A man draped in a shadowy cloak arrived at the base of a colossal tower. The ivory structure, a sentinel of white concrete, pierced the sky, crowned by a circular glass chamber that glimmered faintly at its peak. Iron bars protruded from the tower's surface, forming narrow windows that seemed less designed for a view and more for confinement. Despite its striking material and towering grandeur, the tower exuded the unmistakable air of a prison. Encircling its foundation, remnants of an abandoned playground lay scattered like forgotten relics of the past. A rusted slide leans precariously to the right, held together by screws too worn to trust. The swings had collapsed into a forgotten heap, their ropes frayed to uselessness. Old monkey bars rested in disarray, swallowed by the creeping tendrils of overgrown vegetation. Towering trees loomed, their twisting vines weaving through the scene.
The man moved soundlessly toward the front door. With each step, the nearby plants began to shrivel and wilt, their vitality draining away in his presence. The cause was simple: his scent. It was not a smell in the ordinary sense—he carried no stench of decay or filth. Instead, his aura bore the essence of death. This was not the typical smell of rot or decomposition but something far more elusive—the intangible conclusion of existence. It was a scent few could comprehend, a presence impossible to imagine unless experienced. To the ignorant, it might feel like the absence of any scent at all. Yet, it was far from that. The scent of Death could be likened to the certainty of cooked bacon: that unshakable moment of realization when one knows it is done. Not the smell itself, but the recognition of completion. Death, after all, is the ultimate finality—the destination for every traveler on the path of life. In the same way that the aroma of dinner signals its readiness, the presence of this man announced an end. The end of life. This man, though silent and unassuming, was no stranger. He was Death itself—the very entity with whom Beric had forged his soul-binding contract.
Those weary, dark gray eyes of his were unmistakable, as if carrying the weight of countless lifetimes. Strands of untidy, coal-black hair framed his face, shifting with the faint movements of his cloak and occasionally revealing the deep, eyebags beneath his eyes. One might pause to marvel at Death’s attire, especially the cloak. How could such a garment remain intact when his mere presence decayed all else? This was no ordinary cloth but the infamous "Threads of Void". Its darkness defied comprehension, swallowing the surrounding light like a black hole. Smooth and seamless, the cloak moved like the departing night, quick and efficient. Each step gave the illusion that Death floated rather than walked, giving the impression that Death was but a mere shadow that followed one’s every move.
Passing through the untidy playground full of vines and bushes, Death had arrived at the front door of the tower, a pristine quartz door adorned with intricate golden designs drawing out a certain scene. A man was kneeling, his arms stretched skyward in a gesture of worship. Floating away from his wrists were a pair of broken handcuffs, rising as if carried by some unseen force. Above him, a god hovered, radiant and benevolent, gazing down with a warm smile. But in the god’s outstretched hands rested another set of handcuffs—shimmering, divine, and unbroken.
“A renovation is due.” Death thought to himself as he grasped the door knob and swung it open.
Beyond the ornate door lay a cavernous hallway, containing at the far end a lone table. The floor, once covered in pristine white epoxy, was now ruined with grime and riddled with cracks. The gray walls fared no better, their surface fractured and cracked. Lining the corridor were cells embedded into the walls, their grated windows revealing the occasional shadow of a face. Some stared out, hollow and resigned, while others remained hidden in the obscurity of their confinement. Among the hall’s inhabitants were spectral figures, their translucent forms flickering as they moved with quick motion. They floated tirelessly through the space, scrubbing floors and wiping down walls with an almost obsessive diligence. Yet, no matter how much effort they poured into their task, the grime and cracks would reemerge, undoing their work in an endless loop. However, the futility of their labor seemed not to deter them, as they continued cleaning on as if nothing changed.
“This seems familiar…..” Death thought to himself.
Death progressed through, his presence ignored—or perhaps feared—by the toiling spirits. He moved toward the central table, where a single spectral figure sat hunched over a pile of disorganized papers. Unlike the others, this being had a more defined appearance. Skinny and slender, the specter wore an oversized leather jacket. Thin, rectangular glasses perched on a sharp, angular nose, catching the faint light and reflecting the dark gray of their hair and eyes. They shuffled papers with deliberate precision, their long, ghastly fingers flicking through the stack. As Death approached, the being finally lifted their gaze, though their hands never paused in their filing.
