Death, the Stealer of Souls, sat on the precipice overlooking the great cities of all the nations. His legs draped over the side, dangling over the chasm that was so deep that the bottom was merely a suggestion rather than a reality. The wind was so strong that it would have torn his hood back from his head, were he not the personification of an unstoppable, immovable force that wind and rain and lightning could only aspire to. If the gale had been able to fulfil its intentions then it would have revealed only an empty space where a head should be. More than a space, in fact, but rather an absolute space. Not just the absence of a head, but an overwhelming emptiness that would have swallowed up anything that you tried to place there, so that the vacancy was all that remained. The hooded cranium rested casually on a pale, glowing hand.
“All this is mine.” He gestured vaguely at the cities with his other arm, which then returned to his side. He gently caressed the rough and stony ground he sat on as he continued.
“All of these cities pay tribute to me. None may refuse, for they chose me. You know what they’re like. Ardent defenders of their free will. They chose me as their king, and none may refuse my demands and my requests. They serve me, willingly or unwillingly, and I claim each and every one of them.”
You could be listening for the voice very hard and not hear it. You could desperately be trying to ignore its dry, brittle whisper, but still hear it louder than church bells. Death never raised his voice. He didn't need to. When he called, none could refuse. When he spoke, all heeded. He only spoke when he needed to, and he only spoke to those whom he wished to call. No-one else would hear him. Not yet, at least.
“All mine,” he repeated.
If you had been watching this scene from afar you would have been forgiven for thinking that Death was alone. It became apparent that this was not the case. The darkness beside him shifted as a reclining figure moved into a more comfortable position. Death stared past the horizon into other worlds, refusing to even glance in the direction of his companion. The man next to Death nodded slowly, his features still shrouded by the absence of light. Death gestured again.
“A few, of course, are pleased to see me. Others are not so keen. They try to outwit me, to fool me. They don't understand. They cannot beat me at the game I invented, especially as they do not even know the rules. They chose me, and now I make the choices. Sometimes I take the young, sometimes the old. But I always take those whom I choose.”
The voice sounded old, but not old as we might think it. Not old as in weak and frail, but rather timeless. Just because an oak tree is old, it doesn't mean that it is not strong. It formed gentle laughter now, a horrible grinding sound as though his lungs were full of gravel.
“They wonder. They wonder. They can't understand.” Death's voice sounded more urgent and triumphant than before.
“Some do understand.”
The man reclining next to Death spoke for the first time. His voice was nothing special, but next to Death's it sounded like the very chimes from the bells of the heavenly Jerusalem. Death's posture expressed his displeasure.
“What?” he hissed.
“Some understand. Some see you for what you are. You of all people should know that.” The figure turned his head to face Death.
Death nodded, an action which seemed to take centuries, his gaze fixed rigidly on the horizon.
“Some understand me, maybe. But how many? What are a handful of grains of sand compared to the beach?”
The man chuckled.
“Very poetic.”
Death shrugged. The man continued, looking out over the cities.
“They defy you.”
“Some honour me. I have songs written about me, books written for me, films and plays performed on my behalf. Many, many more than you do, my friend.”
Anyone who heard the voice couldn't have helped but notice that the words 'my friend' were spoken with no sincerity. It was true that these two were not friends, but bitter enemies. Not just enemies, but opposites.
“That may be,” the man said, non-committedly.
“I am the one with the choice. They wonder why a man will live to ninety, despite the fact that he smokes fifty cigarettes a day and lives a life of utter debauchery, and yet why a child of five may heed my call. They call it 'luck', or 'one of those things'. They try to convince themselves that there are ways of cheating me. Ways to extend their days. The truth is that there is no way. They live in fear of the fact that I could beckon them any time I choose, regardless of status and lifestyle. The man who doesn't smoke can be the victim of a road accident, or maybe he'll get lung cancer anyway. It is up to me.”
If you could have seen the face of the man next to Death, you would have seen him raise his eyebrows.
“Really? Your choice?” he said innocently. Death radiated hatred, but said nothing. He hated this man more than any of the other Children of Adam.
“Even you, Death, have your master.”
“My Father?”
“Not your father. Mine,” the man said.
Death snorted.
“My master is He? I do not see Him prevent me working. Every day provides me with new tributes and rewards. He has never stopped me.”
Death threw his hands in the air. Tradition usually armed death with a scythe to reap his victims with, yet he needed nothing but his hands to collect the harvest of souls. They were cruel hands, strong and harsh. Death turned his head for the first time and regarded his companion with his eyeless vision. He slowly lifted his arm and pointed an accusing finger. It was a cruel finger.
“He even let me have you.” Mocking laughter punctuated Death's words.
“For a while,” the man added, nodding nonetheless.
Death turned his attention back to the landscape and was silent. Neither spoke for some time. It could have been seconds, it could have been aeons. Death's companion stood up, the darkness following him as he moved.
“Yes, for a while I was yours. For a short time you had me. You rejoiced on that day, as did your father. You rejoiced. You rejoice no longer.”
More time passed. Death sat and stared at his realms, drumming his fingers on the ground. His companion stared at him, arms folded. Slowly Death turned to look up at the man, but the rebuke he was going to offer died on his lips as the man spoke again.
“You reap the souls of mankind. You wallow in them as a pig may wallow in mud, and you call them your 'tribute' and your 'wages'. They are not yours.”
Death began to reply.
“Be silent! You may take them all, but you cannot keep them. There are many, many grains of sand on your beach that I call 'brother' or 'sister'. More than a mere handful. You are not eternal and even you too will pass. You know this to be true!" the figure spoke angrily. He raised his arms and tilted his head back, his robe and hair wildly blowing in the wind, and with a shouted word of command the darkness fell from around him revealing his majesty.
“You took me, but you could not keep me. You snatched my soul from the Cross like a thirsty man gulping water, and you buried me under the earth. You laughed and sneered and spat and howled and jeered, yet I live!”
The wind fell silent as the Lord of Creation spoke. The ground beneath Death shook and trembled and groaned. Glory surrounded the man as a rumble of thunder from the skies shook the foundations of the great cities. The darkness swirled and forks of lightning lit the clouds like great lights.
“They do not want you!” Death howled, jumping to his feet and shaking his fists at the Lamb of God. He screamed above the thunder in a voice more terrifying than anything that had ever been heard. "They chose me! They helped me claim you! You cannot stop me! You cannot beat me! You can—" Death's words died in his throat as the Saviour regarded him with narrowed eyes.
He slowly lowered his hands from the sky and held them out to Death, so that he could see the ragged crimson wounds that still looked so tender and painful.
“But I already have,” Jesus said softly.