Deathstick

“You are Death’s personal blacksmith, the only one able to keep his weapon as sharp as his skill. One day, he comes to you and begs you to destroy it.” -u/AGIA, original post here.

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I ᴡᴀɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇsᴛʀᴏʏ ɪᴛ.

“Sorry, you want me to do what?”

ᴅᴇsᴛʀᴏʏ ɪᴛ. Uᴛᴛᴇʀʟʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇʟʏ. Rᴇᴍᴏᴠᴇ ɪᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴇxɪsᴛᴇɴᴄᴇ sᴏ ᴛʜᴏʀᴏᴜɢʜʟʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɴᴏᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʜᴏsᴛ ᴏꜰ ɪᴛ ʀᴇᴍᴀɪɴs.

I looked down at the blade. It was some of my finest work; the blade was incomparable, the handle carefully carved from ebony and curved to fit Death’s unique gait and grip. I could see where the handle was becoming glossy, worn down by the bones of his fingers.

“I’m… I’m not sure that I can do that, sir.”

Yᴏᴜ ʙᴜɪʟᴛ ɪᴛ, ᴅɪᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴏᴛ?

“I did.”

Sᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪɴ ʀᴇᴠᴇʀsᴇ.

“I’ve been sharpening this on sunshine for you, sir. I’ve been growing sapient pearwood for the past century to make a new handle.”

ɪ’ᴍ sᴜʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ ꜰɪɴᴅ sᴏᴍᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴜsᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ɪᴛ.

“Sir, it’s not about finding another use for it, it’s just… can I ask why?”

ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀɴs ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙʟᴀᴅᴇs.

“Yes, that’s well established enough.”

ᴍʏ ꜰᴀɴs. ꜰᴀɴs ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ʙᴇɢɪɴɴɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏʟʟᴇᴄᴛ sᴄʏᴛʜᴇs.

“Ah. That does seem marginally more on topic. I still don’t know why you want me to destroy your scythe, though.”

ɪᴍɪᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ɪs ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏsᴛ sɪɴᴄᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴏʀᴍ ᴏꜰ ꜰʟᴀᴛᴛᴇʀʏ.

“Also well established.”

ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴡɪsʜ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ꜰʟᴀᴛᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ. ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ. ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴜɴɪǫᴜᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ I sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ʙᴇ ᴇᴍᴜʟᴀᴛᴇᴅ. I ᴄᴀɴ ᴅᴏ ᴍʏ ᴊᴏʙ ᴘʟᴇɴᴛʏ ᴡᴇʟʟ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ, ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ.

He thrust the scythe forward, forcing it into my hands. I held it with reverence, careful not to scrape it on the floor.

“I… I’ll look into destroying it. It might take some time.”

ᴛɪᴍᴇ ɪs ᴏꜰ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴄᴏɴsᴇǫᴜᴇɴᴄᴇ.

“I’m aware. What will you use in the meanwhile?”

Death stalked—and stalked was always the right word, when discussing Death’s peculiar stride—over to the wall of my workshop. He paused for a moment, skeletal hand hovering above a vast array of weapons. My side projects, produced in the spare time between repairing Death’s scythe. He reached forward, grasping one and lifting it down from the wall.

ʟᴇᴛ ᴜs sᴇᴇ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴs ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴀᴛᴇ ɪᴍɪᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ.

He stalked from the room, a long-barreled pistol dangling loosely off of his bony fingers.