“What can I do for you, Master Death?” The being asked, briefly glancing at the time.
“I have a meeting with Egoros.” Death said bluntly.
“Oh! My apologies. Just go to the right and you’ll find the elevator. Upon entering, simply press the highest button and you’ll arrive at Master Egoros’ room.” The being answered as he directed Death’s line of sight with his fingers.
“Thank you.” Death flatly said as he followed the directions.
Death despised Egoros’ tower. This was because of the abysmal state of the tower, along with Egoros’ notorious lack of hospitality. His disdain deepened as he caught sight of rats darting between the shadows near the cells and a steady stream of insects crawling along the cracked walls. Lines of ants marched on, being accompanied by roaches. Flies darted past the walls, searching for any trash to feed off. There were even a few bees hovering around near the vegetation that had sprouted within the cracks. Grimacing at the scene, Death quickened his pace, heading straight for the elevator.
The elevator was a stark contrast to the decrepit surroundings, a place of unexpected cleanliness and modernity. Its sleek steel doors gleamed under the dim hallway light, and when they slid open with a smooth hiss, Death stepped into a surprisingly well-maintained space. The walls were plain but pleasant in a neutral beige, while the floor was covered in neat, industrial-style carpeting. The overhead light bathed the small chamber in a soft, calming brightness that didn’t fit with the tower’s overall theme. Entering and turning to face the panel of buttons, Death’s eyes scanned the numbers before his finger hovered over the one marked for the topmost floor. With a press, the doors closed, and the elevator began its ascent, emitting a steady, mechanical hum. For a brief moment, Death allowed himself to relax, arms loosely at his sides as he prepared for his destination. This brief period of relaxation was cut short, however, when the elevator’s speakers crackled to life. A playlist of Egoros’ self-composed “music” began to blare—an atrocious melody of random sounds and severely offbeat rhythms that could hardly be called music at all. Death’s fists clenched tightly, his jaw set in silent frustration as he endured the auditory assault. The elevator itself remained otherwise silent, its soft hum doing little to drown out the torture.
The destination was not one Death looked forward to, but punctuality was non-negotiable when dealing with Egoros. The god was known for his obsession with order and authority, particularly when it came to punctuality. Egoros loved the feeling of omniscience—knowing where everyone was, what they were thinking, and having the ability to manipulate their every move. To him, tardiness was more than an inconvenience; it was an attack on his meticulously constructed world, a crack in the foundation of his control. Because of this strange characteristic, Death made certain to arrive precisely on time. It wasn’t out of respect or fear but practicality. He had no desire to ignite a quarrel with Egoros, especially considering their complicated relationship. While their alliance was fairly new, Death wanted to honor it. Death didn’t agree with Egoros most of the time, but he saw no benefits in having a conflict with him……directly, at least.
It was at most mere minutes, but Death was very glad when the elevator made a ding sound, announcing its arrival. As the steel doors slid open, Death wasted no time, striding swiftly out into a dim, narrow hallway. The corridor was short and dark, with the only light source being another pristine quartz door, mirroring the style of the one at the tower’s entrance. Intricate golden designs adorned its surface, though this time the etched scene told a different story. In the illustration, the kneeling man now wore the shackles and handcuffs bestowed upon him by the god. He bowed deeply in submission, his form dwarfed by the immense figure of the deity towering above. The man appeared insignificant, an ant before a colossus, while the god sat on a throne, looming over him with complete domination. He rested his chin on his right fist, showing his cockiness and satisfaction.
“Egotistical fool.” Death thought to himself, opening the door.
