It is. That was the first memory.
. . . and it is.
They find each other many spheres apart, many leagues in between and eons past.
Are you real?
Opposite and the same, when they collide Existence shivers. Ripples form. Nothing shall ever be smooth again. Always, there remain those swells. Alike as they are, the differences delineate them.
Never leave.
First, it is Time, in memory and the like. Next, it was Space, in vast and indeterminate quantity.
Then, it was Sight, of each and Existence. Contact and connection followed. Knowledge is constantly, continuously acquired, more and more as they abide. Proximity was tested, concepts such as boundaries, the truths of themselves, the extent of their influence, examined.
You are, and I am, but we are not the same.
Communication was a bridge slowly built. Every moment spent close is another stone in the arch of such a structure, for as they continue so too does Existence. So too does. . . reality.
They become themselves. With each other, side by side, they happen.
Life. I am Life. I Begin.
There cannot exist a beginning without an end. There was a beginning.
There must be an end.
I am that which ends. I am Death.
Sky was his favorite so far. He did not care for soil or sea nearly as much as he was captured by air, by the concept of flight and being without being down. Up, he liked. Up was beautiful.
Down was unpleasant.
Brighter, he suggested, and Life obliges. The sky turns and is wheeled about, and it was brighter in his sight.
Better? Life asks.
Yes, he replied.
Creations are spun and released possessed of the ability to fly. It was inherent in their very being.
Very nice, he said, and it was the first compliment.
Life turns and reciprocates joy, and that was, is, and shall ever be the first smile.
It was bestowed upon Death.
Soon it was tiring to behold, and he wandered apart. Never was it too far, too great a distance. Even as he sought change, he abhorred it.
Never leave.
Life continues in his exploration, but that was never to be for Death. Within and without, there existed no trace of creation. He was; he is; he shall ever be, but he will never bestow.
You are, and I am, but we are not the same.
He was always present, and he always will be. At the start, it is Life ahead, Life abounding and most powerful. In the beginning, it is Life, but beginnings cannot survive. Every act which starts, which Life creates, is an act that will perish. Every beginning must needs have an ending.
And he will ever be that ending. Life will grant himself over and over, innumerable feats of creating and summoning into form Existence where before there is none. But in the ending, it will be Death into whom Existence will turn and come to reside. As the finish will come near, Death will abound, move ahead.
At the end of Existence, Death will become most powerful.
And Life it will be who resides in the shadows, never to be loved, never even to be thought of.
For there will be nothing outside of Death. All will be within him.
Including Life.
That is new, he observed.
Yes, Life replies, and what do you think of it?
Big was what he thought. It is interesting, he said. What exactly is it?
I am unsure, Life answers. So far, it is unlike everything else.
That was the truth. Until that moment, nothing in all of Existence even remotely resembled that upon which they now look.
You must be careful, he suddenly warned, not yet comprehending the full meaning of his words.
Life smiles in response, his fiery orbs in every shade and hue rising at once to brighten reality. Careful, Life muses. He appears to test the word, savor it, before once again bestowing his light upon Existence. You have been busy, he remarks, and it is fondness.
Caution, Death urged again.
I cannot, Life confides, and it is the first whisper.
That upon which they now look shifts, rolls, quivers. They hold their breath, watching, and that new creation was change. It was the start.
It is the soul, Life abruptly pronounces. Is it not beautiful? he asks, his suns, moons, and stars burning and searing with his intensity in that moment.
It is, Death answered, looking only at that brightest of lights, most brilliant of beings, pinnacle. . . of splendor. It is beautiful.
And that was the first happening of desire.
He roamed, eventually returning to a strange sight indeed. Where before there had been but a few pale imitations barely aglow, now there burned an entire cluster. The soul had multiplied, amplified. It had. . . grown.
What is this? one asked aloud as he passed. What be you?
My brother, comes the answer. Death looked and it is Life burning brightest, his joy blinding the little souls, the little replicas. Life is here; his being is encircling and surrounding. My brother, he repeats.
Fondness was what Death thought. It is good to see you again, he said. He and Life are separately together once more, and he hesitated before again looking at the souls.
They are more, Death observed.
They are numerous, Life enthuses. They shine so now that more become every day!
Souls, Death said as he studied the little imitations.
More than that, Life shares, and it is again a whisper.
Death did not like whispers.
More? he asked.
Come, Life suddenly bids the little things. Speak to my brother!
And the replicas inched forward, their flames dim next to their maker's.
