The Last Good One

Death, long enamored of his mortal charges, watched them ceaselessly. He loved them, in his own way; the way an immortal, ageless being unconstrained by time and space can love the tender existence of a finite and flawed creature. He loved them like the fragile things they were. He was buoyed by their triumphs and burdened by their losses. Their quirks and strange habits brought to him a sense of wonder, though at times he could be heard clucking to himself, not unlike a broody mother hen, as his charges were up to something one might describe as 'no good.'

But...all things considered, they were largely good. Their love could be unconditional, boundless, unending even in the presence of Death. It was often he would come to call and, beckoned closer by the waning cadence of their heartbeats, would feel the pull of their devotion to one another. There existed between all those who were loved a cord of spider-fine silk, nearly invisible and stretched tight between them as if to keep them from his hands just awhile longer. The taut string would sing with his gentle tug, plucking from it a singular word, an imploring and tremulous, “Stay.” And often Death allowed it, for just a while longer, because he loved them.

Oh, the good ones were always the hardest to take. Not because Death was frightening or malevolent because, really, Death was neither of those things. Dying could be, of course, but Death...was like slipping away to another room from an overcrowded party, one where the good cheer is choking and the revelry a miasma and the small talk almost metastatic. It is the studious defection away from the noise, a flight from the clammer of those busy with the brilliance of living, through the door that allows you, finally, out into that brisk night. Death is the first inhalation where your chest burns with the cold of it, your face stings with the chill of it, and beneath a sky tossed heavy with stars, you are free. You are at last unbound, undone from the mortal coil and unleashed into the endless. Death had always been fond of an Irish goodbye.

When Death would arrive, punctual to no fault and precise to the second, it meant we must close the book, shutting for good its well-thumbed pages and worrying ourselves no more at how the story might end. For here our end stood, not at all as we pictured. Perhaps it was just the finality of our own conclusion, of our brightly burning final chapter now extinguished, that made the thought of Death so fearsome. To gaze upon that countenance meant we had arrived at the terminus, end of the line, time to depart. It meant that all we had dreamed about, hoped for, wished of…all of the things that could possibly be had already been and there were no more things that could be….Perhaps this was what made Death so maligned to us, made us dread his attendance and resist his attentions.

The heart of Death was heavy, as he understood he must now take The Last. He knew it must be done and he knew where he would find her, as sometime before Death had claimed that which was most dear to her, the Last One's most Beloved. When Death had come for her Beloved, he had felt the familiar ache, the pull of the silk, heard the trill of the string. But it was all sharpened, almost too painful to be near, and when Death leaned closed to listen, he had understood. The Beloved had known that with his parting, the Last would truly be alone, the singular mortal soul left behind in a world that had very nearly finished dying. The Beloved wanted nothing more than to remain here beside her and he had often hoped that Death would come for her first so that she would not be alone, that she would not end her days only waiting for his return, but even Death did not decide these things and so he had come for the Beloved first.

Death had taken the string in one hand, lamenting in his own silence that he must mar the gossamer sheen of it, that he would quell forever the sweet, familiar song of it. The Beloved had kissed the Last one more time and, taking her face into his hands, pressed his forehead to hers, desperate to memorize the face he had loved in life and would carry with him now into Death. He looked once more into her eyes, finding them empty of guile or malice and full only of love, and here Death had quieted the aching in his heart. Death gifted him with stillness, allowing the Beloved a moment of memories in place of the terrible knowledge that she would be alone in a way that no mortal soul had ever been. It was just a moment of kindness, but it was enough. The Beloved was taken back to the day when he and The Last were first brought together, and the memories that should have faded with time like well-loved toys were still vivid, kept vibrant through the unexplainable sorcery held by all the things we cherish.

It was when the Beloved had wrapped himself in these moments, saw himself with his hands cupping the sweet face of The Last, that Death had taken him by the arm, severed the ties that held him to life, and they had simply stepped away. It was in this hushed lacuna, after the last lingering echo of a single word had withered away into nothing, that she had become The Last.

Now, Death had come for her. Settling next to the small soul who had been left behind, he wondered at how such devotion had endured in a thing so slight. Death was forever enthralled of them, these good ones, and he marveled at the strength that nestled in such frail beings. And they were frail, weren’t they? The eyes of The Last had once been dark and shining, lined with bristly lashes and quick to chase the form of her Beloved to whatever far reaches he might venture. Now they were dull, milky orbs that could make out only shapes, the vaguest of forms that were all some variety or another of gray shadows. A dying world emits little noise, and this was perhaps a blessing, as her hearing had almost entirely deserted her as well. It might have been less cruel if it had gone completely, as sometimes The Last was certain she heard someone calling for her, very faintly and from very far away. She would rise, stiff joints shivering to hold her thin body upright, and she would twist her face towards the sound, hoping to catch it on some rising wind. But it would fade away, always, as if it never were, and likely, it hadn't been and she would lay herself down gently, once more sheltered in the place where he had left her, and she waited. It was here that Death had found the Last, still waiting for whatever it was that would bring her Beloved back to her.

Death reached out to trace the graying fur that speckled the dog’s muzzle, following its path from her nose across her cheeks to where it finally spread out like the wings of some snowy moth to encircle her eyes. As he did so, The Last lifted her head, an enormous task with what little life her body still held, and laid it across his knee. Death placed his hand on her head, feeling the angles of her bones and the lightness of her being, and heard the labored drumming of her tail against the ground. Once, twice, and then The Last could do it no more. She only gazed up at Death patiently, her heart, so soon to be stilled, comforted to no longer be alone. Death stroked her head, and she closed her eyes, and as the time between her breaths grew longer and longer, he knew it was time.

So they sat this way, Death and the dog, in the backyard of the house on a planet in a world where nobody lived anymore, only this little soul, tired and on the precipice of the end. Death listened and was surprised. For the first time in all time, he had no need to quiet a restless mind. He had no need to bequeath the mercy of memories to her. She was waiting. Only waiting.

Death reached for the string as he had always done, expecting her to cling still to life and this grizzled world because it was all she had known, but this time, it was not the word ‘stay’ that sang out across the universe. There was no mournful beseeching, no doleful imploring. It was only her name. It was clear and brilliant as it rolled across the void, cutting through it without hesitation and she heard it. For one brief moment, unfathomable to we who can be ushered away by Death, the entirety of the universe existed only as her name.

She would wait no more. Her Beloved was calling her home. And so she went and she was no longer the last.

And so our world was emptied of its last good soul, and it was only the lingering ripples of our dying that prove we ever lived at all. All was still and quiet as Death thought of the dog, missing quite suddenly the weight of her head laid upon his knees. Death felt very empty and he sighed, but there was no one to hear it.