"There you are."

An old woman sits in the middle of the plain, legs crossed over one another. Her hair is white and sparse, tied back in a tangled bun. She stares out at the sunset, which casts pink highlights and dusky shadows over the landscape.

A man approaches her at a fast pace. He's tall, spindly, and dons a black robe. He stops a few feet short of her. "There you are. I sought you for ages, and find you in plain sight." He pulls out a curved blade, and lifts it to the woman's neck.

She doesn't flinch.

"It's time for death," he warns.

Her eyes remain straight ahead. "You know it's not time, and will not ever be."

"Please," the man says, falling to his knees. The light catches his gaunt face, illuminating the wrinkles and shading the scars. He runs his fingers over the sickle. "I've chased after you for eternity. You've eluded me through firestorms and hail, through hurricanes and ice ages. I've taken the lives of behemoths, warriors, and all kinds of creatures as I pursued you."

"Immortality is powerful," she replies.

He crouches in front of her. He unclasps his robe and throws it aside, revealing torn shorts and a scarred chest. He carefully raises the sickle to her face. It grazes her cheek. "You're wrong." He tosses it into her lap. "I don't want to be immortal anymore," he says, his face inches from hers. "It's time for me to die, Death. Why won't you take me?"

Death hands the sickle back to him. "There's nothing I can do," she says, returning to watch the setting sun.