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The sun is merciless- its scalding gaze pressing down upon the beings below, urging them to hide away. To retreat to the dark interiors of their nests. To seek solace in cool bodies of water and the lap of waves against sandy shores. The droning of insects gone oddly quiet as the earth turns to center the British Isles beneath the fury of blazing gas and infernal flame. Asphalt and concrete soak up its heat, gleefully throwing it back in ethereal waves specifically designed to scorch foolish feet and unfortunate palms. Already the grass yellows and withers. The leaves on every tree appear more sun-bleached by the hour.
Save those on the Dowling estate….the plants there know better than to wilt even under the pressure of Britain’s hottest, recorded summer.
Here as the gardener strolls among the luscious summer roses, amidst the scent of hydrangeas and petunias in full bloom. Steps perfectly precise, back ramrod straight- a captain walking through the ranks of his soldiers before the coming war. A stubborn ‘not-scent’ lingers over the bright fragrances, stifled slightly by the heat. Gloved hands reach out in retaliation towards this unseen and heavy presence, to gently stroke leaves and petals, offering encouragement with kind words and that little bit of something extra an ordinary gardener couldn’t provide.
This ‘extra’ of course pales in comparison to the effect of the nanny’s heels clicking over the brick walkways. The harsh glare of a gaze that makes the longer-lived plants remember cruel winters where ice and snow had buried the tallest of their limbs. And as if that did not suffice, then the whispered threats hissed between sharp, venomous fangs would make even the dimmest dandelion quake with newly realized fear.
Death grins from the shadows- though he can do little else. Content for the moment to watch as a patch of struggling begonias find themselves next in the firing line.
Off to his right the screech of saws and the chunky punch of staples into wood drowns out any entertaining commentary he might’ve been able to decipher otherwise. The small band of workers continuously battle the heat, oblivious to his presence as they rush to finish the work on the Dowling’s gazebo. Sweat soaks their clothes, paints tracks through the sawdust coating their arms, and makes its way down foreheads to salt-sting their eyes. Hired to put new shingles on the gazebo’s roof and patch up a few leaks- they’d pushed the small job off towards the later end of the day.
And now in the oppressive heat…first one- than another falters in their work.
A hammer drops from a gloved fist- thumps against the ground and knocks over a tin of roofing nails before it can be caught. An older man stumbles, curses out a lineage of foul words as he tips back butt-first into the dry grass.
Nanny Ashtoreth smirks knowingly…then pauses.
Death reaches for his scythe.
The old man picks himself up with shaking arms and wipes his trousers, grumbling all the while. Groans as he leans over to pick up his scattered tools. The heat of the summer sun stretching across the back of his skull and down his spine. His head goes swimmy for a moment as he rises back up and staggers over to the gazebo’s shade.
Death moves closer, out of the shadows of the old elm he’s been leaning against- the bark slightly rotted where his back’s been pressed against it.
The drone of hammers and laughter hangs on the humid air as the nanny-shaped being scans across the garden, serpentine tongue flickering out hesitantly…as if she already knows.
Alec- the oldest gentleman on the crew stands off to the side now, wiping the sweat from his brow and letting his weight fall fully on the gazebo’s banister. He bears the laughter with a stiff grin and a few choice words, but his brown eyes are glazed over with exhaustion. Even in the shadows the heat is stiff, stagnant, and oppressive- the very air itself is congested and feverish.
Death moves closer…
The heat beneath the gazebo’s awning is nothing compared to the open-air oven of its roof. From his place off to the side, Death can make out the radiating heat coiling off the black, plastic lining and the dark green shingles. A young, twenty-something named Dylan Weatherford is working through the blurred cloud of heat, laying those shingles with far less precision than he had started with. He’s rather new at this job so it’s taking him a bit longer to get his part finished. And though he’s not unused to the heat of the sun, it’s admittedly becoming harder to get the work done when the metal of his tools warms enough to singe his fingers. By now his skin’s a bit raw, his mouth dry, a dull pounding in the back of his head gradually growing- but the sooner they get this job finished- the sooner they can all go home.
In a blink of non-existent eyelids, Death is beside him.
Dylan pauses, squints through the heat in Death’s general direction and the cloaked figure yields…sometimes they can catch a glimpse of him near the end. Though it’s not the perception of the man crouched uncomfortably on the roof beside him that’s made Death hesitate. It’s a breeze, a miraculously sweet-smelling wind blowing in from the east, carrying with it all the scents of the garden and that something extra that’s kept the plants bright and attentive despite the scorching sun and accusations. It hits the back of the lad’s bare, sweat-slicked neck…and he shivers with the welcome change in temperature. Takes a moment to pull down great gulps from his thermos, suddenly remembering it’s beside him, instead of sitting in the grass by the work truck. And if there’s ice-cold water in it and fewer scrapes and scratches across its surface, Dylan doesn’t notice the strangeness of it.
