Even While Dead /--/

/--/

    “If I touch them with my bare hands,” he whispered into the dark, “they will die. There is no way to fight it, and there is nothing I can do to stop it.”
    “True,” his father amended, shrugging. All that was visible were his cold, dark red eyes and his pearly white smile, the teeth filed to wicked points. “But you must understand that it is for their own good.”
    “Why must you do this to me?” he asked, bleakly.
    “My son, you are but a child with many, many years ahead of you. You are unique among beings. You have power mightier than any man. What more could you ask for?”
    “Love,” the boy whispered, sadly.
    “Love is for the weak and the foolish,” his father spat, the air around him becoming heated with his irritation. “You need it not, and you shall not have it. It would cause you to fail in your duties. Now go from my sight. I wish to see you no more. Your presence angers me now.”
    The boy bowed stiffly and turned to leave. He stopped in the doorway and turned back to face his father, fighting the tears that threatened his eyes. “I forgive you, father, for the things you force upon me and for the duties you have made mine.”
    His father stood and threw a hand toward the doors, which burst open. Through sheer will, he threw his son from the room and sent the doors flying shut again. He sat back on his throne, heavily, brooding. The boy was being ungrateful again.
    Death rubbed his temples, growling softly to himself. “Nothing,” he muttered, “is as simple as it should be. Even the loyalty of blood is questioned. What a world…”