A Skeleton's Heir

In the blackness of night just beginning to be tainted by the sun’s rays, under cover of the decaying darkness, stood a figure with no corporeal form. Although the being had no technical gender, his latest incarnation was presumed male by all, and as such, “he” had adopted the classification. Suddenly, a sharp sliver of sun cut over a dew-covered hill and slashed through his gaseous body to no visible pain. It was as if he were made of the shadows that surrounded him. Lazily, the hole in his body began to re-stitch itself together before the acidic sun slashed holes in him once more. He ignored it.

He did not come here to play games with the sun. No. He had far more important matters to attend to. He was growing weary of his task. Day in and day out, he stained his hands with the blood of both the innocent and the guilty, and he was sick of it. Besides, he had been performing his task for the last six millennia, since the beginning, as it were, and he was tired of it. It was time for someone else to take his place. The Shadow’s Essence that he wore around him slowly began to bubble. If one had the appropriate sense, they would notice a faint, acrid odor fill the air. The scent in question would be akin to brimstone, to those familiar with it.

The inkiness began to remold, shaping itself into the visage of a tall man in a black cloak. He was forming himself into the image of what everyone assumed him to be, for he felt that it would be fitting to start the symphony that sound-tracked the end in the form that so many cowered from. Lowering the hood that had formed, a sun-bleached, white skull betrayed the shadows and displayed itself to the sun. Hovering six inches or so over the grass of the hill, the pits that acted as eyes glared at the two figures intertwined in lustful consummation.

The conception of this child would be given a small benefit. The one known universally for dealing in the art of Death would now ironically be influencing Life. The perfect “model zero”; beneath the pitch cloak was a skeleton of the purest of whites. Sliding his left sleeve above his elbow joint, Death reached into the abysmal depths of his sleeve and ripped a smooth bone from his body. A replacement instantly reformed, without even so much as a swirl of energy. It simply came into existence. Holding the bone over the two lovers on the ground, it instantly perforated into dust.

Allowing the powder to spill from his hand and fall, it sprinkled over the two. Not a single piece floated away in the wind, the entirety of the substance cascaded toward its appropriate destination. The moment it touched the writhing and sweat-drenched flesh, it disappeared. It appeared to be absorbed into the bodies, and that was indeed the case. The two noticed nothing, for the fragments were as invisible as their original owner, and the sensation simply did not exist. Smiling, Death was content. Good. He had passed on his seed in this intercourse, the unknowing participants of the threesome unaware of all that had happened.

In nine months, no matter the contraceptive they were using, the child WOULD be born. There was no stopping Death. He would have an heir. Bidding the two adieus, the wind picked up with the rising sun, shredding his body like a barrage of sandpaper arrows. Disappearing into the wind, he departed to the sounds of inevitable orgasms and the songs of the morning birds.