Hard Days

The crib was very small, especially framed against the dark bulk of Death beside it. His black mass shuffled quietly up to the ratty thing, ancient when the child's parents were new and not cared for overly well.

A problem shared with the child, mused Death.

The room grew cold around the dark, skull faced spectre. The few pictures frosted, the carpet became stiff. But Death smiled, and reached in to the crib with warm hands.

It was a trick he saved for only very special occasions.

As he raised the child up to his face, it giggled. Death smiled widely, an act that would be imperceptible to most creatures in the universe, but somehow the very young had a nack for noticing.

And Death liked that very much.

He cradled the child to his shoulder, and began to bounce gently up and down, lulling the thing back to sleep. It was not long before the giggling stopped and the heavy breathing of sleep returned. He wrapped the child in the folds of his tattered cloak.

Death moved to the door, and grabbed his heavy scythe with his free hand, still cradling the infant lovingly.

"Time to go, little one." He whispered to the warm bundle on his shoulder, expertly cradled. "This is not your story."

And with that, the two departed, passing through the screaming match in the kitchen while Death cooed softly to the child to sleep.