Speak! Life commands them, and it is again fondness.
Only it was more also, more than fondness.
We Are, one of the imitations boldly declared, and Life reciprocates joy to it.
I am, another one proclaimed.
And I, the first one responded, I am too!
Death looked upon the creatures, so tiny, delicate, young, vulnerable as they are, and was amazed. They are not imitations alone, he realized.
They are extensions together, alike and different, each to the other. The little one that burned most brightly was the same one to question him upon his arrival. The biggest was the first to assert itself as. . . unique.
They have become, Death realized. They truly Are.
Life is blazing, but now the little ones did not huddle or shy away from his bright light. Now they came closer, gathering together so tightly against their maker that they gathered together against Death as well.
Tell him, Life urges his little ones. Tell him what you call me.
The biggest one again raised its head. It looked at Death.
Father, it declared, and all the other little ones rushed to agree and repeat the word. Father, they all chimed, gazing up at Life with that same more-than-fondness. Father, Father, Father.
Life continues to burn in joy. In that moment, his is the first happiness, and the first pride, and the first more-than-fondness.
It was, is, and shall ever be the first happening of love.
And it was for those tiny creatures, those souls.
Those. . . angels.
The little ones were capable of flight, Life boasts to him. He has made them that way for a specific reason.
Because of you, Life confides, because you enjoy the air.
Many thoughts passed through Death, but he offered gratitude. My thanks, he eventually said.
Life glows in response, his light even somewhat illuminating Death's being. Those little ones were not present, for which Death also offered gratitude, albeit the silent sort.
He did not care that such things could fly and navigate the air. He looked upon his brother and another thought passed. That one he also acknowledged silently.
You have done remarkable acts, Death said, at which point Life's glow brightened considerably. Your souls are varied and fascinating, he added. I am honored you thought of me in their creation.
Life reciprocates utter joy and happiness at his words. He encircles Death again and his fire sets Death ablaze as well as himself.
Such was the first act of deception.
Time was never a consideration of his. He never worried over its passing, its pace, its path. He never worried at all.
Life does. Life is beset with worry. His is the first anxiety, the first apprehension. His is the first fear, the first concern. He frets over his little ones constantly. He worries about every aspect of them, from their basic construction to their permanence. He works at improving the little beings, creating more and more in his efforts at perfecting them.
I want them to be as we are, Life confides in him once. I want them to be. . .
Complete, Death supplied.
Precisely, Life responds. He once again shines in his joy. Ever it is that I seek your understanding, he muses. Now he surrounds Death, magnifying and strengthening his being simply by his increased proximity.
And ever it is that I will understand, Death replied. As Life moves and encircles, so too does Death endeavor to hold and contain. The result was both the first and the last occurrence of such a happening between them, between any two beings.
It was the only occurrence of that happening, the only true occurrence in all of reality, all of Existence. Everything after was just another act of deception.
This time on the part of Life.
Many measures of Time later, Life attempts to duplicate that happening, degrading, betraying, shaming, and mocking the very act itself in the process. Kiss, his ersatz beings eventually came to call it. They kissed each other, a grotesque parody of that happening Death and Life had shared. It is, every pathetic reproduction of it, an abomination.
It is, every incidence, an insult. That happening they shared, he and Life, was different from anything before, present, or still to come. It was two beings becoming one. It was unique. It was, Death had thought, the birth of something new, and he had been half of it. He had helped to. . . create. Or so he had thought.
Fondness becomes desire becomes love becomes one. Everything else was disgusting to his eyes. Soon everything else turned into everything. The happening changed, turned unpleasant, and it was the first of ugliness, of disgust, of revulsion.
Death learned more truths about himself, about Life, Existence, and reality, from Life's betrayal. Life creates, and recreates. He bestows and binds together. He unites, ties, forms, lifts, sets. Life changes. . . everything.
And Death was his exact opposite, in all aspects save one. He defeated and ripped apart. He dissolved, split, ceased. He destroyed. But whereas Life creates more endlessly, inescapably, compulsively, Death destroyed. . . and chose to do so upon each occurrence. He was, and he is, and he shall ever be.
He too creates, in his own way. His own happenings, firsts, occurrences, are such that Existence tears itself apart, even should he not be present. It seeks to aid him in ending itself. His was the first desire, deceit, jealousy, anger, hate. His was, is, and shall ever be Death.
Life is Life. He is opportunity and hope, but he is never the answer.
Life can only ever be the question.
