When it all began, the knowledge that someday, sometime, all things--all life, human, animal, and god alike--would end was a solemn greeting to the Reaper. To open his eyes, breath in the stagnate air of the Dead Lands, and think of the lives that would be lost that day, the souls that he would have to reap, ran chills of regret down his spine.

But years passed--dozens, hundreds, thousands--and did lives. Dozens, hundreds, thousands, millions, billions. Life continued and so did death. A cycle seen to never end, but known to have finality. Someday, sometime. The God of Life and Death, the Reaper incarnate, understood this better than all, and in time, their deaths ceased to phase him. People were born. They lived. And they died. Sometimes it was tragic. Sometimes it was relieving. But it was all the same. They all lived and they all passed, and there was nothing to do to stop it. Death no longer frowned at tragedy or smiled at relief.

At most, there was interest. At least, there were fleeting feeling--sometimes a want to ease the pain of the undeserving. But in this case, on this day, the God of Life and Death sought not to ease anyone's pain. In seconds, he watched a life grow and progress and ultimately find itself snuffed out before it could save the one it most loved. A man of shadows, this person was. An interesting man and an intriguing case.

A useful case.

But more importantly, he reminded the Reaper of someone. Someone from the dark.

Most never saw him. They simply shut their eyes to die--or perhaps even passed in their sleep, or even instantly--and then they opened their eyes again, they were somewhere else. A better place, a worse place; it all depended on the person. But it was almost exclusively disjointed; a section of time was always missing. It was that moment where they lay between worlds, set within transition, existing in the Dead Lands. It was an inconsequential time; a time which barely existed, even as a fragment of memories. The knowledge of death was all they had.

But Isaram would see it all so clear: the impenetrable fog, the cracks in the walls, the ceiling, and the floor--all of the decay about him, lifeless and empty and painted dozens of shades of gray. Never white. Never black. No extremes. Always a median. Always in decay.

In one second, his eyes were closed. Life passed through him. In the next, he might have opened his eyes and beheld the world as all colors melted and faded and decayed, grayed and misted and broken. The world, as he knew, would end before his very eyes.

His father's men would be shadows; upright specks of darkness inhabiting the same room as Isaram and his mother, the only color he'd find in death. Amidst the everlasting gray, she was vibrant--but asleep. Undoubtedly, unfailing sleeping. The wounds, Isaram would no longer know: he was safe, he was sound, healthy and fit as can be, yet the world around him, in just second's time, was not. It was broken, decayed, and gray . . .

Within the gray world, there was a voice, a distinct, deep, and paralyzing voice that could rattle a man's soul to hear. Monotonous. Devoid of sympathy, empathy, apathy, or any of it. It belonged to one somewhere in-between and above it all the same.

"Yes."

Initially, the voice was wholly and completely disembodied, devoid of form and direction. It came from all around Isaram, each cardinal direction and all those in-between. A glance in any direction would provide the dead man, the lost and tearful Isaram, with any indication beyond that which the voice provided. It was male, beyond adulthood, and founded somewhere in the brand of supernatural that those comfortable in their mortality could not begin to fathom.

It was within the next few seconds that it was given figure at all, and were Isaram to look over his shoulder, he'd find the figure standing behind him.

He was a man of terrifying build: inches over six feet tall sans boots, broad shoulders, and given a form mortal men everywhere dreamed of, but never quite lived long enough to obtain. He was muscled in the way that old statues were, the peak ideal of masculine build. His arms were bare, as most of his body seemed encloaked in a dark and tattered overcoat with sleeves months since torn off. His skin was tanned even in the gray world about he and Isaram, enough that he looked the part of a Xexorian; his hair was dark, long, and not provided much personal regard, much like the long goatee upon his chin and the beard developing from a week without a shave or anything of the sort. The most standoutish piece of his visage, however, were his eyes, a piercing golden yellow color as they were . . .

The man regarded Isaram with a blank but knowing stare.

Beyond Isaram and the man whose voice was once wholly disembodied, there was one other figure present in the gray world. She was still laying upon the floor. Still immobile. Still lifeless--but she was there all the same. Isaram's mother. She was one of the few colors this world allowed. Isaram, his mother, and the man that stood before the recently deceased Isaram; they all had color in the gray world. They all seemed the only instances of life in a wholly dead reality. Death offered one of life's greatest ironies, yet only few ever realized that.

Isaram's cry for his mother brought about a strange reaction in the man. His face, so cold in expression, shifted ever so slightly; he furrowed his brow and looked beyond Isaram, over his shoulder and to the body of his mother in the distance. This was the woman he was calling for. This woman was dead.

"Your mother?" questioned the man. His tone suggested the utmost detachment, as if he could barely, if at all, connect the familial ties of mother and son.

He felt, if only briefly, the urge to pass Isaram by and approach the corpse of his mother, but the man ultimately decided against this. He knew the reason, but didn't regard it as quite that imperative or worth the time. He may as well have been ignorant to it.

"She, too, is ready to pass," was all he said, instead.

When Isaram moved to the man aggressively, as if he were ready to grab him by the throat or collar, the figure did little more than stare with only the vaguest hints of disapproval. He watched the young man crumple before him, but displayed neither compassion or empathy.

How quickly a mortal sold his soul--the man was almost prepared to tell Isaram no, and get rid of the both of them in one fell swoop. However, Isaram struck the figure with some sort of familiarity, one he couldn't quite place, but one that easily had him curious enough to follow through with what he felt to be a meaningless charade. As far as he was concerned, this woman was going to die eventually, regardless of who killed her or why. Perhaps it would have been better to let the pain of life end for her right at this moment--but he'd a new goal in mind, one that required such trivialities, it seemed.

"Yes," the man replied with a simple nod.

He stepped aside from Isaram, and with a steady and casual pace, breached the gap between Isaram and his mother. He looked over the woman for but a second, before kneeling by her side and placing his hand upon her shoulder. The man paused, momentarily drawn to thought, and looked upon Isaram after the fact.

"How is it you would like me to save her?"

The man stood in a casual manner; his hands were in his pockets and shoulders were leaned back. He almost felt a crack in them.

Once, he cherished life. Humanity was a brilliant and energetic thing which he sought to protect with all his being. He'd have granted them immortality if he could. But the years passed, and this man-- this god --was left with little more than obligation to humanity. Philanthropy died, and human appreciation fell to an individual level only. They were dots and shadows, and it was so easy to avert one's gaze when several dots simply disappeared. Even the most "important" of those dots was of no consequence to the non-human.

The man looked down upon Isaram for what may have felt like hours. Revenge was such a fickle thing, but if he looked back long enough, he'd find a time when it wasn't quite so fickle to him.

"Very well," the golden eyed man replied.

He motioned for Isaram's body, one of the few once living objects visible in this field of misty monochrome. Isaram would need only to make contact with his body again.

The moment Isaram turned his back on his mother, however, was the last time he'd see her within this parallel world. The light of her body faded and all that remained was something of a fully formed shadow in the mist, just like all silhouettes of the living before it.