goddess of death saw the ghost's face - undoubtedly beautiful, with a kind of control in every gesture. Even though she looked a little transparent, she was still beautiful. The goddess of death's eyes were hot and she couldn't help crying. She didn't know if she was in too much pain or what, but a small sob still escaped from her mouth, and the teenager and the ghost looked at her.
"Darling, is that you? We agreed not to meet again. Are you going to break your promise, my great cosmic entity?" The ghost said. The goddess of death touched her face and turned the bones into a human face. She actually liked her human form, especially proud of her big brown eyes and upturned nose. She didn't understand why the ghost knew that she was a cosmic entity. Maybe they knew each other before she lost her memory? Maybe they had a good relationship, after all, the ghost just called her "darling". The goddess of death walked out from behind the leaves while thinking.
"Rio Vidal." The silver-haired ghost suddenly lowered her tone and threw her hair back, "Our deal has ended long ago. If you are here to harvest the souls of these poor creatures, finish your dirty work quickly and disappear. If not..." Ice crystals condensed on her transparent fingertips, "We have nothing to say to each other."
"Lady, who is Rio Vidal? Do I know you? I always feel that we are very familiar, but I can't remember anything."
The ghost narrowed her eyes and looked at the stunned teenager next to her, as if to confirm with each other whether the goddess of death really lost her memory. After the two exchanged glances for a while, the ghost spoke again: "Do you really not remember Rio Vidal?" "Her voice suddenly mixed with a kind of dangerous sweetness," or... are you playing a new trick? "
The goddess of death tried to recall everything related to this name again, but she got nothing except more severe pain. The goddess of death insisted not to fall in front of the two people. Her knees began to weaken, and she had to give her weight to the withered beech tree behind her. The rough touch of the bark came through the black robe, like some kind of cold comfort. In a daze, she seemed to see the concerned eyes of the ghost. Maybe they had a really good relationship in the past, but for some reason, the relationship did not look so good now. The goddess of death rarely received care from others. In return, she thought it was necessary to tell this beautiful ghost lady some things: "You see, as long as I try to evoke those blank memories, I will be like now." The goddess of death smiled weakly at the ghost.
The ghost's expression suddenly became complicated. She circled around the goddess of death, spread her hands as if she had let her go, and pretended to be indifferent and replied: "Well, that is a, how to say, unimportant person. So, my name is Agnes O'Connor, what about you? "Agnes looked at the goddess of death with a scrutinizing look. She was still evaluating whether the goddess of death, or Rio, really didn't remember everything.
"I don't have a name like you humans. I am Death. Or, would you like to give me a name, Agnes? Your name is very nice."
"How about Eyre Livingston? Gravel Bank River, Stone of Life."
"Me parece muy bien!" (I think it's good)" Eyre smiled, revealing a small gap between her teeth. Agnes stared at her smiling face for two seconds. Two seconds - enough time for a ghost to recall a lifetime - she stared at this smile, and her transparent fingers unconsciously grabbed in the air, as if to hold a temperature that had long dissipated.
"Then Eyre, please allow me to excuse myself for a moment. I have something to say to this Goth boy. I will let you finish your work." Agnes made an exaggerated kneeling salute and turned around by the teenager's arm.
"Agnes! "Eyre's voice caught up with her, with an eagerness that she herself didn't realize, "We can be good friends - you help me regain my memory, and I will give you..." She paused, and the promise of God turned into honey on the tip of her tongue, "Anything I can give. Maybe we have already been..."
"Maybe." Agnes waved and left with her back to Eyre.