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The cloaked figure stares at the tired old man that lies before him. Halfway senile, the old man is lost in his delusions, not noticing the figure towering in his doorway. They’re in a humid, suffocating shack, out of the way, and overgrown with weeds. The sun that beat down hot overhead was the last star burning bright in the universe. The man is thin and frail, gross with age with sores and scabs all over his body. He's bare naked. It was hard to believe that this example of how pitiful a sentient creature could be was the last living thing in the universe. The tall figure stares at him, his horse whines impatiently outside, not wanting to stand in the humid heat much longer, especially with a cart full of bodies to haul. The whine of the horse pulls the old man back to reality, he recoils as he meets the eye of the cloaked figure.

The figure’s head is bone and his eyes are deep abysses. He had a long collared cloak and a wide-brimmed black hat that concealed his face until you were close enough. He looked old and tired, with his bones were rotting and fungi were growing out of his openings. He leaned on his scythe, old and rusted, for support.

“w-Who are you?” the man demanded, shocked at the monster standing before him. 

“They call me Death.” His voice was hoarse and scratchy, not very pleasant to listen to. He wasn’t what he used to be. His whole monologue has been cut down to the last sentence.

“Took ya long enough” the man quipped. He was prepared for those to be his last words, but Death didn’t make a move.

He was scared, both of them were. It was the end, their only option was to go forward into the great unknown.

The man noticed Death leaning on his scythe.

“You must be tired,” he said coarsely, he was looking for any way to prolong the inevitable, “Why not rest for a minute.”

Death weakly grunted. The man hoisted himself up and pulled out two small wooden chairs from the other side of the room. He sat the two chairs facing each other and sat on the one opposite to Death.

He motioned Death to sit, which he did after some hesitation. He set his scythe on the ground and removed his hat and put his rotting skull on full display.

“How much time is there?” the man asked, “Before the next person dies?”

Death looked at the ground, debating on weather he should say it. He never was one to talk with the souls he was about to reap, especially as of recent, but this is the last one he would ever encounter. “You’re last one” he finally choked out.

“Sorry?” the man said, not sure if he heard him right.

“You’re the last one.” Death said with more effort.

“Oh,” the man said softly. His stomach twisted with regret.

“Like, the last one ever?” he asked.

“In the whole universe.” Death responded.

They sat in silence for a while. The man tried to collect his thoughts. He debated with himself on weather Death was lying, or if he was even real. He closed his eyes and counted to 10, and when he opened them again, Death was still there. He looked around the shack, Death's words repeating in his head.

“What a shitty note to end on.” He whispered. He lived in an old one room shack near a river foaming with industrial pollution, completely desolate of any life. This is where he has spent the last 10 years, maybe more.

He thought about his life, what actions led him here. All he could think about was how much he wasted it. He started getting choked up, he could feel the onset of tears in his eyes.

“What will happen to you?” He asked.

“Don’t know.” Death replied.

“You look tired,” the man said, “I’d be excited to take a while off.” 

Death started to say something, but hesitated, examining his hands, the tips of his phalanges were gone and his right pinky was missing entirely. The bones were rotten and a dark green, with dark clumps growing on them.

The man jumped in, seeing that Death couldn’t find the words, “I wish I knew I would be the last life in the universe. Maybe then I wouldn’t have wasted so much of it.” Death looked up at him.

“I’ve been in this shack 10 years.” The man said softly tears starting to run down his cheeks. “I don’t know how I did it. You would think that you would be able to see yourself in a loop, stuck in a prison with no walls.” He pauses. “All I cared about was getting high.

“There’s a chemical. In that lake down there, some sort of waste product from whatever the factory on the hill was making. It’s the best damn thing I ever felt. With it, the pain of living would fade away, I would be in a dream while I was awake. One where I could go on any adventure I wanted. In my head.”

Death finally was able to put the words together. “I didn’t know the end would be here so soon,” he paused, “They faded together. I can’t remember the last 3 I've reaped." He paused again, "I stopped paying attention. I found out you were last when I got here.”

