Pure white eyes pry themselves open with all the reluctance in the universe. Her throne of solid obsidian underneath her thrums with power and reverence as dead souls flow through, channeled from far away. All gone the same way; a terrible fire.

  Or rather, through the same cause. The way is always different. Innards boiled, burn wounds, crushed under debris from burned down houses, choking on the smoke, died trying to rescue their loved ones, trampled by frenzied, burning livestock as they tried to escape… Death is an art, and every soul is painted with a new stroke of the brush after being dipped into the well of colors.

  And she has to sort through all of them, each and every single one, weaving them through her throne to guide them to where they belong; back to the lifestream to start the circle anew. Without her, the souls would wander through the ether for quite some time. Eventually they’d reach the lifestream again, but her guidance expedites the process and makes sure that the energies of the other world stay banced-

  In a way, she’s the one who fertilizes the spiritual fabric of that world, while her oafish brother is the one who sows the seed and raises them.

  Normally she doesn’t have to sit on the throne like this to do her work; the souls flow through it, but her mere presence on the pne of the gods would then guide them passively. But when so many souls fade at once, she has to be mentally present to shift through all of them. And just when her messages had finally gone through-

  to the one who prayed for her with purity of heart, and desire to worship.For who would worship death so purely? When people pray to her, they curse her and tell her to stay away, or they plead for her to come for them. The foulest beseech her to crash down upon their enemies like a wave, as if they can merely *request* death. Like she’s a resource, or a pgue.

  But not her.Not this woman.

  She cannot recall the st time she’d received such pure adution from a mortal. So regurly, too: certainly, there have been Cults for death. There have been a scant few godsblooded who have traced their lineage to her, so they also pay her basic respect. But none do it like this. She cannot remember the st time someone-

  “My dy,” a voice suddenly whispers into her ear. Shadows, one of her spawn, the very god of all that is cast from light. “he is coming. Uninvited as always. Be prepared.”

  A vein of annoyance throbs at her brow as she sighs and buries her face into her hands. Thousands of souls traverse through her mind every second; her powers are strong enough to handle a conversation while this flow happens, but she’s going to be having such a headache when that sluggish oaf she calls a brother makes his-

  “Sister!”

  booming entrance.The god of Life makes his entrance with that annoying, booming ugh of his, strong arms throwing the doors to her chambers wide open with such a bang that the walls probably cracked a little. She’ll have to contact the god of Funerals again to see if he can whip up anything for those. Who’d have thought casketmaking would transte into general carpentry skills.

  “Brother.”Her reply is cold and curt, face still hidden in her hands. Her brother was quite alike her in many ways; they both had deep onyx skin, although his was a little brighter due to all that frolicking under the sun, like he’d absorbed the rays and tamed them. They both had long hair, although his had been styled into thick, long dreads that were like serpents, down to his waist- hers was merely collected into one long ponytail that she wrapped around her waist like a belt.

  The main difference was the eyes. Hers were pure white, like twin moons, while his were pure yellow- twin suns. All this imagery didn’t escape her, and it *annoyed* her. Life and Death were a pair, born from greatfather Time, and the psyche of those humans from the other world affected them greatly, as it did all gods.

  The humans thought Life and Death had to be an identical yet different pair, the masculine and the feminine, and thus they had formed.

  “To what do I owe this uninvited, unwanted visit, dearest brother?” Death’s voice is cold. Always is. Like the winter chill that seeps into bones during frigid months. “I am busy. Thousands have died in a fire, and I must guide all of them through to the lifestream. You understand, don’t you? I know you’re too busy fooling around with the mortals most of the time to understand the concept of dying, but…”

  She trails off, and in that moment her brother strikes, one hand rubbing his belly as he ughed and ughed. He was far more round and built than she was, chest bared for all to see as vines of flowers and grapes draped his lower half in a barely decent grassy skirt of sorts.

  “Always about duty with you, sister! Grass will grow without me, people will multiply, the sun rises! And the grass will wither come winter, people will die, the sun will set! All without you! You ought to come outside of these dusty chambers and enjoy life for once. When was the st time you saw any of your spawn, hm?”

  Death grumbles.“I spoke with Shadow just now. He’d warned me of your coming.”

  Another loud belly sp and an even louder ugh. What the hell was even funny about what she said? Was her brother born with no brains? Then again, propagating life was the most mindless thing one could do, so she wouldn’t even be surprised!

  “Face to face, or did he appear on the wall and whisper into your ear? You’re so cold to your own spirit and blood. Delegate, sister, delegate! Surely there’s a few spawnlings that could sit on that dusty thing for you. Maybe the god of Rebirth? Then again, she’s busy at the lifestream itself, hahaha.”

