She was trying her hardest to not think about it. That’s what trust meant. This is the sort of obedience and trust that her worshippers- Maia included- put in her daily. They could not oversee her every action, for Death was invisible and visible, instant and slow, measurable and unmeasurable. So she should spare the same sort of faith for her object of devotion by not keeping a constant spying eye on her. Even if her situation was,

  She has to stop thinking about it.People die all over the world at a staggering rate. Life always brags about how someone is born somewhere every second, but Death never brags about how someone is always dying somewhere at every picosecond. Or that’s how it felt like.

  Today it was a city far across the sea, torn asunder by a tremor summoned by a great fanged beast as it broke from its subterranean prison due to constant agitation born from overeager city expansion and mining. No-one was at direct fault.

  Yet she had to observe it all. Watch every soul be lost. Some fell between the cracks and were crushed by the pressure of the earth itself as their bones ground to dust against it. Others were trampled by the gigantic subterranean monster's ascent. Some died fighting against each other in a panic, bming themselves for the tragedy. Mages using experimental magic to try and lock themselves into another dimension to save themselves, instead rocketing themselves right into the lifestream to boil alive in pure energy…

  It was all normal to her, seated on her throne with her eye piercing the veil between realities to observe it. She didn’t *need* to see, strictly speaking. The flow would happen through her whether she watched or not. But it felt like her duty…

  Ugh. Silly. Life didn’t watch over every birth that happened in the world. She just needed distractions and was far too embarrassed to admit it. If she closed her eyes, her mind would wander right back to Maia and worry would flood her mind. Fingers grip onto the armrests of her throne a little tighter before releasing. She should talk to her brother again, but the thought of him getting smarmy annoyed her way too much.

  Relying on others had proven to be a weakness anyway.

  Relying on others…Her mind starts to wander to when she’d first heard her voice. It was silly. She’d always heard voices of those who prayed for her, as all gods did. They all learned to tune it out for the most part since the prayers were almost constant, droning. Those who tried to listen to them all would get headaches from the cacophony of noise.

  Even Death had this droning, despite being one of the least popur gods for prayer. So many people wanted others dead without having the guts to do it themselves. Every day she would hear these requests, every second. Please bring death to so and so, I beg you, kill so and so because they killed my husband, I just wish so and so was dead… Humans, mortals- And all others were so petty that they saw death as just a form of revenge.

  And then were those who wanted to die, but did not have the bravery to take their life themselves. It was a common misconception that she found suicide ‘unholy.’ That a life taken by one’s own hand was ‘impure.’ That was the creed passed on by those who cimed religious authority among the mortals. This too was false; lifeforce kept flowing no matter how it was contributed. Suicide did not exist as anathema to her; she could care less.

  ‘please kill me’‘please, end this suffering’‘i just want to begin over again’

  And so on. Mortals always wanted to begin again.

  And then one day, she’d heard a different sort of prayer. The girl had been younger then. In her teens, maybe. She’d started to pray for a different sort of thing. For others to die a good death when they did, for her own death to be sweet when she would eventually wither, and for death to be gentle as an embrace.

  Some would call those sorts of things meaningless. In the end she asked for *nothing* pertinent to her current situation. She just whispered ptitudes, like she was trying to bribe her with words, sweeten her up- yet she never asked for anything tangible in the moment. Just daily affirmations. Daily whispers of worship to the very concept of Death.

  It was new. And she’d ignored it, as she’d ignored all other prayers. But they were so constant.

  And so sweet. Eventually she’d started to listen to the words. And then she began to recognize the voice, and she even waited for it. Gods had little concept of regur time- after all, when you live for an eternity the minutes and hours and even days truly do become minutiae- but she’d still started to keep track of exactly when the prayers came in.

  Once during the morning for her, once during the evening for her. Sometimes she might sneak in a midday prayer sweet as birdsong to Death’s ears. Never did she ask for anything selfish nor base.

  Death did not regurly spend time with the other gods. Life was her closest companion, and even he was annoying and a bother. The other gods even less so. There were some fresh arrivals, born merely hundreds of years ago rather than thousands- Cities and Disease, or her direct spawn like Shadows. War dined at her table on the occasion. Comedy enjoyed bothering her, for she had learned that he found nothing funny anymore besides death and destruction.