The door creaked open, unveiling a sprawling room, containing tall bookshelves lining the circular walls. Spiral staircases spiraled upward from the floor, granting access to the lofted shelves. Their intricate railings wove a unique symmetry, creating a web-like design that enveloped the room. At the center of this library sat an office table , used to hold a sleek computer, complete with a keyboard and mouse. All attention, however, was focused on the occupant of the chair behind the table: the god of Zarvendia, Egoros. He reclined lazily, one hand flipping through the pages of a book while the other danced effortlessly over the keyboard. His legs rested casually on the desk, offering an unobstructed view of the iron shackles locked loosely around his ankles. The shackles weren’t an isolated feature. His wrists bore handcuffs, though their locks had been left undone. These accessories seemed less tools of confinement and more of his sense of style. Around his neck hung a rusty, steel chain, worn and jagged, which fit with his tattered white tunic. The god’s hair was short and white, a resolute pearl color. Despite this color, the hair seemed dull. It was stiff, as if every strand was frozen in time. His brown eyes had the same dull look, lazily scanning the book’s contents. He had wings on his back, feathered white wings that were clipped. They were useless for flight, yet he retained them. Their presence was as confusing as the god himself. No one, not even Death, truly knew why he kept them. Despite their alliance, Egoros had still not revealed the truth behind his wings.
Hearing the door open and lifting his head to check, the god’s eyes brightened seeing his guest arrive. The god set down his book as he sat up straight. “Death, it’s good to see you.” He checked the time on his computer. “And it’s even better that you’re right on time.” He laughed as he stood up to greet his guest.
Death walked up, giving the god a handshake. “I take it that you’ve been well, Egoros.” A normal greeting, which Death felt was all that the god deserved.
“Of course, of course. And I also take it that you’ve been hard at work guiding those lost souls?” Egoros politely asked back as he summoned a chair.
Death sat down on the summoned chair. “As always, I’m diligent in my work.”
Egoros chuckled, grasping his hands together while hiding his face behind them. “A little too diligent. You’ve been so quick and good at your work that I’ve even lost track of where you’ve been.”
Despite Egoros’ cheerful smile and the inviting warmth of the room, Death could feel a foreboding sense of dread when he looked right at Egoros’ eyes. Those bright, seemingly jubilant eyes radiated friendliness, yet something darker lingered behind them. It was subtle, carefully concealed beneath the gleam—a predatory sharpness, like a hunter biding his time. The god’s gaze, though outwardly harmless, carried the quiet menace of a tiger ready to pounce at the first misstep.
Death shrugged, his tone calm and measured. “Not surprising, really. With the chaos in your domain and the constant influx of new souls in mine, it’s only natural that you wouldn’t keep tabs on all my actions. If anything, that’s a positive, wouldn’t you agree? It shows we’re both fully committed to our respective duties.” He paused, his gaze lingering on Egoros, searching for any hidden intention beneath the god's seemingly relaxed demeanor. “Unless, of course, you’ve got something else to say on the matter?” Death's voice carried a subtle edge, an invitation for clarification, or a challenge, depending on how one chose to interpret it.
The silence between them stretched, a tense pause as each waited for the other to speak. Seconds ticked by, the quiet charged with unspoken thoughts, until Egoros broke it with a hearty laugh that filled the room. “You’re right,” he said, his voice rich and jovial. “We’ve both been so consumed by our work that we’ve barely had the chance to exchange updates on our progress.” He leaned back in his chair, the motion casual but calculated, a glint of curiosity flickering in his eyes. “So, now that we’re here,” Egoros continued, his tone shifting to one of expectation, “pray, what have you brought me?”
Death leaned forward. “I bring good news. I’ve handled the specifics regarding the karma of ???, and I can confidently assure you that ???’s linkage to Earth has been severed. The process went smoothly. Now, ???’s soul is directly tied to Zarvendia, erasing any possibility of a forceful ejection back to Earth.”
Egoros beamed in happiness. “Wonderful! I guess I was worrying over nothing.” With a quick flick of his hand, Egoros summoned a globe of Zarvendia. The globe moved quickly on its own, revolving endlessly in its golden meridian. “There should be no more problems. You can leave now.” Egoros threw out as he shooed off Death.
Death didn’t take kindly to that as he stood up. “That’s it?”
Egoros didn’t answer, humming away to himself as he grinned, peering at the globe.
“Egoros.”
Egoros looked back up at Death. “You’re still here? I thought I said you’re excused.”