Returns unto eternity, one of them snidely remarked to another, and It shall find no welcome. The listener laughed, as both stared at his passage.
Death swept past them, but could not resist a small display. The speaker's wings he nudged on his way, and the little thing cried out pitifully.
Father! it whimpered, falling to its knees and clutching at its blackened feathers. Father!
The listener was stuck in indecision, simultaneously staring down at its brother in shock and attempting to remove itself from Death's path.
Death smiled, even as the largest now made its appearance. Summoned by the shouting and pathetic crying of its brother, this largest, oldest one arrived in a flurry before him.
Greetings, it offered to him, briefly bowing low in a show of respect. Our Father awaits you, Powerful One. It gestured behind itself with grace and poise even as its brother writhed and wept below it. Death found himself rather intrigued.
What have you become, little soul? he asked, moving closer to better study the creature.
It bowed again, lower this time and enduring. I have become myself, it answered, quietly. Then as Death moved still closer, this largest of its kind dared to look up. I am become an agent of Heaven.
Death reciprocated amusement at that. Heaven? he repeated, expanding as he smiled. Is this what you and your brothers have come to call it? Heaven, he mused. The little one on the ground still clutched its benighted wings, and its companion still remained motionless beside it, but in that moment all of Death was absorbed by the largest of Life's souls bowing before him.
And what have you and you brothers come to call you, little soul? Death asked. What name is bestowed upon the oldest?
I am called Michael, it answered, still looking upon Death unflinchingly.
And I am Death, he responded. I am without like or match, and there is but one who shall ever be my equal. Take care, Michael, he warned, moving so close to the soul that he felt its being against his own, that your brothers do not step before me.
Yes, Powerful One, Michael acceded.
Death then reached forth and restored the crying soul's wings. He left Michael to stand guard over that little, obnoxious soul. Unto eternity, he mocked, parroting its words back to it, my welcome is irrelevant. Naught in Existence is capable of barring my way. Little beings should be more. . . chary.
Ye- yes, Powerful One, it whispered, and Death scowled at it before once more turning his course ahead.
He left the little replicas to themselves, knowing with very little passage of Time they would hold themselves high yet again. They had no diversions, no difficulties. Life presented no challenge to his little souls. He left them to their own devices and in their boredom they resorted to squabbling and bickering amongst themselves.
These souls had clearly been ignored for too long, left without Life's guidance and calming hand.
Which begged the question: What had Life so busy elsewhere that he forgot and abandoned his beloved little angels?
The meaning escapes you, Life solemnly pronounces, his focus returning to this newest of hideous experiments.
No, Death denied, it escapes you. You are blind and ignorant of virtually every implication of this. . . thing. Have you any idea at all the damage such a construct will cause?
It is beautiful, Life replies, and at first Death was convinced he'd gone mad, such was his certainty that the observation did not answer his question. But then Life bends closer to his creation, and the light coming from within the monstrosity blinked and shifted in a way. . . completely unlike the soft glow emanating from within Life.
No, Death denied. No, it cannot be.
Is it not beautiful? Life asks. He is now looking only at Death and there is the shine of knowledge in his being. He recalls those words as clearly as does Death. Both of them recall everything with perfect clarity.
But in this occurrence, Death could not look only at Life and answer that it is indeed beautiful. Now he could not say anything but the absolute, horrifying, sickening truth, even as he longed to keep it to himself.
You have created your own undoing, he said. This is even now worse than your petty souls out there will ever be. You are a fool.
I bestow upon Existence infinite possibility and endless opportunity and yet I am foolish? Life responds, incredulously. This is Existence, reality itself, right here, he says, holding up the disgusting thing in his hand. It is here within the within. I have made another! Existence inside Existence. Can you not see? Life suddenly asks him, setting the thing aside gently and coming closer to Death. My angels are me. They are part, and. . . as whole as I can make them, but they will never be different. But this, he says with a wave towards the new creation, this is separate. This is not me, and it is not you.
Life bursts suddenly into brightest flame, and it burned Death as they stood close. It was painful, but he would not retreat.
It is an abomination, Death stated.
No, Life denies, it is not. And you cannot see, so I must tell you. We two are reality. We are foundations upon which all else rests. Everything, everything here is either you or I.
Yes, Death acknowledged.
But no longer, Life whispers, and his being latches tightly onto Death. This thing you disparage is not I. It is not you. I formed it out of everything and it is instead like us.
No, Death started to say, but Life silences him. The fire rises around them and each truth Life speaks is its own tongue of flame.
