Everyone wanted him, at least they wanted his attention. Why should Death be any different? Apollo was bored with it all, life had become rote and not even the thrill of courting Death could change that. He sighed and rested his face in his hand. The young god craved something different. What that was he did not know, only that he needed to escape the mundane existence of his immortality. Death for him, after all, was only a tease. They could never truly have one another.

The young god left his seat brushing past the looming specter as if it simply did not exist, which in his case was almost true. Death felt a colder than usual chill in its bones at the beautiful deity’s passing accompanied by a deep sadness. The feeling passed almost as quickly as it came because Death knew something the handsome immortal did not. Death knew that it was inevitable, even for a god. When the last man perished then even the gods would cease to be. Then Death would have its desire and feel the weight of the young god’s soul in its bony arms. Death was nothing if not patient.

Apollo stalked the halls of his home seeking some type of mischief. Even his sister would be a pleasant, if temporary distraction. They saw so little of each other, their paths crossing briefly as his day blended into her night. The ways of man had changed recently too which added to his malaise. There were fewer of the faithful than there had ever been. His duties, such as they were, had become meager, less demanding in the past few years. He turned a corner and noticed the black robe of Death in his peripheral. Death had never followed him for so long. His boredom was replaced with a slight sense of unease. Death was something he usually never noticed or thought of. Lately it seemed to be everywhere, following him. Waiting.

Below, on the mortal realm, troubled times had taken hold. The realm of men had seen the rise of many tyrants in its time but the new one was different. Time passed differently for the gods than it did for men and by the time Apollo had reached his next destination the last wars of man had ended. The tyrant had unleashed the weapon that would cease life, a fear held by many men but brushed off hastily by his loyal followers.

His hand was almost on the door of his destination when he felt the icy cold grip on his shoulder. Death had caught him finally, figuratively and literally. The god felt remorse instead of relief. In his last moments he was filled with thoughts of all he should have done and never did. The would be time enough, had been his constant refrain. Time was gone too though, like the men who worshipped him. Only Death was left. Inevitably.