  It was easy for him to speak of spawn. The pace had slowed down in these hundreds of years- thousands? Many, many years. She can’t quite recall when he’d st spawned a new God, but during the heyday of their interaction with the mortals, it felt like a new god split off from her brother every hour of the day.

  From Time came Life and Death, the two natural states of existence. From Life came Joy, War, Harvest… From Death came Disease, Sorrow, Night… And so on. Each god spawned more gods, for they were not truly omnipotent; more personifications of concepts for the mortals. And as the understanding of the mortals grew, they needed more and more gods to bow to, more and more concepts to deify. One god could not carry all that burden, so they split naturally.

  Life more than Death, for mortals appreciate the sweet nectar of Life more than the cold embrace of Death.

  “What my spawn do is their own business. Unlike you and yours, we’re not some big family. We work together to uphold what you so btantly ignore, and that’s that.”

  A conversation they have in a circur pattern every so often. And then he’ll ugh, and not argue, and they move on. Everything they do is so circur. Like they’re forced into these patterns by destiny itself. They are a group affected heavily by the thoughts and feelings of mortals, and mortals have decided that death and life are circur concepts that lead to one another.

  “Mmm. The Day of Rebirth is close, sister. Have you kept track of time?”

  ah.he broke the cycle.That actually makes Death blink rapidly, pearl-white eyes wide open. The Day of Rebirth. Ugh. The one day those mortals have actual expectations of her. What an idiotic idea. She melts into her obsidian throne, soft velvets of her baggy robe like waves of a deep dark ocean.

  “I had not. Thank you, brother.”

  A dry and honest response. Fingers tap at the armrests, nails sinking in. More dead. They keep dying. Always dying. Life has it easy. No need to track births. No need to track harvests, new trees springing from seeds, all of this is something that just happens… Thanks to her. But whenever someone dies, it goes through her. She has to do the work. Every second, someone dies. Death is omnipresent. People die every. Damn. Second.

  “How soon?”

  The god of Life snorts and leans on a pilr, idly stroking his braided beard. “Two months and nine days. I know you don’t like these sorts of things, but it’s a nice symbolic gesture. It makes the people believe in us. It keeps the godsblooded content knowing that their forebears still care for their world.” His tone had taken a kinder tone. Calmer. The brother, not the Brother. There is a difference between the two states of being.

  They interact with the word less and less. Of course, Life still takes his dainty tours through the nd to find some maiden or spry knight to bed, and the god of Cities hosts the academy at the Iskariot capital, but they find less and less reason to interfere with mortals.

  The Day of Rebirth is important, as annoyed as she is to admit it. The powerful come back to life during those days, after all, and the belief of the powerful is what keeps them fed.

  … Or the belief of true, genuine believers.

  “I… Will make arrangements, then. Thank you again. I would’ve likely forgotten without you.”Admitting any sort of defeat to her brother always stung, but in a good way. Like when you apply medicine to a wound. It’s the healing kind of sting.

  Life and Death love each other, after all, for they could not exist without one another. No matter how opposed they are and how much they might bicker. Life stops his lean and stretches, giving a gnce around her chambers. Dark. Dry. Somewhat cold. A corpse would feel right at home here, but a God? Not so much.

  “I know you would’ve. Take my advice, sister: leave your chambers more. For your own good. People fear Death because they only see you when it’s all over.”

  And what, they embrace Life because they experience it every day? Imagine dying every day. She waves her hand zily, swatting at the air as her brother takes his leave, closing the doors behind him. Once again, Death is left to her chambers, finally fixing her posture on her throne. Velvets become more regal looking, no longer sunk into the chair.

  The deaths have abated. No longer thousands by the second, merely hundreds by the minute. Manageable. She can tune this all out and refocus back on the one mortal that matters in this moment. Pearl eyes close, and she retunes herself to the buzz of the other pne. Where is she… Where is she…? She is not praying. Hm. She usually prays at this time. She can find the hermit’s hut, but not the hermit herself.

  Bsted woods. Did she leave? Where has she gone? Will she be alright? If she does not pray, Death cannot keep track of her without going to the realm of the mortals, and she could never-! No, not now! Where is she?!

  Unknown to Death, Maia has wandered deeper and deeper through the forest, towards one of the edges. The Eye of Death frantically searches, the scorching gnce wilting flowers for a moment before it turns elsewhere, and then it all regrows;

  for the mere gnce of Death is like life-altering toxin for all that lives.