I have created another us. I have formed another Being. That which you see behind me, he says, is our brother. It is different. I do not change it anymore, Life confesses, and yet it is changing. Even now, as we are here, it is becoming.
It is a lie, Death snarled, a trick. His own power rose up against Life then, and he gladly dampened that insufferable light of his with barely a thought. It is just another one of your attempts at difference, he accused, and it is just as much a failure as your angels and their kiss!
What? Life whispers.
I see what they do, Death sneered, pushing his control and forcing Life to step back. I see their idiotic, absurd attempts at creation and I see you at the center of it.
It is not creation they are attempting to accomplish, Life starts to deny, but Death interrupted him.
It is you in love with yourself, Death finally said, voicing that which was solely truth and not at all his desire. They are you, he explained, extensions of you. When they perform this act, it is you. It is you. . .
No, Life interjects, all at once refusing to be pushed back any farther. He remains and even pushes closer. No, he argues, it is not just me. His light, his constellations, spark again and his brightness begins filling Space once more.
It is, Death whispered. It is your creations receiving from you that which I never will, that which I never have. That which, he added, holding Life's being close to him for what was, is, and ever shall be the penultimate time, I think you incapable of giving or bestowing upon anything not yourself.
For you are beauty, Death told him, and you are light, but you are not perfect. You are not whole, and so nothing you draw forth will ever be whole, either. Nothing will ever be worthy of your. . . love, nothing but those fawning facsimiles with which you surround yourself.
You speak only from jealousy, Life eventually replies, pushing him away, because you can create nothing. You resent my being what you cannot.
I do, Death acknowledged, and I shall forever. I envy all that you cause and sustain, but I can no more create, nor ever shall, than you can now destroy, or ever will.
And Time slowed, its passage a veritable crawl, as Death looked his last upon pure Life unto eternity and the end of Existence.
I can abide you no longer, he said, for even I am bestowed an act of creation.
That of cruelty? Life ruthlessly demands, his light now blasting upward in a tower of flame and heat.
Death smiled, grimly. No, he replied, cruelty was ever mine. You have conceived for me misery, grief, sorrow. Yours, my brother, is pain, a blessing to me in my every endeavor. I extend my gratitude for such a gift.
Your presence has ever been painful to me, Life retorts. I could not escape such a happening when continually beset by a being incapable of continuing even the smallest of constructs. It is a failing, he ridicules, one for which I greatly. . . pity you.
Another gift, Death replied. Ever the embodiment of generosity.
Leave, he is told, and know that your place here is no longer.
My place, Death repeated, the memory of the incident with the angels replaying in his thoughts. No, he said, turning away and ending that moment forever, my place was never here.
Nor shall it ever be.
The truth was his constant, his own disciple. It stuck by him and he saw it ever. Existence changed again, and was changed. Life took on new Space, new meaning. He released his disgrace into reality, and Death's warning became truth.
First was Death in Life's regard, but then he was replaced, improved upon. The soul was brought forth, with its many ranks and varying behavior, forever kneeling and salivating at its creator's feet for the scraps of affection thrown down to it.
Not enough though, not for Life, not for Father, Maker, Creator on High, never enough for him.
The new construct came forth, and where Life anticipates great devotion to it on the part of his sycophants. . . only scorn was stirred within the little things. Their wings did shake, but not in awe. Their tiny faces displayed shock but not wonder, and it pleased Death to note such shock was not. . . the herald to attachment. Rather, its opposite. Life effectively replaces those little souls with yet more ugly creatures. It was gratifying to Death to no longer be the sole discard. If studied carefully, with Life's own words taken into consideration, his act in brushing the angels aside in favor of his new construct took on an even more wretched truth.
Life is his angels, and they him. He throws them aside, and he is rejecting himself. He is ignoring his very being for the sake of some meaningless thing not even yet truly become. It was appalling.
And Life hates himself for it, if the manner in which his angels revolted against him were any indication.
It is indeed somewhat satisfying to now belong with Life again in a way. They two are superfluous next to that newest of things. They become second, third, in Existence, and Death's constant was truth. He knew his position. Ever shall he follow Life; ever will he come after.
He is last, and with every new creation, every new becoming and being, he is pushed further away. He must bring up the rear. He must move back. He is the end, the conclusion. He cannot come before.
