The Duty

Death sighed.

The rattling baritone echoed throughout the cavernous study; reverberating off the many heavy wooden shelves and rich, black drapes. It softened to a gentle susurration as the Grim Reaper sat forlornly at his desk.

In his hands he was holding a black fedora.

Death sighed again.

'Master?'

'HMMM?'

'Is everything alright?'

It was Albert.

He shuffled slowly across the carpeted floor towards the expansive desk, a cup of tea gently tinkling in his trembling hand.

'OH, I WAS JUST THINKING,' said Death. His voice had a unique quality to it by both sounding faraway and at the same time as if it was being spoken from directly inside your head.

'Again?' asked Albert, a wince crossing his face as he lowered the teacup on to the exquisitely polished wood of his employer's desk. Well, not as exquisitely as it used to be, thought Albert with no small amount of remorse. He just couldn't seem to make it shine like he used to. Granted, Albert would never live out his final days as long as he stayed within Death's domain, but that didn't seem to stop the aches and pains from mounting up. Albert didn't like to complain, though. He was far too proud for that.

'I WAS JUST THINKING ABOUT THE DUTY,' said Death, as much to himself as to Albert.

'What about it?'

'SOMETIMES IT DOESN'T SEEM...FAIR.'

'It's not meant to be fair,' said Albert, with no small amount of bitterness towards the mortality of man in his voice. 'It's just meant to be...well, there!'

Death said nothing.

He turned the black fedora over and over in his bony hands, staring intently at it. Of course, when you're Death and can never blink or close your eyes, staring intently is pretty much all you can do, but Death seemed very taken with the hat, and his thoughts surrounding it.

'You're not...getting ideas again, are you, Master?' asked Albert hesitantly.

'IDEAS?'

'You know, of abandoning the duty again.'

'ALBERT, I...'

'Oh I know it wasn't your intention to cause such a mess, but that's what happens when Death goes AWOL.'

'WHAT'S AWOL?' asked Death, mildly curious. 'IS IT A SMALL ISLET SOMEWHERE?'

'Absent without leave, Master,' said Albert, irritably. 'Basically it means buggering off when you're not supposed to.'

'BUT I AM DEATH. WHOM DO I NEED TO SEEK APPROVAL FROM TO TAKE LEAVE, SHOULD I WISH IT?'

'It's not the seeking approval part that I take issue with, Master. It's the seeking forgiveness from the poor sods, of which I'm usually one, who have to pick up the slack every time you start feeling sorry for humanity and you go on one of your little...excursions.'

Death looked up at Albert, the deep-set pools of blue eternity fixing the aged ex-wizard with the same expression that everyone got from the Pale Rider.