Death cocks his head like a confused hound, his turn now to scan the garden spread out beneath him. Almost instantly he finds the Serpent watching him, gaze golden and unblinking behind tinted glass. Black pupils narrowed to thin lines in the glaring sun- with just a touch of fear. The Guardian stands beside her now, having finally hunted down the reek of death within the confines of his garden’s artfully trimmed hedges.
The angel’s gaze flickers between Nanny Ashtoreth, Death, and the youngling crawling down the ladder to the safety of the ground below. Death watches as the Principality wrings his hands, hands that have nothing to do but fiddle with the muscle and bone beneath themselves, now that there is no book or sword to occupy them.
Death nods quietly…beaten for the moment he offers a polite, yet shallow bow and slips off back to the shadows to watch. The gardener blinks back- not quite sure of himself in this particular moment, but his hands unwind and find their place at his sides as he approaches the workers. Finding familiar work to steady himself with. Nanny Ashtoreth scowls and follows after, saying something to Brother Francis as they walk, he nods in reply. With that, she turns and disappears through the hedgerows in the general direction of the manor.
How ironic…
How ironic it is that the warrior is the one to prevent death, rather than to cause it. What irony it is that the Serpent who brought about the temptation- a temptation that has led to the punishment of thorns, rocks, and blistering sun; would be the one to offer a reprieve from it. Death watches, keeping a mindful distance from a struggling rosebush as the workers are persuaded to take a break…no miraculous interference necessary on this venture, he notes. Watches as the workers allow themselves to be ushered along the same path Ashtoreth had taken not but a moment ago. Watches as they are led into the cool air of the Dowling’s home, greeted with cold drinks and cold-cut sandwiches.
Death watches from the shadows, but he does not partake- not yet.
After all Mr. Weatherford only has seven more years…in fact, every mortal being both on and off the Dowling’s estate only has seven more years.
[Dylan Weatherford does not notice his brief dance with Death, however he does miraculously change careers three months later. He finds he sells cars far better than he shingled roofs, especially sleek, black cars with lots of little zeros on the end of their price tags.]
And besides, Death has never liked arriving early- it’s generally seen to be quite rude. He knows that for the humans- anytime is really too soon for his arrival, though Death supposes if he had as little time as they, he’d be stingy with it too.
He’s unwanted among the mortals- and out of place beside the immortal. They are of Creation and he is quite literally The Shadow of Creation. A reflection of the Void that lies beyond all sense and certainty. An entity forever resting In-Between life and death, creation and oblivion. Neither alive nor dead, whether or not anyone opens ‘the box’- though what ‘the box’ is he hasn’t the faintest clue.
[Someone once told him it had something to do with cats…but he’s never quite been able to wrap his mind around it. Though he’s quite sure that the same someone had tried to explain it to him at one point- he didn’t understand it then and has almost certainly forgotten most of it by now.]
Though in all actuality, the point is…
...the point is…
How can Death be neither alive nor dead? The question bothers him sometimes, but his job keeps him too busy to think on such things for long. And he knows he can make his appearance more human-like, can pull air unnecessarily into his useless lungs. Can feel the beating of a redundant heart. But his existence does not rely on air, or food, or drink. He does not tire or sleep. He simply is and has always been.
Death partakes of humanity as if they were a warm fall day; laden with the smell of decaying leaves, petrichor, and mushrooms poking through the forest floor. Revels in the bright colors of autumn, the banners of trees and other plants made all the more vibrant the longer and harder they battle the coming cold. A war that is fought in vain every year as if they stood a chance of winning.
This is his impression of humanity as one year- then two- then three slip by.
Still the ever-present question remains, after all…
...how can Death be said to live as the immortals either? Created long before the first storm came crashing down upon the heads of Adam and Eve, upon the wings of an angel and a demon perched atop the Eastern Gate. Born among the shouts and screams of his kind as they’d torn one another part- War bathed in gold and sludge-black, rather than the crimson she would adopt later- standing unseen amongst their kind as she pointed fingers, whispered lies and half-truths into once innocent minds, all with a gleeful smile spread across too-sharp teeth. In comparison Adam and Eve’s banishment from the Garden is tame…planned- if he dares say so? Perhaps it is the same with the odd pair that have trailed after one another since the first drop of rain hit Eden’s walls?
