Reaper Man

The plain could have been a mile away, or a million miles; it was marked by long valleys or rills which flowed away to either side as he got closer.
    And landed.
    He dismounted, and stood in the silence. Then he went down on one knee.
    Change the perspective. The furrowed landscape falls away into immense distances, curves at the edges, becomes a fingertip.
    Azrael raised his finger to a face that filled the sky, lit by the faint glow of dying galaxies.
    There are a billion Deaths, but they are all aspects of the one Death: Azrael, the Great Attractor, the Death of Universes, the beginning and end of time.
    Most of the universe is made up of dark matter, and only Azrael knows who it is.
    Eyes so big that a supernova would be a mere suggestion of a gleam on the iris turned slowly and focused on the tiny figure on the immense whorled plains of his fingertips. Beside Azrael the big Clock hung in the center of the entire web of the dimensions, and ticked onward. Stars glittered in Azrael’s eyes.
    The Death of the Discworld stood up.
    L ORD , I ASK FOR —
    Three of the servants of oblivion slid into existence alongside him.
    One said, Do not listen. He stands accused of meddling.
    One said, And morticide.
    One said, And pride. And living with intent to survive.
    One said, And siding with chaos against good order.
    Azrael raised an eyebrow.
    The servants drifted away from Death, expectantly.
    L ORD , WE KNOW THERE IS NO GOOD ORDER EXCEPT THAT WHICH WE CREATE …
    Azrael’s expression did not change.
    T HERE IS NO HOPE BUT US . T HERE IS NO MERCY BUT US . T HERE IS NO JUSTICE . T HERE IS JUST US .
    The dark, sad face filled the sky.
    A LL THINGS THAT ARE , ARE OURS . B UT WE MUST CARE . F OR IF WE DO NOT CARE , WE DO NOT EXIST . I F WE DO NOT EXIST , THEN THERE IS NOTHING BUT BLIND OBLIVION .
    A ND EVEN OBLIVION MUST END SOME DAY . L ORD , WILL YOU GRANT ME JUST A LITTLE TIME ? F OR THE PROPER BALANCE OF THINGS . T O RETURN WHAT WAS GIVEN . F OR THE SAKE OF PRISONERS AND THE FLIGHT OF BIRDS .
    Death took a step backward.
    It was impossible to read expression in Azrael’s features.
    Death glanced sideways at the servants.
    L ORD , WHAT CAN THE HARVEST HOPE FOR , IF NOT FOR THE CARE OF THE R EAPER M AN ?
    He waited.
    L ORD ? said Death.
    In the time it took to answer, several galaxies unfolded, whirled around Azrael like paper streamers, impacted, and were gone.
    Then Azrael said:

And another finger reached out across the darkness toward the Clock.
    There were faint screams of rage from the servants, and then screams of realization, and then three brief, blue flames.
    All other clocks, even the handless clock of Death, were reflections of the Clock. Exactly reflections of the Clock; they told the universe what the time was, but the Clock told Time what time is. It was the mainspring from which all time poured.
    And the design of the Clock was this: that the biggest hand only went around once.
    The second hand whirred along a circular path that even light would take days to travel, forever chased by the minutes, hours, days, months, years, centuries and ages. But the Universe hand went around once.
    At least, until someone wound up the clockwork.
    And Death returned home with a handful of Time.

    A shop bell jangled.
    Druto Pole, florist, looked over a spray of floribrunda Mrs. Shover . Someone was standing among the vases of flowers. They looked slightly indistinct; in fact, even afterward, Druto was never sure who had been in his shop and how his words had actually sounded.
    He oiled forward, rubbing his hands.
    “How may I hel—”
    F LOWERS .
    Druto hesitated only for a moment.
    “And the, er, destination for these—”
    A L ADY .
    “And do you have any pref—”
    L ILIES .
    “Ah? Are you sure that lilies are—?”
    I LIKE LILIES .
    “Um…it’s just that lilies are a little bit somber—”
    I LIKE SOMB —
    The figure hesitated.
    W HAT DO YOU RECOMMEND ?
    Druto slipped smoothly into gear. “Roses are always very well received,” he said. “Or orchids. Many gentlemen these days tell me that ladies find a single specimen orchid more acceptable than a bunch of roses—”
    G IVE ME LOTS .
    “Would that be orchids or roses?”
    B OTH .
    Druto’s fingers twined sinuously, like eels in grease.
    “And I wonder if I could interest you in these marvelous sprays of Nervousa Gloriosa —”
    L OTS OF THEM .
    “And if Sir’s budget would stretch, may I suggest a single specimen of the extremely rare—”
    Y