Death was not one to reveal his emotions. Whether guiding souls who had suffered tragic, sorrowful lives or dealing with those who had committed unspeakable acts—souls whose very existence made Death wish for their torment—he always maintained his calm, detached demeanor. His face, tired yet unwavering, remained an unchanging mask of neutrality. However, there was only one person who was capable of making him discard that mask, who was capable of making him show emotions like anger. That person was none other than Egoros.
Death's sharp gaze cut through the air as he leaned forward, his voice laced with an icy edge. “I don’t expect much from an infuriating dimwit like you, but I did think you were at least capable of providing a basic explanation.”
Egoros, still with his casual air, continued to spin the globe, his tone steady and dismissive. “Basic explanation? Why would you need one? All you really need to know is that this will free you from your role as Death. I don’t see why more details are necessary.”
Death's eyes narrowed further, his patience thinning. “Last I checked, we were supposed to be partners with equal responsibility in this scheme of yours. The least you could do is tell me your true purpose in bringing ??? to Zarvendia. Consider it your fair share in repaying me for my work—hiding everything and ensuring that it all went smoothly.”
“What’s got you all riled up?” Egoros inquired with a dumb look.
Death paused to clear his throat, trying to maintain his composure. “Without warning, you summoned me to your tower to discuss a plan of yours—a plan that not only seeks to relieve me of my position as Death, but also to provide a new form of entertainment for you. Your plan entailed the concept of pulling a specific soul from Earth, reincarnating them into your own world, Zarvendia. But, did you ever stop to think about the attention that would bring? Entire pantheons were whispering about the unnatural death caused by a god’s interference. Have you considered the altercations that could arise if they dig deeper? The consequences if they uncover the truth—if they find out about our contract? The one where you planned to use a mortal soul to take my role?” Death’s voice took on a raspy voice, turning some of his words into a hiss.
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Egoros leaned back into his chair, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. “My dear Death, do you even hear yourself? You’re fretting over the potential conflicts among gods who are too preoccupied to involve themselves in this scenario. Since the Supreme Divinity’s unexpected slumber, every deity has been stretched thin, working tirelessly to maintain balance. No one has the luxury of power or time to waste on trivialities such as the forceful transport of a mortal soul to a parallel world. Parallel being the operative word. Shifting a soul to a directly parallel plane doesn’t violate any cosmic laws.”
Death stepped forward, gripping the edge of the table. “Forced" is the operative word, Egoros. You’re adding to the universe’s instability.”
Egoros raised his hands in a mock gesture of surrender. “I won’t deny the chaos gripping the universe. But you’re well aware that after ???’s transport, Zarvendia and Earth have stabilized, largely thanks to your efforts. There’s no trace of suspicious activity that would draw the attention of an inquisitive god.”
Death locked eyes with Egoros, his glare unyielding. After a tense silence, he released the table and sank back into his chair. “Very well, I’ll leave that matter alone. But, I remain adamant regarding your duty of enlightening me of your true purpose in all of this.”
Egoros’ eyes widened. “Do you seriously not know?.”
Death only answered back with a cold look.
“I had thought you would be capable of figuring it out.” Rising from his chair, Egoros strode toward a nearby bookshelf and selected a mustard-yellow book adorned with red and orange horizontal lines from the middle shelf. The title read Silria Temhen. Flipping it open, he began reading aloud: “‘Syloria Temhen was a famous swordswoman who served the kingdom of Myrkwind. She was renowned for her physical prowess and mastery of the sword, despite her humble beginnings. Born in the village of—’” He interrupted himself with a yawn, letting the book slip from his hand to the floor.
Death blinked, clearly startled. “What are you—”
“I know every single word in this book,” Egoros interjected, his tone calm but laden with meaning. He stepped on the fallen book, his eyes meeting Death’s. “Every sentence, every letter, every detail. Do you know why?”
A heavy silence hung between them before Death replied. “...You’re the creator.”
“Author,” Egoros corrected, a faint smile curling his lips. “But yes.” He plucked another book from the shelf. “And it’s the same with this one. I know everything within, from cover to cover, because I wrote it. Every book you see in this library, each of these millions of stories, was created by one singular god. Me.” He gathered a few more books, cradling them as he returned to his seat. Setting them upright on the table, he leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Death. “Do you understand what that means?”