He’d noticed them then, his bare, bony feet sunk into the wet sand- the newly severed soul of a lion clasped in his palms…the first casualty- the first to fall this time around.
He’d seen them for a moment before the rain drew its thick curtain between them, obscuring their forms from view. “How odd”, he remembers thinking- though he hadn’t given it much more than that.
[Death had never been much of a great thinker, even though he had borne the greatest of mortal minds from one realm to the next- knowledge irrelevant to his assigned task was quickly drowned out by his rather endless work. Sometimes he’d arrive at answers to questions he had asked himself centuries after the fact, when he’d undoubtedly, long forgotten what it was he really wanted to know. Only realizing that he’d figured something out by the sensation of a deep self-satisfaction echoing around in his old bones. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t curious…that didn’t mean he didn’t think at all.]
Time ebbs forwards, as does Death- the hours diminishing with the turning of the Earth.
He often wonders if he’ll simply cease to exist once the last mortal soul passes through his hands- or if he will remain until the Void swallows every conscious and unconscious entity. Every angel, every demon, every bit of stardust, and space rock zooming round and round each other.
He knows this is the reason the others do not approach him…they fear him…shun him.
A vagabond among his own kind.
For his existence is different than theirs and they sense in his presence the ending of their own existences…a shadow which they cannot rid themselves of.
For how can a shadow be slain? How can Death take his own soul? Collapse unto himself like the Black holes- the rips in reality strewn about the Universe? So, surely then he must be alive- at least conscious? What he tells the boy ‘who-was-not-what-he-was-made-to-be’ is true…to destroy Death is to rip the very fabric of reality into. To destroy everything that was, and is, and will be…and that is not how the game is played.
Death- an ineffable, integral part of Her game’s mechanics.
So, still he remains even after what was meant to be The End; over six-thousand years of loyal service and most of what it has earned him is infamy and fear. Even those he works beside- the other horsepersons- flinch away at his approach. Though their tasks mingle and coincide there is always a layer of distrust behind the overtly formal greetings- a forced nature to the conversations that should feel comfortable after all these millennia.
But War needs fresh, live blood to stir conflict…cold bodies do not wield rifles or launch missiles into enemy ranks. Stiffs laid out on stone slabs have only ever been good fodder when there’s someone left to argue over them. Though as she’s proven, she hardly needs the humans to continue her own little ‘game’. Heaven and Hell both provide her with plenty of entertainment. And Death knows that she will gladly ‘play’ with whichever side manages to win the coming war- right down to the last remaining pair.
But what then?
Pollution feeds off society- is in fact a product of society itself and its ever progressing march towards the dark and cold of humanity’s final hours. A monstrous creature fueled by a factory of living, breathing humans churning out mountains of waste and refuse. Dedicating their entire lives on creating finite items that if not consumed- and even then- will one day be useless, broken, or simply used up garbage. Pollution is perhaps the youngest of the lot- but is not by any means weak. Fragile perhaps…but definitely not weak.
Death wonders if Pollution will manage what many humans believe is impossible, what every day is looking more and more likely. If the earth can truly be damaged and drained to the point of no return. Though he knows Mother Nature is a force to be reckoned with- a force of Life as much as of Death. Can feel the shudder ripple through the air when their eyes meet- after all Pollution can smell it. Mushrooms and green growing things pushing up from the remnants of dead leaves, bits of beetles, and bones slowly churned to dust by the hands of time.
Famine too is a construct reliant upon the living- one can no longer starve if one no longer needs nourishment. If one has in-fact become substance for worms, bacteria, and all manner of miniscule organisms.
The Immortal need not eat…Famine will be the first to fall.
War will outlive Pollution, but even she cannot out-live Death.
How ironic
How morbid
How morbidly ironic it is that each, even Death himself- destroys what it needs in order to survive. They think themselves so much greater than humanity and yet they are exactly the same. While the mortals burn their forests and dry up their wells- War racks up her body count. While the short-lived burn books and sacred knowledge; the near-infinite threaten war over the delicate creation they made together and have been tearing apart ever since.
Death marches through the fields and lanes bringing in his harvest…until the final stalk of wheat is laid low.
When there is no one left to fight the wars, then it will be Death’s job to lead War into Oblivion.
