Black soil sifted down and scattered, covering the not-very-large grave like a night curtain closing at the end of time, burying that everlasting death.
The god who had been born after all things were extinguished now rested.
At the moment the world met its ending, he had been reduced to a small mound on a hill.
An aimless wind blew out of the darkness, gently stroking the little mound; nameless wildflowers and scrub grass on the hill swayed in the breeze with a soft rustle.
Duncan stood in the wind, both hands on the shovel, staring for a long time at the fresh heap of earth before him.
Then he lifted his head and looked around—the Reaper had not prepared a tombstone for himself, and there was nothing here that could serve as one.
Duncan thrust the shovel he had used to dig the soil firmly into the front of the mound, scooped some earth with his hands and banked it around the shovel to strengthen it.
He used that makeshift arrangement as a marker.
When he finished, he let out a long breath and placed his hand on the shovel handle one last time.
A faint, threadlike green flame, touched with starlight, leaked from between his fingers.
It spread slowly over the Reaper’s “marker,” then vanished.