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What is it that gives mortals the ability to persist? What makes them different from the less than sentient animal types who claw and fight for solely survival? Some welcome me arms outstretched, while others come to face me arms in hand. Almost inexplicably, they seek a greater purpose than what is obvious.
So tell me, what does it mean to live in truth? To wage war against the passing days? To pray and hope for the unseen Gods and misguided dogma to grant a few breaths more? To raise grand cities from stone, and spawn new life in turn? Mankind has done this and more. But is the tapestry you weave truly of your own design?
Can you even give face to that idea? Or do you think me another fool trying to understand? Hah, as if.
No, I am death.
So some would say I am the end of this tapestry, a tapestry woven by life herself. That may be so, I am and the end— as well as that, I am the source of meaning mortals give their life. For without death, why do you fight?
The ant builds its mounds, maintains the sanctity of its roost. They die.
The bird flies, it takes to the air and comes down for no one but itself. They die.
The wolf hunts, for the good of its newborn children to preserve the future. They die.
The only further purpose for these creatures is imbued by man, by mortals. It is not sourced from themselves or a greater purpose, a greater identity. Yet somehow, humans, mortals, mer, the sentients of the world are able to decide for themselves how they wish to court death.
Whether it be by choice, by rejection, or by apathy. Almost like I am a decision to be made, and not the ultimate end. I could not understand, I still struggle to... And man shares my view, they see me arrogantly as if I'm merely some long unforseen end and not the very reason for their existence.
Life is made beautiful by the simple fact that it ends, after all. But those who deny this fact? They will find the end even sooner.
Because the weak who court death, find it.
All except for one.
I come in the day, gliding through the grass like a silver wraith. My face is unseeable, one would only find two glowing red eyes and the barest hint of silver gray fur. I do not stalk prey, nor do I wield a weapon— but the echoing whistle releasing from my canine maw will be more than enough.
But my whistle is lighter, my visage less cruel. I enter the house like an old friend, brushing my claws upon the doormat and removing the cowl from my crown. I am met with voices and cheerful laughter, a kitten's cry and a stern grand mother's rasp, she's draped in black fur. It is not her time yet, nor is it her child's, or her child's child.
It is another's, a fact that ruminates in my vessel as I stalk through the house unseen. The candles lighting the hallways blow out as I pass, my whistle echoes for only one and not a single other soul can hear.
Slipping through the door without a sound or hint of movement, my shadow unfurls inside of the homely room. My destination. It is dark, but not dark from fear or dark from terror. A single candle light flickers on the nightstand, a cup of creme with only a single drop left inside reflects that warm flame in it's glass.
The mattress bends and groans underneath my vessel's weight, my whistle fades into a suggestion and all is silent. I finally catch sight of the figure laying at the head of the bed, a blanket covering his feline torso.
"I cannot see you, but I know you are here, Lobo." He speaks, not daring to open his eyes. Not that it would do him any good, his fur is grey, caked residue covers him.
A pitiful sight, not at all befitting for Puss in Boots, loved by one and all.
I chuckle, not fully, but a trite laugh closer to a whisper. "Well well, it's been quite some time, eh, Gato?" My voice is like a rasp.
He does not flinch, merely smiling wearily. "Long enough I think, you kept me waiting far past my due date."
"Lo Siento." I apologize, taking the glass of creme and holding it in the air. "Then you are not afraid, many a men even so-called legends just like you would be stunned silent at the sight of me on their deathbed."
"I learned long ago not to fear death, La vida es preciosa, como lo es el final." He coughed out, shaking the cracking mucus from his eyes and blinking a few times.
I chuckle again, a warmer laugh. "Ah, you do understand then. Forgive me for assuming the years would've dulled the lesson I taught you."
Puss laughs back, a weak laugh only he could make. "Ah be silent, you did not intend any lesson in our battles." He waves me off with a nonchalant attitude, almost as if I'm just a visitor.
"Hand me my creme, will ye?" He asks, almost as if I'm his servant.
But I oblige, respect is a two way street after all. A courtesy by death is rare, but I am no cruel deity.
He takes the glass greedily, hardly able to hold it to his tongue. But he does. A last act, clinging to the life he treasures so. As all should.
I take the glass from him, he thanks me as if I'm someone he admires with all his heart. The only one in all nine lives who ever bested him in a fight, it was fitting I supposed. But even as he lay, he and I both know what I've come to do.
"Tell me Gato, was it worth it?" I ask, hoping he gives me an answer that is worthy.
A pause, I almost wondered if he heard me. Half-deaf as he was-
"Yes." No hint of doubt, just a firm ode.
I smile, nodding. I raise two claws into the air, pressing them together. "Tell me then, why did you cling to life?" I ask a final question, my claws mere inches away from life.
The reflection of my silver blades shine in his old eyes, and I think I know the response he will give. "A choice is mine, Lobo, it is not you who decided that I would die this day." He pushed his head up to touch my claws, staring me in the eyes without a hint of fear.
"It was I. La muerte es mi recompensa."
"Not because my life was terrible or one I'd rather not have had, no, but because that ending is why I fight. Something is not beautiful because it lasts, yeah?"
I pause, I can feel his fur beneath my claws as he speaks. I can almost feel my canine maw curling up in a smile. "Then you know, no? That's why you do not fear me, eh Gato?"
He shakes his head, "Oh I fear you, but I fear never having truly lived even more. Without you looming over me like a giant killer mother goose, I would not have ever been able to know what I truly had, you see." He smiled soberly, a tear in his eye.
I realize at that moment what gives mortals the ability to court death like none other.
Then it is will, the will to see through and to master fate. Mortals who are the only ones who can see fate, wish to arrogantly harness it. And yet at the same time, Puss merely wished to settle it on his own terms, knowing one day it would all end and his consciousness would ebb away. Death gave life meaning, and life gave me it as well.
The time came for me to take his, and yet-
But he fought anyways, clinging to his will. "I would not have changed a thing about my life, my life is my own." He said, staring through me as if I wasn't even there.
I smirk, "Then— Is your life flashing before your eyes?" My smirk widens when he releases ankther small, trite, weak laugh. He lays lax against the pillow, his eyes flickering as if beholding a sublime wordless sight.
His answer is only appropriate.
"Yes."
The candle flickers out, and I see my love appear before me in light even brighter. She looks at me with a smile, fleeting, wavy and white. And I for a short time, I feel.
That is why I cling to life.