narrowturnip

[narrowturnip]

The night was still, and the only sound was the erratic breath of a man who had been running for far too long. His torn, bloodied hands trembled as they pressed against the walls, seeking any support to keep him upright. He staggered deeper into the chamber, his pulse clashing with the screams thundering in his ears as the battle waged above him. He could feel his legs threatening to give way at any moment. Each breath was a battle, shallow and desperate, yet he continued to push forward, straining as though there might be one last hope just beyond his reach.

He dropped to his knees, the cold stone floor beneath him slick with the crimson of his own blood—the stench of iron filling his nostrils. His eyes darted around the darkened room, frantic, searching for any sign of salvation—only for none to heed his desperate cryll. Only the shadows seemed to watch him, unblinking and silent.

“Someone!” His voice cracked, raw with panic. “Anyone, please! Help me! I have done no harm! I... I don’t deserve this fate! Please—there must be someone... anyone who can stop this.”

His hands reached out, shaking uncontrollably, as if hoping to grasp the very air itself, to hold onto some shred of life that had already slipped through his fingers. The shadows shifted, as if to respond, but no answer came.

Then a voice, calm and deep, pierced the silence. It wasn’t a voice of terror or malice—no, it was something else, something final.

“Fret not, mortal,” it spoke from the darkness, unhurried but certain. “For the hour comes for all men. Your time, like it will for all, has run its course. No cries nor pleas can alter the way I must tread. Fear not, for I am not here to punish you. I am but the end, the final breath that all shall draw.”

The man’s head snapped to the side, his eyes wide with fear, but there was no figure to see. Only the shadows seemed to stretch out before him, unnatural in their form, and the faintest glint of something metallic—something sharp—flashed in the flickering light. His breath came in ragged bursts, legs buckling, yet he fought to remain standing. He looked again, frantic, trying to make sense of what he was hearing, what he was feeling.

“Who—who are you?” he gasped, his voice quivering. “What do you want from me? I don’t understand—please, I don’t understand!”

A form began to emerge from the shadows. Tall, cloaked in darkness, with only the faintest glimmer of a blade reflecting dimly in the gloom. The man’s heart raced, and for a moment, he seemed to gather what little strength remained to rise. But his body betrayed him—his legs collapsed beneath him once more, and he crumpled back to the floor.

“Some call me an angel,” the voice continued, calm and unyielding, “yet I have been named much worse. I do not come as deliverer, nor tormentor. I come not, as they say, on a white steed. Nor do I steer a black chariot. Nay, I am neither grace nor dread, but the force that all must face. My course is set, and none may alter it.”

The man’s eyes widened, fear creeping into every pore. He had known something was wrong. His bones ached, screaming for respite. His heart, although beating fast, was beginning to fade. The inevitable pull of his life slipping—here it was, incarnate, speaking to him: confronting him with a cold certainty he could no longer deny.

“No, no!” The words tumbled from him in a broken sob. “This isn’t right! I am not ready! Please, there must be someone—something—who can stop this! Please! Tell me who—what—you are!”

“Make peace,” the voice interrupted, as though it had anticipated this. “This end comes for all. You may resist, if you must, but your time is here. There is no escape from me, the force at the end of all things. You may indeed try to flee, but I am as constant as the stars, and no force can keep you from me.”

The man gasped for breath, his vision swimming in and out of focus. His body was growing weaker, and the weight of what was happening pressed down on him, suffocating. His attempts to hold on, to defy the inevitable, grew feeble as the shadows seemed to draw nearer, closing in. He reached out again, his fingers trembling as they struck against nothing but the cold moss on the stone floor. His lips whispered frantic, futile prayers, but the words were swallowed by the thick, cold air around him.

“Who are you?” he begged, his voice barely a whisper, as his strength failed him completely.

Suddenly, the screams and shouts, the clanging of weapons—the battle waging above him was silenced, as if time itself had stilled. A subtle light seemed to illuminate the cold, damp room. The man felt the rushing echo of his pulse grow weaker as his breath drew yet shallower.

And then, the voice answered—not with the grimness he had expected, but with an almost solemn softness.

“All things shall wane; even the bright stars in their lofty thrones shall one day dim and pass. Quickly, make peace with your end, for none shall escape my grasp. Though you may indeed resist, there is no escape from the call of me who draws your final breath from your lungs.”

The figure stepped closer now, no longer a shadow but a presence—a moving, breathing force that filled the space around them. For the first time, the man saw something more than darkness.

“You ask who I am?” A face—stern yet kind—emerged from beneath the hood, filled with pity and understanding, illuminated by the eerie light emanating from what the man now recognized as a scythe. The figure smiled softly, comforting. The eyes peering back at his own were soft, yet weary; marked with the lines earned from many years of sorrow and joy. The wounded man’s eyes widened—not in horror, but in recognition, in understanding.

The face was not terrifying, nor grotesque. It was human, perhaps even compassionate in its quiet finality. The man’s breath faltered as he understood, in that single, clear moment, who—what—he was facing.

For the first time since the encounter began, the man felt a strange calm sweep over him. The fear that had gripped his chest loosened, replaced by a profound sense of peace. His head tilted back, and his eyes fluttered as his final breath began to leave him.

“I am the End, the Reaper. Simply put…”

As the words echoed off the chamber walls, reverberating with a solemn sense of finality, the figure reached forward, not with the coldness of an executioner’s hand, but with something far gentler. He placed his hand on the man’s shoulder, a soft, familiar touch—a final comforting gesture of solidarity and companionship, the warmth a sharp yet comforting contrast to the coldness of the dark room. The man shuddered once, a tremor running through him, and then, as if recognizing the inevitability of his own passing, his body surrendered. His chest gave one last, shallow breath before stilling completely, finally slipping into the rest it needed.

The man’s eyes closed, a quiet peace settling over him as the figure remained at his side, watching over him in the stillness.

For a long moment, it stood there, silent, its hand lingering on the man’s slowly cooling shoulder as the light around them faded to nothing, the cries and clashes of the battle above resuming in force.

And in that last whisper of the man’s life, as his spirit slipped into the unknown, the figure—no longer a shadow—faded into the dark, as his parting words echoed from everywhere and nowhere; with a profound emptiness yet sullen closure:

“… I am Death.”