“Of course,” Death replied, his voice steady. “Each book represents the life of a being on Zarvendia. Your method of creation lies within this library. You write an entire life—a boy or girl destined to be a beggar, a king, or anything in between. The book is then placed on a shelf, initiating the cultivation process, after which the being is born into the world. Their life unfolds precisely as the book dictates, contributing to the greater Story of Zarvendia.”
“Exactly.” Egoros’ smile brightened. “You’ve explained it perfectly.”
“You’ve already shown me how your process of creation operates.” Death said, irritation creeping into his tone. “I fail to see why I must repeat it all back.”
Egoros’ smile vanished as he let out a weary sigh. “Do you still not understand?”
Death’s eyes narrowed with a hint of annoyance. “Explain.”
Egoros picked up a book from the table, holding it up for emphasis. “I am the creator, the author of all that transpires. That means I control everything. I decide who suffers, who laughs, and who dies. I know everything that has happened and everything that will happen. The entire world of Zarvendia bends to my thoughts and actions.” With a casual flick, he tossed the book over his shoulder. “Which leads to an inevitable question: what’s the point of a story when you already know the ending? Stories only exist to provide entertainment. However, if one has full knowledge of the events that unfold within a story, how can they be truly entertained?”
“That’s it?” Death stared at him, bewildered.
“You’re not getting it.” Egoros began to circle around him. “For someone like me, bound to this world, there’s no such thing as surprise. Nothing shocks me; nothing amazes me. Everything that could ever astonish or move me is something I myself created. I am immune to sadness, anger, joy, or intrigue. There is nothing for me to look forward to.” He paused to pick up another book from the table, gazing at it with an almost tender expression. “And yet, I still create them. Their happiest moments, their darkest days, their loves, hates, dreams, and goals—all of it is chosen by me. Their families, their friends, their very existence—it’s all mine to decide.” He hugged the book close for a brief moment… then flung it away. “Just kidding. These days, I can’t even be bothered to write them out. I just copy and paste them on my computer.” Egoros swept the remaining books from the table with a dramatic gesture, sending them scattering across the floor. The room echoed with their heavy thuds.
Death’s expression shifted, the pieces finally falling into place. Recalling the fact of ???’s lack of karmic ties and of his original world, Death’s realization dawned. “That’s why you sought a soul from a different world. You wanted the soul of someone’s life you couldn't control.”
“Now you’re starting to understand.” Egoros perched himself atop the table, leaning forward, his gaze locked with Death’s. “I crave uniqueness. I yearn for something to stir real emotion in me—something to make me cry, rage, laugh, and love. I desire to read a story I didn’t write. That’s why I chose ???. I wanted someone outside my jurisdiction, a life beyond my reach, a story I couldn’t predict. Someone who could bring excitement back into my existence.” He leaned in closer, his piercing stare unwavering. “You can relate, can’t you? Your life isn’t exactly thrilling either.”
Death remained silent, his narrowed eyes fixed intently on Egoros. It was a rare moment for Death to agree with Egoros’ choices, much less share his perspective. But this was no ordinary moment. Death said nothing because, deep down, he knew Egoros was right. Despite their opposing ideals and beliefs, one truth bound them both: boredom.
Death was created with emotions, a necessity for empathizing with the dead, for offering them the proper amount of dignity and respect. Yet, even with the myriad emotions he was created with, several had always eluded him. Excitement, joy, and pride, to list a few. The few emotions he had experienced were only the following three: anger, sadness, and boredom. Anger for moments like this, speaking with Egoros, and boredom for… well, most of his existence. Sadness, however, was more peculiar. Ever since the beginning of his existence, sadness struck him deeply as he guided the souls of those who endured wretched, tragic lives. But over the endless eons of performing the same duty, the despair of others ceased to touch him. What had once been profound sorrow became a mundane, repetitive burden. Their stories, no matter how pitiable, lost their sting. To Death, it was just another day. Yet there were fleeting, rare moments that stirred something within him—something that made him question whether sadness lingered within the deep depths of his soul. These thoughts were further explored on his lonely walks, searching for the next lost soul.