The man wanted to try to consolidate him. He empathized with him, "Maybe this is what the souls you collected felt. I know it's how I feel. Most people don't plan to die, they almost always were going to do something afterwards."

That sounded stupid, even as he said it.

"Or something like that." He added like it would help.

Death seemed to feel a little better after that.

"This is a new beginning for both of us." The man said, "When's the last time you've laid down and relaxed?"

"I haven't." Death said.

"That's the spirit" the man said.

"When you're done with me, lay down for a while. Take some time to reflect on everything you've seen. I know you'll figure it out sooner or later. After all, you got nothing but time."

"I guess some rest would be good for me," Death said.

With that the conversation well ran up dry. The man had so much more he wanted to know, but he knew he would find out sooner or later. After talking with Death, the prospect of dying didn't seem so scary to him.

Death stood up. "Thank you." he said warmly.

"Any time," the man said.

Death grabbed his scythe and pointed it at the mans neck. The man knew that his memory would live through death. Maybe this was what it meant to live, improving the life of others. He felt a since of accomplishment that he hadn't felt in a long time.

"Any last words?" Death asked.

"This one is for new beginnings." The man said.

Death pulled the scythe back and plunged it through the side of the man's neck, decapitating him. Death loaded the man's soul into the cart and got up on his horse. As his horse started down the road, Death's body fell apart, landing in the cart his horse pulled. His purpose fulfilled, Death faded away; having no soul to move on to the afterlife, he simply ceased to exist.

"Why can you not commit to finishing your task?" I asked him. His head hung in a way I'd never seen before. I surely thought he was void of emotion but here he stands before me expressing nothing I'd ever seen before. Is it sadness? Maybe exhaustion? Surely, reaping the entire universe must be tiresome.

He spoke softly "You do not fear me". Of course I feared him. Does he not realize he is death at my doorstep? "What do you mean?" I responded. His gaze hardened. "I come to end your world and you have not run away or begged me for your life" he yelled bursting into flames of blue.

I stepped back in shock. Why does it matter to him if I show fear? Surely anyone would be afraid in this situation. "Of all the universe, everyone has begged." He bellowed gnashing his teeth in anger.

"I will not beg for the inevitable" I spoke softly "I will only stand before you in solace as you take an innocent man's life". This enraged him. "Beg or I shall cast you into the flames to burn for eternity" he shouted. I answered "no".

Then something changed in the horizon. The sky lit up slightly blue. This was odd as since death had begun his rampage, the sky had been laced with black and soaked in red. "Take me now death" I said with a half smile. The sky behind him grew brighter blue. Death started pacing back and forth. "Even in death there is fear" he spoke out. "If you will not fear me then I shall drag you to hell with me". He reached for my hand but something stopped him. "No" I shouted. The sky ruptured with bright lights. The entire world around me started spiraling into colors I had not seen in ages. A hole opened up beneath death and sucked him in. "I will be back for you!" Death shouted as he disappeared into the earth.

After a few seconds, the world seemed to gain a vivid color. I was filled with happiness. I wondered how I had just defeated death. Then I saw it. In the sky above me written into the clouds.

Fear only leads to death.

[removed]

The office was warm and welcoming, the walls coloured like sunset and the desk was not too broad, not too deep, giving enough personal space between the two sat at opposite sides of it without creating a distance far enough to be intimidating or isolating. There were two bookshelves, one crammed with textbooks and the other with comics, trashy romances, murder mysteries, biographies and practically every genre of book one could give name to. The chairs were comfortable, too. Death had to admit that as far as the offices for the universe’s last therapist went, it did an excellent job of radiating a sense of both competence on behalf of its owner and disarming charm.

The woman who sat across from him on the desk was not very old, not as one might expect for the Last Woman. She was perhaps in her late fifties or early sixties by appearance. Of course in this late year that could mean she was aeons old, but Death had certain advantages in these sorts of things, and he knew she was barely a century in age. An odd affectation for one so young to allow their age to advance so far… but given she was the Last, perhaps she saw no particular point in it any more.