  She was lonely by nature. Death was to be distant. No-one wanted death in their lives until their time came, and some not even then.

  … During this journey, these sweet prayers had become irregur. Maia couldn’t pray on the road, after all. Not when she was under threat. So there might only be a short prayer once a day, or none at all with a longer prayer the next day, except it was at a wholly different time from the previous prayers. This sort of irregurity annoyed her-

  and made her realize how dependent on it she’d become.

  She’d told Shadows to not update her on Maia’s movements. She had to let her worshipper fly free, she thought. And if she heard any grave news she’d probably pierce through the barrier and bring forth a dimensional boom with her fury- or something like that. She’d come to accept her attachment now instead of denying it, and acceptance involved knowing that her care- her love- would be destructive to the world at rge.

  Even descending down for the Day of Rebirth often tore the seams of reality, no matter how long and how slowly she prepared. Reports of people dying in their beds, or of the dead rising from their graves… Such things were accepted and hushed down.

  Humans were corrupt and bizarre. The powerful benefited from her descent, so they shushed any naysayers.

  Of course, the Day of Rebirth had more meaning besides merely mortal religious proceedings. While she and Life did perform the act to become closer to their worshipers- they’d become powerless if no-one cared for them and prayed to them, after all- it also let them interface more directly with the lifestream. Them scooping up souls of the ‘rich and faithful and noble’ was not the main purpose and more of a convenient side effect that let them keep the faithful happy.

  Life and Death both plunging their metaphorical hands into the stream to course correct and to channel the natural forces of the cycle allowed them to make sure there were no unfortunate ‘clogs’ in the ‘pipes’, to put it pinly. Of course it was much more complex than that, but to fully expin the intricacies of the lifestream and how it could overload itself would go over the yman.

  The disaster she’s been overseeing slowly draws to an end. The great fanged beast disappears into the far horizon, away from civilization. The earth stops shattering and cracking, and people slowly stop dying. Slowly. Some succumb to wounds and others fall to the ensuing panic and riots, but where there were thousand wails of anguish now rests only a hundred or so.

  A hundred people a second dying in one pce is within acceptable levels. She can turn her attention away- unfortunately for her, as now her mind can wander to Maia again. The darkness of her throne room envelops her completely as she closes her eyes, the pale shining light that glowed from them no longer illuminating the area.

  Total silence. Total darkness.

  Oblivion.

  … What would she even do if Maia died during this quest? She was thinking about it. She shouldn't think about it. Yet the thoughts start flooding her mind the moment she can’t distract herself. If Maia died, what was she to do? She could scoop her up and take her here. It wasn’t unheard of. A particurly valorous soul could escape the lifestream and join her halls, wandering eternally to take care of duties considered below Death and her spawn.

  But would Maia want that sort of thing?… Would anyone want such a thing?

  Death deigned not to think. Not about Maia, not about her duties, not about the future. All she would do was sit there and let time pass, as she always did. All she could feel was the constant thrumming of the lifestream as souls ran through her and her throne and to a better pce. For whom would wish to linger where Death did? For whom would wish to hear the toll of the bell?

  “... please…”

  Her eyes rip open instantly, bathing the room in a momentary fsh of light. She heard her. She did. She heard her! Death’s dour mood dissipates instantly! Her dedication to silence is gone, repced by a gasp and a feeling of her heart beating ever faster!

  “... please, if you hear me, o matron of graves…”

  She’s calling. Maia is calling for her. She can feel the dimensional rift tear, the very fabric of reality bending under her adoration and desire as she finally lets herself be free to look ‘pon her dearest worshipper. And her eye nds her at the very tip of the Sawbones, among the harpies, within a very specific hut. All she can do is gaze, all she can do is listen.

  But she sees her. Hears her. And she bathes Maia in her ethereal, unseen light radiating with adoration and relief.

  “... O Death, thank you. For this is all I needed of you today. I shall not join your halls soon, but I pray that when I do, it will be a good day to die.”