A new function awaited Death with the expanding of that construct, however. The thing constantly changed, just as Life says. It expands, contracts, turns, explodes. It begins growing somehow within itself, over and over again, a multiplying like that of tumors enlarging and swelling before then bursting forth to spew corruption far and wide. It is disgusting, but somehow Death could not turn away. He was fascinated despite his revulsion. This construct truly was unlike anything else in Existence.
He hated to know Life is right, hated the truth he could see when looking at the thing. It is different. It is unique and separate.
But it is not perfect. In some ways, it is even less so than either he or Life. The thing expands and bubbles forth rot, and when Death came near it. . . a strange occurrence always took place. It was another truth, and one in which he reveled. Death, endlessly repulsed and yet utterly intrigued, once stretched forward and did make connection with the hideous construct. A curious happening resulted, and ever since is recurring.
Death it was who could actually change the very being of that thing. He affected it. It is not Life, is the truth, but Death who caused the construct into becoming. And it is not Life with his little souls, his insipid angels, who is ever able to influence, speak, manipulate, and change the very composition of the construct.
It was Death, and it is he, and it shall ever be he. Life tries, but his attempts are pitiful, laughable, short-lived. Life interferes and it is ungainly. Death it was who became so small that a single touch of his being upon the construct could alter Space and Time, and no knowledge of his presence was ever perceived. A brief connection to a single growth, a lone tumor, and the very essence of the being shifted.
He enjoyed playing with it. He found it amusing. Occasionally, he would spot one of Life's little souls flying about on its wings, attempting with all its might to change the construct. He always laughed at the poor things, trapped doing their creator's bidding while wishing only to see the ending of such a thing, such a creation.
Such a world, the little things came to call it. Other words were applied, galaxy, universe, an entire system of terms describing the interior of the thing. In truth, there were many worlds within the construct, many galaxies, many universes. Only a handful of each proved consistently entertaining, however, and of those only seven consistently responded pleasingly to Death's touch.
He discovered on one world that both he and Life were known. The construct was, if only parts of it and to only a certain extent, aware of their presence. Akin to Life and his angels' habit of labeling everything, the growths of this particular world even referred to Death and Life by names. The names were not their own names, of course, but rather a specific, recognized combination of sounds easily expressed by the small growths in some manner. This was a unique occurrence, Death had wanted to think, unique to that world in that galaxy.
But the truth was, it was not unique. It was an eternal pattern. Such an event occurred again, later, on a different world in a different galaxy. Then, the happening was once more, on yet another world. And then another, and another. All different names for him and Life, all different growths and different worlds.
And the beginning of his ending occurred not on any of these worlds, but on the last. The last to grow, become, form, the world that was to be Death's instrument was as primitive, ugly, and distasteful a thing as had ever been or shall ever be. Earth truly was, in every sense of the word, dismal.
Something about it, though, stirred even Life's souls into an uproar. The little things flew around that world as though it personally insulted them. They commenced in-fighting within the world and on up into their Heaven. As a result, several of the little ones fell to the surface of Earth, collapsing instead into little cancerous growths themselves. And that brightest one, that one that Death recalled had ever found it difficult not to speak its opinion, that little soul Life forcibly expelled from his Heaven. The mouthy little one became trapped deep within the construct, its self-pitying wails ever spilling forth from its prison and affecting the small tumors above and all around it. Death found the crying of it abrasive, annoying. He grew tired of its complaining, and the truth as his companion was that he had once touched that little one. Sneering and insulting as its words had been, Death found he truly regretted having blackened the little thing's wings in response. If only temporarily, the truth was he hadn't restored all of that one's brightness. Perhaps he felt he. . . owed that one something because of that truth.
Perhaps, that bright one was simply. . . bored, and Death had something it could do.
So Death sent the slow, cruel, little soul the something, and that quieted it somewhat.
Even after that great tumult of angels revolting against the world, the growths to spring up from the surface of Earth were still constantly beset by the interfering little things. Death touched quite a few of Earth's tumors right away, simply in an effort to spare them the anxiety of having to deal with Life's bothersome proxies.
Interference escalated, though, becoming maneuvering becoming efforts at control, and eventually, though Death would never have thought it possible, the small tumors of Earth. . . rebelled. They began fighting back.
Against Heaven. And that truly was a first.
Earth was, is, and shall ever be the only world to refuse both Life's will and Death's influence upon it. The tumors became especially strong on that world, and Death thought it had something to do with the bright one's screaming and railing beneath them. Never before had Life out and out thrown away one of his souls. Some of the little ones had chosen to leave, and Life had set them free, bid them farewell with gifts and that disgusting kiss of theirs. But to trap one? Ever would that confound Death. Life's actions there were unknowable. Nothing in all their long Existence together had prepared Death for the fury he witnessed in Life towards his brightest little soul.
