The plain quieted after the shadow dissolved, as if the land itself had stilled. The boy's steps felt lighter, though his body trembled from what he had faced. Each breath came uneven, but he forced himself to keep moving beside the pale horse.
For a long time, they walked without a word. The silence pressed, not oppressive but heavy, filled with unspoken questions. The boy's mind churned until the words finally spilled out.
"Why me?" His voice cracked. "Why now? I was only seventeen. My family needed me. My life wasn't finished."
The rider did not slow. His hooded face turned slightly, but no features emerged from the shadow within. His voice was calm, steady, inevitable.
"Death does not wait for what is unfinished. All roads end when they end."
The boy clenched his fists. Anger flickered again, though smaller, weaker than before. "But it isn't fair."
The rider's hand tightened faintly on the reins. "Fairness is a word of the living. The soil does not ask if the tree wished to grow taller before it fell. The flame does not ask if the candle wished to burn longer. They end. As you ended."
The boy's throat tightened. He looked down at the black earth beneath his feet. "Then what's the point of it? Why live at all, if it just ends like this?"
The rider's voice dropped, deep and resonant.
"Because it is lived. That is enough. A moment in the sun is no less a moment because it fades. A breath taken is no less real because it ends. You loved. You were loved. That is the point."
The boy's chest ached, though there was no heartbeat within it. His hands trembled at his sides. "But it hurts. To leave them. To know they'll suffer."
The rider turned his hood toward him. "Suffering is the shadow of love. They grieve because you mattered. And they will endure because you mattered."
The boy's eyes burned with fresh tears. He tried to speak, but his voice broke, and all that came out was a whisper. "Then why didn't you take me gently? Why did I have to die like that?"
For the first time, the rider reined in his pale horse. The creature halted, breath misting faintly though no warmth filled this land. The rider looked down upon him, skeletal fingers folded upon the reins.
"I do not choose how the living die," he said. "I only gather what remains. Some fall in peace. Some fall in violence. Some fall in silence, others in fire. The cause is not mine. Only the taking."
The boy trembled. "So you don't care. You don't feel anything. You just… collect."
The rider's silence was answer enough.
The boy turned away, fists clenched, tears streaking his cheeks. "Then you're a monster. Nothing but a monster."
The rider's hood tilted slightly, as though the word had brushed against him but failed to land. His voice came, steady, untouched.
"I am not monster, nor savior, nor judge. I am only the end. All else is noise."
The boy's anger sputtered, unable to catch fire. His voice was small, defeated. "Then what happens to me? What happens after you… take me?"
The rider's pale horse shifted, hooves silent upon the earth. The rider's head lifted toward the endless grey sky.
"That," he said, "you will learn when you cross. My hand does not deliver answers. Only passage."
The boy swallowed hard, his throat raw. He wanted to scream, to demand clarity, but the rider's words left no room. No comfort. No promise. Only the certainty of what could not be undone.
For a long while, they walked on in silence. The boy's tears dried on his cheeks, leaving his face hollow, his eyes empty. Yet somewhere beneath the ache, a seed of understanding settled.
Death was not cruel. Not kind. Not anything but what it was.
And he could not fight it.