Words From the Dead to the Living

4: Statues

Many of your kind mistake life and death as opposites. Truly, they are statues, hands clasped for eternity.

Life holds her left hand against her chest. In it she clutches the crescent moon, a curved blade whose two sharp edges cut the delicate skin of her hand and wrist. Her golden blood stretches from palm to elbow. A single drop splashes down onto the moon at her chest, dying it to match the sunset behind her.

Death holds her right hand open, bloodless gashes running the length of her palm. In it is placed a star, shining dully but with great power. She blinks once, eyes cracking open through the stone. I single tear slides down one cheek; where it touches her, her skin changes to the color of coal. Sparks light themselves behind her eyes, flames licking her cheekbones. On they dance, oblivious to the fatal water right below them.