And of course the truth was that bright one was Life himself, to some degree, which always compounded the negative in any outcome. Cruel, Death thought, ever afterward.
Life has learned cruelty, and cruelty against himself. It wasn't much more Time before that same cruelty in turn manifested itself amongst the little growths within the construct. Life attempted to hide his truth from the small things once and for all, but they were not fooled. So Life twisted the growths, manipulated them and cut their Time in half. Soon, the small things were coming to Death so quickly that he found it actually somewhat taxing to keep up with them. More and more of them, did he send down to the bright soul inside Earth. And still the growths came, falling down rapidly and in greater numbers than ever before.
Life was cruel to the construct's growths, but Death was not. He took great pleasure in treating the small things kindly. He touched them swiftly and fully, not lingering or drawing it out, and it was truth as his companion that Life found it infuriating.
It was an especially young growth who first called him by a name. From the construct, the child was grown, but Life had shifted parts of the tiny thing into different shapes. Pain, Life had gifted that young one, and soon its form could simply take in no more. As Death began to pluck the growth from the construct's grasp, it spoke to him. It called him a name.
He was the only being to hear it, and it remained that way for much Time. Other names were spoken to him, but none truly his. He heard Life's name, and others the growths used for him. Maker, they did call him, and Lord. The incorrect Earth was a popular one, but also numerous were the references to light, hope, and even sometimes his real name. Life, the small growths would sometimes say.
Death, they also said, and he ever reciprocated joy to those little ones, gathering them close and setting them free.
Life's angels continued to muck about the world, until one day several of the things rapidly converged on a specific point within it. Death followed them, seeing the truth and knowing it as yet another abomination. Life, he could see, was calling forth an empty growth from the world and, as though that weren't shameful enough, then proceeded going about the task of. . . stuffing as much of his being into it as he possibly could. It was repugnant. Death stayed until the growth could hold no more, and then he withdrew. He would be no part of such an act. That was not creation. It was violation, another attempt by Life to create perfection.
When the tainted growth later drew near to its ending, Death did not immediately draw it close and set it free. He was cruel, letting the thing hang on its wood planks for much lengthier a period than he ever would have allowed any of the others.
Please, the fake growth pleaded to him, its very being spilling down onto Earth.
No, he answered. You deserve nothing from me.
But soon he did take it to its ending. He was not as strong as he had thought, not as resolute, and he always knew the truth. Life, in all his forms, is simply too bright. He could not ignore or deny him. He was, is, shall ever be Death. He could not change, no matter how much he desired it. What he was, he always would be.
He would always crave Life, and Life would ever try to resist. They would ever be together, and forever apart.
It just was.
. . . and it is.
Angels flew on Earth, and Death on three occasions again saw that oldest one. Michael, they called him.
Death stayed away. Too much like his maker, that one.
The world's growths continued and spread. They moved across the world and back again, becoming more than they ever had. Death would sweep away from Earth in Time and Space, journeying back and forth between other worlds as needed. Upon his every return, that last of the construct's worlds would be different, different from the other worlds, different from itself. It ever was changing, and it was the only one to do so.
And those growths to spring up from its surface, ever were they changing as well. Death watched, taking and freeing those he wished, and still the things continued.
Still, they flourished, changed, truly unlike Life or Death in every way.
Praises did he hear to them both. Words from the creatures' mouths and hearts were gifted to him and Life, but it was true that Life received a greater number.
Praise be to God, the little growths would proclaim, their tiny arms waving and their eyes bright with Life's fire. But in their final moments, in each one's last breath, the small creatures begged, prayed, and sang for only one thing, one being in all of Existence. Peace, they would whisper desperately. Please, Peace.
And he would oblige. He was ever understanding.
He was the end of them. He was their Peace, their rest. He took all their gifts, experiences, knowledge, truths, and in return he set them free. In a way, he gave them a gift.
He gave them Peace, which Life, God, their Lord and Savior, never ever does.
Though they may cry and beg for his help unto eternity, Life will never give it. He cannot. It is not within him to give. Only Death could ever affect the construct's many parts directly, permanently. Only he was capable of true connection.
He was Peace. He was the ending for which every being in Existence reached.
He was, is, and shall ever be the only answer.
I am Death. I am. The End.