by Austin Gragg
“More orders already?” Morrígu asks.
Skeleton glares at the bird for rummaging around in her mind again. Morrígu perches atop the scythe’s silver blade, which leans against the far wall of the Garden’s basement. Skeleton closes her leather notebook. She keeps names in it. She began collecting them when she realized the world wouldn’t use names much longer, being a human invention.
As always, their orders are to collect. The name to gather is “Violet.”
Collections are ramping up these days because all of Mother’s children are sick. Dying.
Violet is a beautiful name. Well-crafted, too; the way it evokes colors and images when spoken.
Skeletons do not have names and cannot have names. Their cosmic role is clerical, and like many things, predestined. But throughout time, humans had given the skeletons names. They described the cosmic clericus wit strange notions and bestowed them with mythologies. But Anubis or Nergal had “died” long ago. Now, almost all the skeletons’ names have passed into fabular or devolved into shallow concepts like “reapers.”
Sadly, most humans just called them, Death.
“It’s a shame everything’s changed,” Morrígu
says. “You’ll live to see it happen.”
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