Death - Brings back War

The dull black of Chaoseater, not entirely buried by the dirt, shone as a dark spot against the gray of the earth.
Chaoseater. The blade that not only feasted on the carnage and havoc of battle, but fed that power directly to War himself. The sword that was, however marginally, bonded to its wielder’s soul.
Death dropped his brother in an undignified heap and reached for the sword, focusing with every sense in his possession …
Yes!
It was almost nothing, the faintest ember of War’s essence. Little more than a trace, it remained, slowly fading away, in the spiritual conduit between Horseman and blade—much as a narrow trickle of water might linger in the pipe between two interconnected basins that were otherwise dry.
No, Death could not restore life to the dead, but if a spark of life were to flare from somewhere else …
He knelt over the body, placing Chaoseater in War’s fist and carefully closing the fingers around it. A chanted invocation, difficult and peculiar, followed by a long silence. Death felt an odd pull from a direction he could not name, unlike any of the spirits he’d ever summoned before. It felt … not as if the soul was fighting him, precisely. More that this, one of the strongest souls he’d ever felt, was simply uninterested in allowing any outside influence to alter its course.
“I have never yet encountered a spirit strong enough to refuse my call,” Death hissed between chants. “I am damn well not going to let you be the first, brother!”
He redoubled his efforts, and then again. Two of Death’s fingernails cracked, so tight was his fist; a trickle of black, glistening oil, the residue of his necromancies condensed and made manifest, bubbled up from behind his ivory mask.
The body twitched. Once only, so slightly that Death almost missed it, but it happened.
He had War’s soul. He had the last fading ember of War’s life. The first he could infuse into the body without difficulty, but the second? How to coax that last flare of power from the conduit linking his brother with …?
Ah.
Ensuring that War’s hand remained tightly wrapped about the hilt, Death leaned over, lifted Chaoseater by the blade, and rammed it deep into his own chest.
Agony bloomed through him, a flowering vine of poison and thorns. He grunted once but otherwise held himself still, refusing to let the pain overwhelm him.
Which, given how much worse Affliction had hurt him back in the White City, wasn’t actually all that hard.
Chaoseater fed on the injury, the violence, albeit self-inflicted. Fed, and passed that strength on to its wielder, carrying the lingering embers of life along with it.
War’s body rocked in a violent spasm. A worm-like plug of old clots wiggled obscenely from the open wound, followed by a brief spurt of fresh blood and jagged fragments of what might have been Black Mercy’s projectile. He groaned, a deep and juddering sound, attempted to sit up, and collapsed back onto the dirt.
“Steady,” Death said, sliding off Chaoseater and sitting next to his brother. “You were close enough to have studied your reflection in the Well of Souls. Go easy.”
Again War struggled to sit up. This time, he managed it, though he appeared as though he’d keel over at any moment. “Perhaps …” It came out as a feeble croak. He coughed once, spat a gobbet of clotted blood and dirt, and tried again. “Perhaps you should have left me dead.”

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Chapter 26