Throughout these journeys, his mind would often drift to an emotion he had many questions about, love. He saw it everywhere, in countless forms. He saw it in the wistful gaze of a new soul looking back at their past, reminiscing about family and friends. He saw it in the joyous reunions of separated families, hugging each other with so much compassion and warmth. He even saw it in the wagging tails of pets reunited with their owners. He especially saw it in the tears of couples, young and old, as they found one another again. Love was inescapable, present in every corner of his endless task. But there was one place where Death never found it. There was only one spot where love seemed nonexistent. And that was, near him. It was never beside him, never behind him, and certainly never ahead. No matter how slowly he traveled, no one caught up to him. No matter how quickly he moved, no one was there to wait for him. Wherever he went, there was no one. All that surrounded him were souls—souls of those who had known love, who had been cherished, who were connected. And as they passed on, together or apart, Death was left alone. Always alone.
Death eventually discovered the reason for this lack of love and connection. The answer was very simple. During one of his countless walks across Earth, observing the lives of its inhabitants, he stumbled upon a wedding. It was a beautiful ceremony, held in a grand church adorned with soft hues of white and yellow. The air was fragrant with the delicate aroma of roses, lilies, and orchids. Guests dressed in their finest attire filled the seats, speaking in hushed tones as they awaited the arrival of the bride. Intrigued by the scene, Death decided to linger. After all, no one could see him. He chose a secluded spot at the back of the church, blending into the shadows as he observed. Time seemed to slow as the chatter subsided, and all heads turned toward the entrance. Following their gaze, Death’s eyes fell upon the bride. She moved through the doorway with an ethereal grace, her pristine white gown flowing like water. The intricate lace and embroidery shimmered beneath the glow of the chandeliers, captivating everyone in the room. Death’s attention shifted to the groom standing at the altar, his expression one of pure devotion. His eyes glistened with unspeakable adoration, as though the entire universe had been reduced to the woman walking toward him. For a fleeting moment, Death felt something stir within him. He couldn’t help but allow a faint smile to cross his face.
The priest’s voice was calm and steady, giving a beautiful speech about the importance of love, commitment, and partnership. Then, it was time for the vows. The priest started, "Do you, Sarah, take Tyler to be your lawful wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?"
Death’s smile quickly went away as he heard those last words. Till death do you part?
“I do.” The bride answered.
Death tried to regain his concentration and to focus on the wedding, but those words echoed through his mind. “Till death do you part. Till death do you part. Till death do you part.”
The priest continued. "Do you, Tyler, take Sarah to be your lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?"
“I do.” The groom answered.
"By the power vested in me by the Church and the state, I now pronounce you husband and wife."
The groom and bride shared a kiss, and an eruption of cheers filled the air, vibrant and infectious, reverberating throughout the space. They walked hand in hand down the aisle, their faces alight with joy, as petals descended from above, a flurry of color marking the climax of the celebration. Every guest rose to their feet, clapping and cheering for the beautiful union. Death found himself clapping along with the crowd, swept up in the contagious energy of the moment. But it was short-lived. His realization struck him like a cold gust of wind, and the hollow gesture suddenly felt meaningless. No one could see him. No one could hear him. And then, as if on cue, the words rang out through the church, reverberating in the air: “Till death do you part.” Death froze, his hands halting mid-clap. His eyes widened, and the weight of those words crashed down upon him. He understood now. In the midst of all the joy and celebration, there was a grim truth hidden within the vows. Marriage, the pinnacle of love and unity, was always destined to have an end. The greatest symbol of love, the most joyous and sacred connection between two people, could only be interrupted by one thing—one person. And that person was Death.
When Death came to this realization, his thoughts drifted back to the countless long walks he had taken, alone, observing the lives of others. He remembered those fleeting moments when he questioned why he had never known love. Why, despite being created with the capacity for emotions, was he never allowed to experience the emotion known as love? It was now that, finally, he had found the answer. It was because he was Death. How could Death ever discover love, when he was the one to end it? How could he ever be loved, when all he did was sever connections, pulling souls from their bodies and casting them into the afterlife? Sure, some might argue that Death would reunite lovers in the afterlife, but even then, it was Death who had torn them apart to begin with. The harsh truth was undeniable: Death was the end of life. He was the end of the love that made life bearable. It only made sense for him to be forbidden from love. He was never meant to experience it. His role was not to love or be loved, but to guide those who could.
