As Foolish’s new equal and companion came into power, he set out to pass on other responsibilities. Next on his agenda, to get rid of deem another worthy of controlling the domain of Death and Respawn.
100 years. It took one hundred years and he still can’t find a suitable candidate. With the End, he knew he could trust xem to be inventive and stay true to xeir original motives, as the End highly values it’s community and commitments. But with Death and Respawn, he keeps finding people who abuse it! The ones most closely tied to death and are around it the most are either those who treat it and comfort the living or those who actually cause the death. Neither of those is fit for such a demanding job! Dying and respawn is not about those left alive, or the power to manipulate life and death. It’s about making sure the transition for the spirit runs smoothly and that they reach the beyond they deserve and desire! Honestly, how does no one understand this???
Perhaps, his mind offers, it is because you’re the only one who experienced it. He shoves that thought away but it persists as he continues searching. It's isolating, and sad, so he won't linger on it. He needs to focus on those around him, not on himself. But that hasn't gotten him very far yet. He swears, he’s crossed the entirety of his Creation and he still doesn’t have any candidates!
“Wait. Narration, go back a bit, what did you say?”
What? That you feel isolated and sad?
"Ok, uh first of all, you're wrong-"
Perhaps how your searching hasn't gotten you very far?
"I wouldn't really say that, but-"
How you crossed the entirety of your Creation but still haven-
“Yes! My Creation!"
He bustles out of the town he’s in, passing by the villagers that looked at him funny, making his way into the trees and towards a creek. He drops onto the bank and starts frantically scooping up mud, sculpting, digging, frantic in his realization. He pulled stones from the creek to be eyes, molded a body, plucked the feather from a crow that was picking apart a dead fish nearby to brush off bugs. He breathed life into this new person, and gave them as many traits as he could think of: Dependability, slightly detached understanding, appreciation for life and the living, rule abiding, loyalty to him, friendly, listing and listing and listing.
He figured the basic details they could pick, but right now he just needed to get this burden off of himself. He speaks to the clay person, telling it the rules, the job it will have, the harsh burden of loving his creations and watching them all leave into the stars or forget him and no one lives as long as us and it will be lonely and crushing and you will never find what you're looking for and he stops babbling when he feels a hand on his cheek.
He looks up to see a woman, sitting up in the clay, hair void black and shimmering like the feathers of the crow on her shoulder. She has a soft, kind smile on her face as she wipes his tears away. When did he start crying? He apologizes but she shushes him, patting his shoulders until his sobs turn to sniffles. She stops to look at her surroundings, surveying. She stands up, spinning in a slow circle as she takes in the trees, the birds, the ants, the water. The sky. Oh, the sky. She stares up into the deep abyss of the sparkling sky, eyes reflecting the stars and she reaches up as if to hold them. When she realizes they are out of her reach, she studies the crow that is perched on Foolish’s shoulder while he pets it, and closes her eyes. He feels the weight of some responsibility lift from him as she launches skyward on ebony wings, arms stretched out to hold what is hers.
She flies past the tree tops, past the clouds, past the world limit itself as she greets the spirits in the stars. She flits about different clusters of those who passed, those in limbo, those who decided to stop respawning. She interacts and directs new stars to where their cluster is just as she was made for.
You are new, the spirits say, what shall we call you? We all have a name. She contemplates for a moment, two, pulling at the darkness around her until it forms a cloak and a dress, a quiver of shooting stars and an ebony bow. She nods approvingly at the spirits surrounding her before turning to look over the world. The moon casts her shadow onto a world glimmering with souls, alight with life, and she gives her simple answer with a smile.
“I am Death.”