Secretly he prays for that day to never come with as much fervency as the others…something that is looking a little more likely after the Nope-aggedon The whole of reality would indeed be so very mind-numbingly boring, down-right depressing without its ‘Thems’ and ‘Johnsonites” and “All-the-ones-In-Between’ to give it color.
Death likes to think of himself as on “Team In-Between” as he doesn’t really fit in anywhere else. And if that puts him unofficially on the same side as the humans and a certain renegade duo he doesn’t much mind.
Oh, Death might very well be the End-of-All-Things; Bringer of the Void; Un-creation Incarnate.
[Which in itself is a tremendous oxymoron]
Yes, Death can be cruel…can be a right bastard according to some sources. But when he can…it feels…good? To be kind. To be gentle.
Yes, he lingers outside twisted metal cages among the heat of flame and the reek of burning chemicals. Stands amidst shards of shattered glass to the tune of car alarms, the unending wail of mechanical creatures bent and broken with thousands of pounds of force. Listens to sobs, the choking gasps as mortal frames fail- as blood and bile fill up lungs and pool across the asphalt.
But he’s gotten rather good at snatching souls out of the air- so that they never feel themselves hit the ground. Stretching his influence out enough that children miss out on the gruesome bits- fall unconscious- go limp and plaint so their young frames avoid some of the injury, their delicate minds sparred some miniscule amount of trauma. Though he knows that they’ll meet him inevitably; whether it be in a few hours, weeks, or years.
He comes for the babes warm in their parents’ arms, tip-toes into the rooms filled with tears and wails to scoop up unblemished souls. Comes for the ones born too small or formed incorrectly the same as the healthy ones who’ve run out of luck. Cradles them in his bony arms and whispers of green saplings rising up from moist, rich soil. Sings soft lullabies of the passing of seasons and the never-ending autumn that is humanity. This is how he takes them softly, sweetly, as gently as Death can; the healthy ones with belly’s full of warm milk, the sickly ones, the starved ones- the ones beaten, broken, and abandoned in their helplessness.
The ‘caretakers’ of the later variety do not meet kind fates when Death comes knocking, these souls are the type he is all too pleased to hand over to Hell.
Death lingers in the hospitals, waits politely outside rooms with little white-placards and printed out posters asking visitors to wash their hands. Families weep together or sit in stunned silence by bedsides, in offices, and waiting rooms. The ticking clock beating out the ceaseless seconds as fragile bodies waste further and further away. Death drawing closer in spite of the machinery fixed to flesh and blood. Life and Death dance in the hallways amidst the scent of bleach-cloaked sickness to the soft murmurs of voices and the beating of heart monitors.
Presses a ghostly kitten into the phantom arms of a child, whose body is buried four feet beneath cinder blocks, splintered beams, and the ashes of a life cut short. Takes the men and women who’ve fought Plague, War, Pollution, and Famine all their lives upon his shoulders. Slowly pulls souls from mortal flesh, freeing that inner light, lights each so unique and stunning that they easily triumph over more finite things. Reign victorious over stained glass, flawless crystals, even the light of all the stars combined. Admires the imperfections- the scrapes, the cracks, and bruises that get cast across a soul’s surface with the prize of living.
Eases them out of the shackles of mortality with the hands of a skilled craftsman.
If they’re truly free after that or not, has always been their choice- not his.
He sits beside the beds of the old and grey- holds hands, knowing that his grasp is the one that makes theirs colder, yet also the one that eases them to sleep. He walks the streets of every city among the shadows and the mobs. Paces the quiet deer-paths of every forest. Comes and goes in quadrillions and quadrillions of ways. His existence is a chorus of death-rattles, of flat-lines, of soft gasps, and sounds which have no name.
Yet, they did not notice his absence when an angel stepped into hellfire. Did not realize until long after that he was never there to begin with…
Neither did they question him when he failed to take his reserved place as a witness in the make-shift Court of Hell. Only shiver in fear when they look back and remember the empty chair left for him during the demon’s trial and the cold fact that he did not return after collecting the imp.
If they ask him, he’ll simply smile and politely tell them that he hadn’t been needed then.
What he won’t say- but is undoubtedly true is that Death is secretly very glad that the Earth’s still turning. Not merely because his job and existence is secured by its continuing revolution. But that it brings him great joy to continue his journey through the harvest-colored halls of humanity.
It also brings him quite a bit of amusement to see Life settle more solidly around the shoulders of two man-shaped beings. The very same entities that have played their hands…or perhaps in this case, their faces- well enough to avoid him. Death gives silent thanks and prays that they will continue to evade him, for the rest of eternity if the three of them are lucky enough to have it.