As Death resumed clapping, something unusual happened. A wet sensation began to trickle down his face. He froze, his hand instinctively reaching up to touch it. When he pulled it away, he was stunned to find the unmistakable trace of... tears? At first, he couldn’t believe it. Tears? He had never shed a single tear in his existence. It didn’t even make sense, especially at this moment. This was no time for tears—this was a celebration, not a sorrowful occasion. But as he examined the wetness on his hand, Death knew he wasn’t mistaken. These were genuine tears, which he knew very well. After all, he had seen tears countless times in his work. On the tiny faces of infants just beginning their lives, on children nursing scraped knees, on teenagers mourning the end of relationships. He had witnessed tears of joy from new parents watching their newborns, tears of pride from those sending their children off to start their own journeys, and the quiet tears of the elderly facing their final moments. Even now, he saw tears on the faces of the wedding guests, their joy overflowing as they watched the bride and groom walk down the aisle, bound by love.
Death paused, watching as the bride and groom walked into a future together, bound by love. He turned his gaze to the guests, their faces filled with joy and tears alike. Then, he glanced at his own hand, noticing more tears falling from his eyes. His vision blurred, and he sank into a seat, surprised when his nose began to run, causing him to sniff repeatedly. He crossed his arms and leaned forward, attempting to regain control, but this was the first time Death had ever cried. He didn’t know how to console himself. He tried to imitate the actions of the humans he had observed, but nothing seemed to work. Was it that, for it to be effective, someone else needed to offer him comfort? Whatever the cause, his efforts proved futile as his sobs grew uncontrollable. Even as the bride and groom left, Death’s tears continued. Even as the guests departed one by one, he remained, crying. And even when the church was completely empty, Death was still by himself, sobbing away. Death continued to weep, even when he knew that there was no purpose in it. No one could see him. No one could hear him. No one could… connect with him.
In the midst of his weeping, Death came to another realization. Life only holds value because of death. It is the knowledge of an end that makes the journey of life meaningful. This is why people strive to live their lives to the fullest. The same can be said of emotions. Happiness exists because sadness exists alongside it. Anger arises when one loses their calm. Courage is born from overcoming fear. And love is sought because of loneliness—because of separation, isolation... and death. No one wants to face their final days alone. Everyone yearns to have familiar, warm faces around them as they take their last breath. Death understood this… but now, he understood something else. The electrifying rush of happiness, the soothing warmth of love, and the deep value of connection are all cherished because of him. It is because of Death that people come to value these things. It is because of him that they pursue them. Without Death, would they truly chase them with such urgency if there were no end in sight?
Death wiped away his tears and stood, silently making his way through the halls. He passed the reception dinner, briefly pausing to take one last look at the beautiful sight before him—the sight of humans connected through love. A faint smile graced his lips before he exited the building. As he walked away, he passed countless people, even bumping shoulders with a couple, but it didn’t matter. No one could see him. No one could hear him. No one could connect with him, neither physically nor emotionally. Before continuing his journey to the afterlife and returning to his solitary walks, Death paused as another thought crossed his mind. If Death was the reason people cherished their lives and the emotions that came with them, then Death would enhance that. He would become ruthless and corrupt, embracing filth and brutality as he ended lives, severing connections with no remorse. He would dirty himself, covering his entire being in the fear, blood, and suffering of humans, all so that their lives could shine brighter in the fleeting light of their lives. He would exist alone in the dark void, toiling away with just his forsaken self, all to make humans live in the light. If he couldn’t feel love, then at the very least, he would use his existence to make people cling to their lives harder, love deeper, and value every fleeting moment they had. He had finally understood the true purpose of Death. And with this final realization, Death surprised himself when he began to laugh. He was even more surprised when his laugh turned into a maniacal laugh, tuning out the sounds of those near. The surprise didn’t end as more tears began to fall, causing his laugh to become distorted. Of course, none of the humans walking nearby noticed this bizarre display. No one could see him. No one could hear him. No one could guide him back on the right path.
This was the first and only time that Death has ever shed tears.