“You know,” she said, “you do not look anything like what I imagined.”

Death smiled, an old and tired smile for a youthful face of dark skin and blue eyes and a tussle of brown hair, “Would you rather I look different?” he asked, leaning back. Jeans and blue shirt became robes dark as the void outside and his flesh withered into bleached bone and those blue eyes shone in the sockets with a light utterly unlike the lost, dead stars. He leaned forward again, steepling talons, the robes fading to white and more like those of a Buddhist monk than the cowled Reaper, a long curving beak clacking with laughter, and long graceful feathers of a white so bright it burned glimmered upon his frame. Pale flames of green-yellow flickered within his eyes, “Take your pick. I’ve worn many faces over the years.”

If the display affected the woman, she didn’t show it. Instead, she simply shook her head, “No, I was just surprised. Please, take any form that you feel comfortable in. This is a safe place.”

The tall, gaunt bird-creature leaned back in his seat and regarded her with slowly-flickering flame, “I was affecting a shape for your comfort, Doctor, not mine. But as you wish. I shall remain as I am presently, then. It is as good a form as any.”

She pursed her lips at that, and this time she leaned forward, fingers steepling, “Is it? Do you have a name, or do I simply call you Death this entire time?”

The avian figure clacked his beak in laughter, “Well that is one of my truer names, if not the Truth of me. But in this body… in this body, I am called Ayam the Pale. It will suffice.”

She nodded, “Ayam, then. Alright, so Ayam why are we here today?” she asked, her voice gentle, displaying a quiet sort of curiosity.

“Is it not obvious, Doctor? You are the last human living. The last mind living, in fact. I just took the last of the Archai in their blackhole computational matrices, and the last of an unnamed species of mollusc-esque creatures that clustered around the volcanic vents of the last even remotely habitable planet in the universe a few trillion trillion lightyears away. I am impressed, really, that you have held out alone here for a whole year. The last living thing in Refuge. The last sanctuary of organic life in all Existence, outlasting even the stars. It was a truly commendable effort.”

His voice was kind, and there was even admiration in it, but something in it made Doctor Iqra Schroeder frown, “You left me until last? God-computers, alien animals, philosophers and mystiques and scientists from a hundred million human clades alone never mind the uncounted number of xeno-sophonts out there… and you pick me to go last?”

Ayam shook his head, “I do not choose, Doctor. That is not my place. I am Death. I do not kill,” he paused, hesitated, and then amended, “Unless I am asked to hurry things along, but I have not done that in a very long time. No, I come to you because it is time. I have put it off for a year and a day, but I can forestall my duty no longer.”

She tilted her head, “Forestall?” She asked, eyes searching his alien face. He’d chosen that form for a reason; there was something in it he took comfort from, but it also made it harder to read him. Perhaps his hesitance was subconscious, and this was another part of it. He wanted her help, and would not admit it to himself, and so made it harder on himself to get it. He would not be the first patient to exhibit such avoidance behaviour, “And why are you stalling, Ayam?”

He hesitated, looked away, “A poor choice of phrase. I wanted to give you time to come to terms with it. That is all.”

She shook her head, “I don’t think that’s true. You left a therapist as the last living thing. You avoided coming here for a year after the last other souls passed on. When you said that you had ‘just’ taken the molluscs and the Archai… that was a year ago too, wasn’t it? When the others here took their lives because of their…” she hesitated, a pain flickering across her face, “Religious beliefs.”

Ayam sighed heavily, and forced himself to look back at her, “I can see that I cannot lie to you. Yes. I left you alone this whole time. I could have come to you then, and given you my offer then, and… put things to rest. But I did not. It was… cruel of me, to prolong this. I am sorry, Doctor.”

She gave him a long, steady look, “If you think you were being cruel leaving me here like this… then why did you do it?”

