Death is used to the living fearing them when they come to take the living to the next world. But this living being, as they lay waiting for Death's hand to take their pain away, holds out a simple silk flower, enchanted so Death may hold it close. This being's way of saying thank you. For in the end, Death is usually the kindest being of all. -- Anon Guest
[AN: I am using everything in my power to not steal Sir Pterry's version of Death and having them TALK LIKE THIS.]
They say Death is cruel. Death is harsh. Death is cold and merciless and an enemy of life. The problem with this is that life needs Death. Every living thing eats, one way or another. In order to eat, they also have to kill.
Without Death, life would be in misery.
That said, Death is only doing their job. Making certain that life can persist. It is not necessarily cruel, or cold. It is merely a process, like all other processes. Just... one with a personality.
Belief shapes things.
Agrarian cultures picture Death with a tool for harvesting. Scythe, sickle, reaping hook... even an instrument meant for lifting beets out of the ground. Those who use it know what it is.
Even without the harvest metaphors, Death is often a skeleton. Not merely because that's what happens to bodies after Death has come to visit. If one wishes to stretch the metaphor, it is because Death waits inside us all.
As for the gender... Death is many things to many people. To the young soldier, Death is a comely lady. Luring him away to the next life with her charms. To a mourning mother, Death is a cruel nurse, taking a child before it's grown.
To the old and worn and weary, Death is a kind doctor who takes the pain away. Forever.
Witness one old fool on the brink of passing Beyond. They have done much to extend their life. Healthy diets. Potions. Meditation. Philosophy and philosopher's stones. All but the most vile methods. That time is coming to a close all the same.
In their studies, they have come to understand Death. And in understanding, extend their pity for the loneliest creation in creation.
So, as a final act, they have made Death a gift.
When Death came for this old fool, they came as a bright young child, eager to show them something new. Happy to see them somewhere they could play.
"There you are," said the old fool. "Before I go, I made you something. You can take it. It's all yours."
It was a flower. An imitation of life. Carefully wrought so that it looked alive.
Death, shocked at the kindness, still hesitated. They usually didn't touch the things of the living world.
"I added a touch of necromancy," said the old fool. "Just enough to make it part of your realm."
The flower passed from the old fool to Death's hands. This won't win you extra time, they said.
"I know," smiled the old fool, who peacefully died. The spirit leaped from the cooling body, young and happy to play. They had, after all, spent enough time on their homework. Will you play with me? Just a little while?
Death fixed the flower to their black robes. Yes. I have a minute or two.
And for some reason, on one world amongst millions, Death wears a delicate little flower.
[Image by Han Chenxu on Unsplash]
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