Death - Building

“Brothers,” repeated Brother Watchtower, trying to reassert himself, “we are all here, aren't we?”

There was a worried chorus of agreement.

“Of course we are.”

“What's the matter?”

“Yes!”

YES

“Yes.”

There it was again, a subtle wrongness about things that you couldn't quite put your finger on because your finger was too scared. But Brother Watchtower's troublesome thoughts were interrupted by a scrabbling sound on the roof. A few nubs of plaster dropped into the circle.

“Brothers?” repeated Brother Watchtower nervously.

Now there was one of those silent sounds, a long, buzzing silence of extreme concentration and just possibly the indrawing of breath into lungs the size of haystacks. The last rats of Brother Watchtower's self-confidence fled the sinking ship of courage.

“Brother Doorkeeper, if you could just unbolt the dread portal-” he quavered.

And then there was light.

There was no pain. There was no time.

Death strips away many things, especially when it arrives at a temperature hot enough to vaporise iron, and among them are your illusions. The immortal remains of Brother Watchtower watched the dragon flap away into the fog, and then looked down at the congealing puddle of stone, metal and miscellaneous trace elements that was all that remained of the secret headquarters. And of its occupants, he realized in the dispassionate way that is part of being dead. You go through your whole life and end up a smear swirling around like cream in a coffee cup. Whatever the gods' games were, they played them in a damn mysterious way.

He looked up at the hooded figure beside him.

“We never intended this,” he said weakly. “Honestly. No offence. We just wanted what was due to us.”

A skeletal hand patted him on the shoulder, not unkindly.

And Death said, CONGRATULATIONS.