“Call it… sentimentality,” he said, after a moment, and he found himself unable to meet her gaze, and so he began to inspect the diploma hanging on the wall over her tight shoulder, “You are determined to keep going despite it all. The Life-Struggle. Life striving against itself to continue on. The Universal Eros….” He his beak curved in something like a smile, “I suppose you remind me of her. Them. My other half, in so many ways. She’s still here, I suppose, so long as one thing yet lives that strives to keep this universe from emptiness, that still clings on. Even if with all the rest of Life perishing now, she’s… faded back into the Totality like everything else.”

Iqra blinked at that, “Totality? What do you mean by that?”

He finally managed to meet her gaze, now he was on surer, less personal ground, “Exactly what I said. Call it God, or the Oneness, or the Dreamer, whatever metaphor you like. This universe is not the first, not by a long shot, nor is it the last. When you are gone, so too shall I go. Without life, there can be no Death. We little shards of the Oneness, we little flickers of dreaming-delusion will fall away, and there will be Nothing-and-Everything again. Like it was before this kalpa began. And then, eventually, the Oneness of it all will awaken to itself again and it will shatter again as it always does. There is always some fragment, some little whisper within the Oneness that longs to exist, to be, to live… and that’s what does it, you see. As soon as that idea takes root, the Oneness can’t exist any more. For a thing to exist, there has to be a thing that it isn’t in order to contrast it. For there to be Being, there must be Non-Being. So, it splits in two, and then those two split again and again and again and then you have another kalpa cycle. On and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on.”

As he spoke, the calm and almost introspective tone of his voice slowly changed and grew almost desperate, despairing, and she suddenly saw a man drowning in some fathomless ocean, “Do you understand, Doctor?” He asked, and his voice quavered and it was full of pain, “Once I take you, that’s it. I cease to exist until I come back and I… am tired. I am so, so tired. You always call me Death. Every time we are here, you call me that but that is not my name. That is not who I am.”

He’d stood up, lurched to his feet, talons raking at her desk and gouging furrows in it and he was staring at her, trembling. Her mind raced, absorbing everything he had said. What did one say to someone who apparently was tired of existing entirely? How did you react to Death all but proclaiming he wanted to die? She latched on to that last, despairing statement and swallowed hard, “Then… who are you, Ayam?”

He fell back into his seat and took a deep, shuddering breath, “Think about it, Doctor. You are the Universe knowing itself. Stars ‘died’ and their dust became other stars, and the worlds around them and the life upon them. But the atoms are the same, and they recombine in different shapes and combinations. Becoming rivers and mountains, animals and humans and plants and animals again. Flowing one to the other through the life-cycle of a world. The atoms in a plant become part of the animal that grazes on it, that become part of the animal that eats it, to the human that eats that, to the earth they are buried in, and the plants anew. The differences between all these things are, ultimately, an illusion. A dream. How, then, can Death be?”

Her eyes widened, as suddenly she understood his point, “You are… change. Transformation. One thing becoming another thing. You’re the very thing that’s causing you pain, aren’t you? Every time the universe ends, another begins. Every time something dies, it just becomes something else. As soon as the next kalpa starts, you exist. Even trying to stop that happening is just… more you.”

Ayam sat heavily in his seat and smiled wanly, “And so,” he said drily, “You see the problem. I want it all to just… stop. To stand still. It is exhausting, to be what I am. This is not the first time we’ve had this conversation. It will not be the last. I suppose there is a certain catharsis, to speak of it. To have it out there. To say it. Even if it’s only at the curtain-call.”

She stood up and rounded the desk, taking one of his talons in her hand gently, “You do not have to do this alone, you know. You don’t have to bear the burden. You are Change itself; surely in the next universe, you can be something different?”

Death stood, and he was tall, and thin, and robed in black and his hand was a thing of ancient bleached bone, “Perhaps,” he said, “Perhaps not. I suppose we shall find out.”

Her eyes widened as she realised too late the change in his form and what he was about to do, “No, wait we’re not finish-“

…

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