Chapter Text
He had been eager to accept the invitation to dance with his old friend all those years ago. The dance of change and intrigue, his friend had whispered, his voice shrouded in the dust of ages past. The final dance, the stars in his eyes and the shadows he commanded had sung in whispered warning. Whatever the offered stood for, Rudolf had been happy to accept his hand. (Perhaps he had wished for the second; for his cold friend to lead him to peace and silence and a comforting sleep in the cradle of the earth, as he had not known comfort in his life).
So he had taken a hand which felt like ice, and he had followed the music, hearing the song of missed opportunities, and so Rudolf had danced with Death…
But peace had not been granted to him. Now, in clamor and despair, he danced still, with all the other shadows of the sunken world, the harsh melody of limbo seemingly endless around him.
Was it a wonder, then, that he would follow when the traitor came again, his presence enough to silence for a moment the ruckus of hell? Could he be blamed for kissing so hungrily those sweetly lying lips, for rejoicing in the taste of moonless nights and eternal regrets that clung to them?
And Death had frowned at him, and shook his head, and Rudolf thought he knew, for once, what thoughts took form behind that mask-like beauty: how could he, dead and cold and as useless in hell as in life, still kiss with more warmth than was found in Death’s entire being?
The eternal dance was Rudolf’s punishment; the eternal distance was Death’s lot. Against such destinies, their friendship of deadly silence and the memory of comfort became more valuable than even the fires of life.