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It is no mistake for one to fear the coming of Death.
No one has lived to tell the tale, of course – but there are rumors, equally as expected, weaved across thousands upon thousands of years. Some swear they’ve heard the sound of a high whistle in the wind among the pounding of horses’ hooves and the thunder of musketfire. Still others have spoken of a flash of twin red points among the stars of the night sky – appearing as a blade near-pierced their heart or their foot slipped beyond the safety of a precarious height.
Death, they say, looms like the ghosts it heralds. Death comes for all because Death is insatiable – a creature of bared teeth and sharp eyes, a predator hunting for the weakest prey.
Death, they say, is an opportunist. There right as the wound opens, before the first drop of blood trickles down into the dirt.
Death, they say, is death – and so there is no room for Death to have mercy.
One may, on their deathbed, think back to Death and feel a sense of something like dread. One may try to divert their thoughts to the hot summer sun on their wrinkled skin or the sound of their now-grown children’s laughter, in the hopes that they will pass on surrounded by those pleasant sorts of things. Those would be much more welcoming than glistening teeth and looming shadows.
Or perhaps – if one is afflicted with an illness they cannot recover from, or if one is far too young to be faced with a fate such as this, they may hope for Death to grant some rare mercy. That Death’s vigilance may, for a moment in time, be less than absolute.
But the world may begin to fade and flicker. Darkness may pool at the edge of one’s vision, the weight in their limbs beginning to grow wearisome.
And then, the sound of a whistle, high and hollow.
And then, the shadows that form into the shape of something .
And then, the numb place where a rush should be, blood stuck still in one’s veins even with the quickening realization that the rumors were in fact far from mere rumors. The feeling of being a body outside of a body, beginning an ascent into a place somewhere between the living and the dead.
The something – Death.
Just as frightening as the stories – a two-legged wolf with gleaming eyes, the only bright thing among an otherwise overwhelming darkness. Two bandaged paws carrying twin sickles, carvings etched into their blades. A smile not unlike those blades, sharpened at the fangs and points in equal kind.
One may expect Death to come silently. To do the job he came to do and move on to its next task. Immediacy – and for good reason.
What one may not expect is what comes next.
“You aren’t afraid,” Death chuckles – a light note to end off a heavy rumble. “Qué lástima. The smell of fear really is a delight.”
One’s breath may catch, then. Surprise, undoubtedly. Afraid, one might protest, would be perhaps the most fitting word.
“Joking.” He waves a hand idly, twirling his sickles before they find their place against his sides. “Mostly.”
The table is set with mugs in earthy tones. A rich smell wafts from somewhere in the house, frozen in time. Or – perhaps it is the dull cold of the outdoors, the inexplicable warmth of a fire crackling as Death steps back, head cocked to the side.
“Come,” Death says, “sit. It isn’t every day I’m offered an easy case.”
One may, in fact, come. One may sit. One may not sit entirely too close to Death, eyeing still his sharpened claws and the sickles at his sides – but even so, the offer is a gentler one than expected. Things are calm and there is always something to keep one warm, even if the twin red eyes of Death have not ceased their steadfast gaze.
Much is gentler than expected when one meets with Death.
A wolf is an apt creature for Death to take the form of. They are known for their ruthless hunter’s instincts, the sharp scent of blood often not far behind them. For a farmer, watching over their flock, a wolf very well may appear to be an omen of a far less literal kind of death.
But a wolf is a vigilant creature. Loyal – much like the dogs that descend from them. A young enough child may mistake one for the other, ignoring fangs in favor of trying to hold the soft muzzle beyond them.
Death’s fur is soft and his voice is low – and that would be frightening, certainly, for those who may have fallen on the wrong side of him. But for most, it is a comfort. It is soft and steady. It provides some semblance of closure over warm drinks or toasted marshmallows. A paw extended for old hands to trance over as if to remember the patterns traced in those of the people they might never see again – or for someone taken too soon to find comfort in, a well-deserved reminder of comforting touch. A witty joke, here and there, because even Death himself could not deny having a sense of humor.
The world stands still. Death has, for those who do not cheat him, time enough.