The Lonesome Task

         The surrounding jungles were humid and untamed, with no hint of human life. Even with a well-lit atmosphere the area had an eerie glow to it.
         The lone figure seemed to take no notice of his surroundings. For any thing that happened to see him pass, would be unable to tell if the wild land around him was unnatural or if it was the figure himself, but, as it goes no person can see him anyways. The terrain seemed to almost bend aside to let him pass. The vegetation under his feet seemed to wither away at his touch. A great sadness or a feeling of longing that was not unnatural seemed to follow the figure; as one who has an unbearable burden but strives to carry it always.
         The dark figure seemed bent on a task that would change the course of someone's life; in some cases the course of history. Through the foliage he crept, he eased under vines and over logs. He went unnoticed by any lingering life. At last the lonesome figure came to a small clearing that had decent view of a small outpost of seaside explorers. The town was full of people taking care of the difficulties of their daily lives. They almost looked like a man-sized anthill. Each man, women and child going about their meaningless lives, carrying out their daily labors.
         Meaningless as it was, the figure felt a great longing for them. Humans have always had life, so they don't understand how valuable it is, till it was nearly gone. Maybe that was one way to look at what he did. He forced mortals to understand how valuable their lives where, but by the time he helped them it was too late. He entered the outpost without a moment's hesitation.
         No living soul would bother him as he passed. Bony and narrow eyed as he was. The city around him was almost a living entity in of itself. In the town center nearly two dozen men were eagerly setting up the foundations for a church. The setting sun reflected off their dehydrated bodies. Even though, not a soul could see him, people unconsciously moved aside to let him pass. As far as he could tell it was a subconscious reflex to his presence. Or maybe it was because there was nothing natural about him. The soil under him should have been displaced at his movement but it remained untouched. On the edge of town lay a small unkempt house. The grass was dying and vines were growing on the house. Shingles mere inches away from collapsing. Several windows in the house had planks nailed over them. He was sure the door would have creaked would he have had to use it. The interior was nothing like the outside view. There were candles spread throughout the house, giving the house a strange smell. They went out as he passed by them. Paintings, sideways as they were, were scattered across the room, a canvas in the middle. By the canvas lay an array of paint materials of different colors. The portrait half painted, leaving the ocean scene without the colors of the sea. None of these materials were part of his dark task, so he passed them by.
         In the master bedroom, a dying man lay desperately clinging to life. His body was already decaying despite the the life he furiously clung too. The man was drenched in as much sweat as if he had stood in the middle of a tropical storm. His face was as white and grim as a ghost. His blondish-white hair seemed to be the only part of him unaffected. The disease that was ravaging his skin left scar tissue throughout his body that left him oozing and aching. Though his body screamed for death, every fiber of his soul screamed for life. The painter like most dying mortals could see his grim figure as clear as day. The painter could see the pure whiteness of his stone like skin, the black coat that covered his whole body. He would appear almost beautiful to those he was about to take had he not had a unnatural eeriness about him.
         “You're here to kill me.” Uttered the dying painter
         “Not kill you, just to guide your soul to comfort.”
         With a chuckle the dying man exclaimed, “You don’t look much like the old tails, the reapers of old are always skeletons and demons. But you….you're nothing of the sort. Why I would paint you. You...you're magnificent. No hair, no texture, Eyes but no face, yet you're features seem to tell exactly what you're thinking. You seem to be almost...” he gasped for breath “Angelic.”
         The dark man didn't respond, his time was limited. “Come with me, I am here to bring an end to your suffering.”
         It wasn’t physical pain that seemed to cross the painters face, but an intense longing for something unknown.
         The dark figure sighed “She will be fine. She'll live for a long time and have a decent life.” He paused “I give my word.”
         Despair filled the dying man's face “ There's so much that I have yet to capture on canvas, so much I haven't seen. I'm not ready!”
         Death sighed “Mortals rarely are, but its time to go.” Suddenly the man's face gained a touch of color. “Before I go...please...let me p-paint you.”
