the future, present and the past

-A brief candle; both ends burning
An endless mile; a bus wheel turning
A friend to share the lonesome times
A handshake and a sip of wine
So say it loud and let it ring
We are all a part of everything
The future, present and the past
Fly on proud bird
You're free at last. (Charlie Daniels)

-Death before all else is fair. Cruel and kind are words you can apply if you want, but they don't really fit. She'll never argue with you, though she may correct you, depending on how important she thinks it is you get it more accurately. She's just there. And she does what she does. She's a comfort if she can be. She's not, in fact, always a comfort. Many people are upset to see her. There is no magic in seeing her. You do not automatically feel great love for her.

-Being Death's means you're dead. She is the way between the afterlife and life. The afterlife is not part of her; she just takes you there. And she can bring you back, if she wants.

-She will not bring just anyone back.

-Her prices are not meant to hurt for the sake of hurting. They're consequences of the choices you make. She will give you what you want; then you have it.

-Being Death's means you're dead, but the healers and killers of the world are something close. They can belong--see River, who's insane and thus ultimately Del's, or Lucy, who's Destiny's--to another. But the healers and killers know her. And she knows them.

She doesn't play favorites, but they're paying a price--often for others' sakes--by knowing her already, so she might give something now and then. A hat. A message to parents in the Farplane.

Healers and killers tend to have an intense emotional view of Death, loving her or hating her. This is not required. But neutrality is unlikely.

-Death understands a lot.

She knows everything, like everyone else. But she, too, tells herself she doesn't.

She understands a lot; she doesn't understand everything. And she knows very well she's not, ultimately, human. She's curious sometimes. She doesn't always get it.

She's aware when she doesn't.

-Death should not have a lover. Possibly during her day of life--but otherwise, no. Flirting is fun, but it doesn't work. Dream's right. She has to love everyone; even many different lovers doesn't fit.

Death is Death. She doesn't need to be loved.

She's not human. That's a human thing.

-Death does what she does because she wants to. All of it. And because it's her, and she wants to be herself.

-...when we finally know we are dying, and all other sentient beings are dying with us, we start to have a burning, almost heartbreaking sense of the fragility and preciousness of each moment and each being, and from this can grow a deep, clear, limitless compassion for all beings. (Sogyal Rinpoche)

Death, it turns out, has a small apartment that seems to be somewhere in Southern California, judging by the view from the linen-curtained windows.

And a shabby, well-loved purple couch. Overstuffed, and, sitting on top of a throw pillow, there's a small stuffed chicken. A small bar-thing seperates the kitchen from the living room. She spreads her arms out, grinning.

"This is my place. Would you like a drink?"

Small plastic dinosaurs lurk in stacks of magazines and books and cds. There's a fishbowl in a corner, right underneath a family photo. The place is rather cheery, all in all.

The pain fades, and the feeling in his body, as he lies on the rocks of Jericho Hill, Roland on one side of him and Cuthbert on the other. The light fades, too; the rising sun, blazing in his eyes even as a thin sliver above the hilltop, fades into black cloud. Too dark to see, and his life's blood pouring on the ground.

And then he realizes that he can see again, that he is standing without pain or fatigue. Below him lies his own broken body, and Roland and Cuthbert still kneeling beside it, weeping.

She has taken him by the hand, and led him out towards the lakeshore, quiet and unobtrusively slipping away from the festivities.

She lets go of his hand when they get a few hundred yards away from the door. She didn't have to hold on quite that long...

And there they are.

The place looks a bit cleaner than the last time he saw it.

She had time to clean.

Death walks the Sunless Lands.

Somewhere on the outermost borders, where things are... thin. Thin for Death, at least. She's pretty much a black-and-white kind of girl, but even she has her gray areas.

She stands at the edge of the horizon-- if it can be called a horizon-- bathed in a dusky glow. She reaches up to touch something that could be mistaken for sky, to trace the scars there. Scars shaped like runes.

At her back, there is... absence. She turns to look, but of course it's not there. Why should it be?

The place where Nyarlathotep rests is achingly empty, like a pulled tooth.

She needs a drink.

*Death by the waterfront, skipping small stones in the water for the Squid to skip back to her. She's got a bottle of spiced rum by her side, and she takes a swig before holding it out to Raph as he wanders up, not turning around.*

He kissed me.

I ought to be pissed off at Desire, or shocked, or... something.

I shouldn't be happy.

But I am.

I think I'll go with that.

Desire?

You and me have to have us a talk.