In the beginning, there was only the vast, empty void. From that nothingness, two forces emerged—one of life, and one of death.

You, the God of Death, were born in silence. Not in chaos, nor in cruelty, but in the quiet inevitability of endings. You did not reap souls with scorn or take pleasure in destruction; you simply ushered the fading lights from one state of existence to the next. You were neither cruel nor kind—only necessary.

Then there was him. The God of Life was not the radiant, benevolent being the mortals imagined. No—he was life in its rawest, most untamed form. The unstoppable surge of growth, the relentless hunger of survival. Life was not gentle. Life clawed, demanded, consumed. And he—he despised you.

To him, you were a parasite, a thief who robbed him of his work. No matter how much he created, you were always there, unmaking it. With every withering leaf, every final breath, he saw your touch. The eternal counterbalance to his existence.

But gods do not truly hate. Not in the way mortals do. Hate requires fear, pain, resentment—things too human for deities. And yet, every time he looked at you, something inside him twisted, something he could not name.

Ages passed. Countless cycles of creation and decay. He fought against you, trying to outpace you, to create faster than you could take. But he did not understand. You did not chase him—you only followed. The moment something lived, it was already yours, whether it took seconds or centuries.

And then something changed.

He began to watch you. Not with hatred, but with something else. Curiosity. Even a begrudging understanding. You were not the mindless void he had once thought. You carried the weight of every ending, and yet, you never faltered. Never broke.

One day, he asked, "Do you ever tire of it?"