As a fellow observer of Song's demise, Grand Reaper Decay approached Ash with the same, stunned gaze that he tried to dim in a drink.

The morning star was her chosen tool. Its long jagged hilt pivoted between small hands. She caught her reflection in the bludgeoning orb as a brief spot-check before arrival.

These minute actions weren’t lost on Ash, who had always considered Decay a close friend and reciprocal crush, but the death of Song weighed too heavily for him to care.

Locked in his own head, he even failed to compare his daily harvest with Detritus. Their nightly rendezvous in the Wavering was unceremoniously canceled--by Detritus (who had won)--but Ash still went to the pub like a creature of mortal habit.

Stool legs scuffed beside him, then Decay’s icy body and spicate suit took its place. Ash mustered a greeting nod and nothing more.

“Ashen. Miss me?” Decay smiled with crimson lips.

“Has it been long?”

“A thousand years. And here I thought I wouldn’t need to buy you a calendar still.”

Ash grunted--his best attempt at amusement. He could feel something pulling him away, a sensation lodged deep in his gut. It prevented him from enveloping into a conversation with Decay, which he so often craved.

If Ash was feeling bold--which he wasn’t--he would have thought his scrappy, tarnished beauty complemented hers. 

After all, the Grand Reaper was arresting in an after-hours yellow dress that she pulled on over her armor. Blond coils bobbed over one shoulder and ended in black abyss. A single, black dot stabbed her cheek, just as a severe bone structure threatened to wound any who crossed her and melted the few that wanted to see beyond the shell.

Decay started: “Next time I plan to stop at the Wavering, we should--.”

“Now's far from the time for flirtations,” Ash said. He downed a dark, rich pint and fingered the air for another. Thanks kindly, barkeep. “A reaper has perished--at the behest of Time no less.”

“At the behest of Sol, Ash. Beside, Song threatened Time after several rebukes. You dislike when the immortal suffer a mortal fate is all.”

“Why drink at the Wavering?”

He had a point. And Decay floundered a response long enough that her silence was his victory. Still, being smooth, Decay lifted her glass and dropped the froth down her throat. Measured, indulgent swigs gave her time to think.

The Wavering was more than a bar. It was the closest an immortal could travel before crossing the ether to Earth. A tract without clear boundaries. As the deceased Song once said 'The borderlines are drawn all squibbly.' 

Nothing remained in focus for long, which was either enhanced or disguised by a constant flow of liquid kicks to the head. This place of ill repute, where a Grand Reaper could mingle among the lowest and slowest of new recruits if she so dared.

Why drink at the Wavering?

“I’m alone with Sol right now. The other Grand Reapers went off on an adventure and I’m stuck babysitting a god,” Decay said behind a hoppy mustache and glazed eyes. “Song deserved a better end, but he forced a crescendo.”

Ash’s head cocked, sending her a sidewinder of a smirk. “Are Grand Reapers permitted this many poorly baked jokes in one night?”

“My first chance to slip away from him and you're mocking my sense of humor.”

“Why’re you surveilling God?”

Decay’s lips thinned to a red line.

“Said too much?” Ash rose, shoving his empty glass away. Heat boiled in his gut. “We used to loathe secrets. You and I respected the balance of Life and Death. Reapers don't die. Period. Now--"

“Ash. Your mind’s going all over the place. Stay. Talk to me. Don't go to that dark place.”

“Don't follow me.”

Decay betrayed the request, of course, despite all the eyes that the argument drew. She stormed to the shivering door, out into the dimensional spitting.

Her morning star cracked pavement.

Ash was gone to the Rupture, pulled by the fragile state of his personal Love and Hatred.