A Descending.

                                           Vivamus, moriendum est.

                                                                         Let us live, since we must die.

~

Since the beginning, Death has known two absolutes. 

One: all things strive to live and survive, the instinct burned into their very DNA.

Two: all things die.

It is inevitable, after all. It is an unconquerable force, a monster, a reaper, a snake, a devil. Through the ages, humans have been so endlessly creative in coming up with interpretations of it, and it enjoys their feeble attempts to put a name, or image, to its nature. Thanatos, Hades, Anubis. Death. They are afraid, always desperately worshipping their gods, their Eros, coming up with their stories to avoid what they know is there, only to shrink in horror as it welcomes them with its open arms.

Yet, there are also those who defy such norms. There are humans who pine for Death, who long and worship the concept of unbecoming, of destruction and ending.  These humans are rarer, but it is so very curious about them. Occasionally, it fulfils their desires, morphing and descending down into the earthly realm, just to see why anyone would ever yearn for it. Why would anyone worship Death? 

~

It met the boy mid-winter. Very poetic, it thinks, 'tis the season of decay and sorrow, of nature's eternal struggle to defy the snow and cold. Some may say it was fate or destiny, but Death only knows of itself. Even though the human was already some time in their twenties, to it, he was nothing - a boy still fresh in his decades, wet behind his ears. It came up with a convincing story, moving into a new apartment to live alone for the first time, a hopefully endearing motive to capture the boy's attention. And thankfully, the plan worked. Although Death was a stranger to love, there was something undoubtedly recognisable in the boy's eyes - a sparkling of emotion as his pupils widened and contracted, a million thoughts compounded into one as a future flashed in a singular second. He was smitten. Love at first sight, as the humans liked to say. 

Yes - Death smiled to itself. Yes, this would work nicely. 

~

In the mirror, a girl stared back at it. Death never knows which form it'll take. Sometimes, it's the person's greatest fear. A giant spider, a clown, Mr Grim Reaper itself. Other times, especially to those who harbour such subversive thoughts of self-destruction, it is the very thing that is most tempting for the person - an ideal companion. So here it is, a delicate little girl, face all heart-shaped and adorable, round eyes and full lips. It was almost comical, Death itself being reduced to such a caricature of hopeless romanticism, and it would have laughed if the situation was any less serious. Oh well. If it could stand being cast as Lucifer, it would bear being a girl, an angel, fluttering down from the gates of heaven, to relieve this boy from the pain of existence. 

~

When spring came, the boy brought Death on 'dates.' They would go out, to parks, museums, shopping malls, canyons and mountains and plains and grass fields. Death has never seen so much. Most of its' trips down before were of a liminal nature, where its' victims were always in their locked rooms and secluded hovels, hiding from the world. Now, they saw the earth in its most vibrant season, a world of rebirth and becoming, of a vibrant greenness that seemed at odds with anything and everything Death stood for. For the first time, in a long time, it relished life. It cradled blades of grass in its' soft hands and felt the wet soil which smelt of petrichor. It swam in deep oceans and running lakes, the water serpentine and cool with a brisk clearness, and spent hours talking to the boy under a theatre of stars, each speck of the cosmos signalling a new world of beginnings and endings. 

They spoke of many things; emotions, dreams, and memories. 

Things that Death does not have. 

Childhood, friendships, promises made and unwound. 

Things that Death does not have. 

But one thing in particular caught Death's attention. The boy spoke, quietly yet confidently, of a loneliness. In the darkening night, his voice was like a torchlight, shining in its luminosity as he recounted days working in his office cubicle, days walking home in a musky heat, days labouring, days sleeping, days dreaming and dreaming and days never-ending. Days that kept on happening just because they were days and that's what days are like. 

"Days in and days out where you are all alone." 

"Isn't that a good thing?" Death asks. "No one there to bother you, no one to ever question you, no one to hurt you." 

The boy smiled. 

"To quote a favourite author of mine: when nobody wakes you up in the morning, and when nobody waits for you at night, and when you can do whatever you want - what do you call it, freedom or loneliness?”

Death thought to itself. 

"Well?"

"I don't know..." 

I don't know. 

~

Somedays, Death went up to the roof of the apartment block to stare at the city. Specifically, it stared at the humans below, moving about and living out their happy little lives. So flippant, so whimsical, it watches the couples doing their window shopping, the delivery men rushing, an occasional cat sleeping. It...it feels something. But Death has no feelings. That is a simple fact. So why? 

Why? 

It decides that he doesn't want the boy to die. At least not yet. He should live out and experience these little things; to watch the sunrise again and sing to tunes on the radio, to play and frolic and dream. To dream. Dream. 

So it says goodbyes. It sends the messages over LINE, bidding farewells. But every time, the boy rushes back from wherever he was and clings to Death as if it were a lifeline, tearing up and begging. 

Death, a little uncertain now, makes up excuses. It borrows from silly stories it has spoken of before, of people who see Gods of Deaths and those who worship it, those who love it. 

"Because the God of Death is calling me." 

"There's no God of Death!" 

"Why don't you get it...?!" 

"Don’t look at the God of Death, look at me!"

Death stares at the boy. It really looks into those hollow eyes, red-rimmed and desperate yet authentic. This boy really loves...it. This boy...loves death. Its' phantom heartstrings jerk, unnatural and illogical, and it gets an idea...

"No...!"

The boy squeezes its' hands, a little hard. 

"Ow...!”

"Ngh! Sorry..." 

"The God of Death would never do that...!"

Yes, but it will do something much worse. 

"Why...?" 

The boy begs and cries again. This is the fourth time he's done this. 

"I'm sick of this. I'm tired. I just wanna die!" 

"I wanna die, too!" 

So come with me, beloved. Let me be your God of Death. 

Realisation washes over the boy's face, and a clearness returns to his once blurry eyes. 

"So...you finally figured it out?" 

"Yeah...I finally get it." 

"Really...? Phew." 

At least this trip wasn't for naught. 

"Then shall we?"

"Yeah, let's go." 

Together, our bodies sit flush against one another as the chilling wind howls its satisfaction. The city bustles and hustles in the evening air, and neon lights lit up an otherwise starless sky. There is no more heat, the humidity dissipating. 

In order to escape from it all, we descend, running into the night.