         No was the answer, or at least it was the answer he should say. Why not give the mortal his last portrait? His next appointment would wait. If nothing else, did he not have anything but time? The painter interpreted the dark figure's silence as a yes. Slowly he got out of bed. Being able to paint his last portrait seemed to revive the man in a way no medical treatment could. Slowly the two figures progressed to the living area. The painter gathered his materials, and set up his canvas. Even being on the verge of death could not stop the man from skillfully painting his canvas. Every stroke of the brush invoked emotions through simple textures. Emotions reserved only for the Gods of men. Hours passed as the painter brought his last masterpiece to life. Dusk was fast approaching. Finally the painter eased his brush into a watery jar, and turned the parcel around into full view.
         The dark figure was shocked by the detail of the finished results. He had never seen himself. Neither mirrors nor any reflective surface could ever show him how others see him. The image the man painted was one of pure beauty. He had no face, but his eyes were a beautiful hazel color. The painter portrayed his skin to be white, but it seemed to glow with the light of the sun. What struck him the most was despite his unnatural characteristics, he appeared...almost human. He was stunned, so much so that he paused for about a minute to gather in every fiber of detail the portrait had to offer. The painting also seemed to have an essence of internal sadness.
         Slowly Death uttered “I-It's time to go”. The painter gently placed the last of the materials on his place mat, and went to lie down for the last time.
         The lonesome figure gently touched the painters face. On contact both figures seemed to glow bright as any Sun or star. Every fiber of their beings seemed to intertwine with the other. Their very essence consumed together. He was so bent on accomplishing his task at hand that the dark figure failed to notice the old rotted floorboards squeaking under pressure. He failed to notice the latch on the door slowly turning as the little blonde girl gently walked in the room. Why would he though? No one could see him but those near death, or so he thought.
         He could feel the dying man weakening as he slowly pulled his soul to a cradle. Until a sugary voice said, “Where are you taking daddy?”
         Caught completely unaware, quite possibly for the first time since the dawn of time, the dark figure released the painters soul to turn to the small girl. She looked as young child would In a Children’s fairy tale. Her golden hair braided to perfection. Her eyes more blue than any part of the sky. Her fragile body desperately clutching the candle light in her hands at the sight of the intruder.
         “Girl, you can see me? How is this you are not one of those near death?”
         The young girl began to cry, and before the ghastly figure could react she was clutching him and desperately pouring her tears onto him, drenching his dark robes. Something about this young girl touched him, quite unlike any mortal he had even seen over the millennia.
         It might have been that her perfection seemed to be her ally in every way, or maybe it was that she was the first mortal to see him with no death in their near future. Those near death always have an agenda, but not this child, who by every right had decades and decades to live. It could also have been the total selflessness in which she cried over him. It could have been her pure unconditional love. Her crying persisted, so he felt inclined to soothe the young girl. So he gently hushed her tears and pulled her up on his lap, and started to brush her golden blond hair. He could not think of any words to comfort her, as he had never done so in the history of man. Instead he told her many stories about his existence since the dawn of time. He told her about how man discovered the wheel. He told her about the wars throughout the world. He talked of kings and queens, even the functions of the universe. Elizabeth was her name and never had he loved a mortal so. For the first time he explained to the full extent the mystery of his existence. He explained what he was and what he did. He revealed his whole being to her; the utter darkness inside him, and the need for light. Through the stories she held him tight. Finally she was fast asleep, snoring ever so softly. Woefully the dark figure carried her gently to her bed. Ever so softly he tucked her in and kissed her goodnight.
         Death crossed the threshold of the painter’s room one last time. Darkness seemed to follow despite the light in the room. There was no more resistance in the man's eyes, just happiness. He was a man that was at last content with his fate. The deathly figure stood over him, his cold hands touched the man's head a second time. As he leaned over the dying man he uttered one last phrase
         “Take care of her, or ill be back for you”
         This was a lie, for as every being has its purpose, so did He. With the loss of this purpose he would simply become part of nothing. Who was he to complain? He had tasted the humility, the absolute goodness of humanity. So much so that he refused to make any part of that goodness suffer. There were other beings that would carry his stead. So as the father's illness miraculously left his body, death became one with the essence of the world. As his figure slowly disappeared, he held no regrets, content at last.
         After eons and eons of emptiness, the dark figure had at last found peace. If he could, Death would have finally smiled