The Last Marigold

The Reaper, who insisted on being called Strike (though everyone knew that wasn’t his true name), pulled at the hem of his sweater. It was old and frayed, but Strike swore it’d come that way. He said it resembled a long-lost movie character’s iconic outfit. It instantly terrified the souls he collected who knew of the character. To him, that was the best joke in existence.

Luster was certain it was the only joke Strike could comprehend. He was lucky that being a Reaper was an innate ability rather than a skill that required training. He would have never gotten past the writing of his name.

Strike sighed. “This is boring.”

Luster glanced at him. “You can go. No one asked you to be here.”

She stopped herself from asking him why he was here. Whenever she had asked why he was here in the past, he never responded. He’d either ignore her or say he needed a vacation.

When Strike disregarded her, Luster rejoiced. She didn’t doubt he bothered other Death Dealers, yet she was likely his favorite people to provoke, especially in recent decades. The less he talked when he was around, the better.

Yet, when he said he was vacationing, Luster seethed. Despite his being an ineffective Reaper, he was still necessary. With the booming human population, every last Reaper was needed to ferry souls from Earth Realm to the places beyond. So when Strike was here with her, he wasn’t doing his job.

Or at least not to the best of his ability.

Fortunately for him, Reapers didn’t work alone. When a Reaper came of age, they bonded with a Grim. The Reaper and dog-like creature formed a symbiotic relationship that Reapers refused to explain. They wouldn’t even share how Reapers had discovered how they could form a connection with Grims.

Strike’s Grim could do the job without him, at least for a short time. If there were no demons, soul eaters, or angels present, his Grim wouldn’t have a problem. The hardest part for his Grim (if left alone) would be its inability to communicate with the soul. It was there for protection, not to be a guide.

When Luster had last mentioned how wrong it was that Strike was leaving his duty to his Grim, he’d simply shrugged and said it wasn’t uncommon. He wasn’t the first Reaper to shirk his responsibilities, and no one really cared as long as the souls were transported from Earth Realm. He even revealed that when souls accidentally ended up in the wrong resting place, there was minimum outcry. Unlike other Death Dealers, Reapers just didn’t care as much about their job.

This news saddened Luster. She was a Marigold, and while she didn’t deal with as many souls as a Reaper did, she cherished her role in mortals’ existences. She had a purpose. As a Death Dealer, she mattered. Not every breathing creature could say that.

Why couldn’t Reapers see their jobs the same way? Was it because they had to deal with many types of souls? Or was it because they were the ones who had to tell the humans that they were dead? Did that become difficult, grating, or frustrating after so many thousands of souls?

Luster was lucky. When a soul came to The Melancholy, where she spent all her time, they had already accepted their death. No one came to The Melancholy by mistake. It was a choice that a soul had to make, and it wasn’t an effortless one.

The Melancholy was a never-ending forest that a soul would wander, encountering all the wrongdoings of their past life. The only way to get out was to face every misdeed they’d ever done, and when they’d accomplished that, they would finally find a Marigold. The Marigold would then lead them back to Earth Realm, where they would be reborn to try to do better and earn a better resting spot after death.

“The quiet is nice,” Strike said.

It never used to be this quiet. Many souls weren’t brave enough to face their faults, but there were usually several dozen traveling through The Melancholy at one time. They never encountered each other, though they could all sense that they weren’t entirely alone.

The number of a soul had dropped dramatically over the decades, which had led to all the Marigolds but Luster to disappear. Without their purpose, they were nothing. Thinking they were nothing had made them so.

Luster sighed. “It’s not supposed to be.”

The sounds of souls healing were never pleasant, but none of the screams, crying, or pleading bothered Luster. If a soul made noise, it meant that the process was working. They were one step closer to her. They were one step closer to their rebirth.

“That’s creepy, you know.”

“Your opinion doesn’t matter to me.”

“It sounds like you don’t care about the souls. And I thought we Reapers were heartless.”

At this accusation, Luster’s thin control broke. She took a step toward Strike, puffing out her chest and making her slight form as threatening as possible. As a Marigold, Luster couldn’t take life, not even in self-defense. Unlike other Death Dealers, she couldn’t step in and do someone else’s job if necessary. She was stuck as a guide in The Melancholy until the last soul could roam Earth Realm. Or, if like her sisters, until she lost sight of herself.

“You are one of the cruelest, most vile beings breathing. Time and time again, you prove this. Why must you needle me?”

Strike was unfazed by her show of intimidation. “You wouldn’t say that if you met a demon. Or even an angel. The humans are so wrong about them.”

“Leave. Me. Alone.”

Strike shook his head.

“Why? If there was any decency in you, you’d grant me this one thing. You’d let me be at peace.”

The mockery left Strike’s face and body. He was serious for the first time since he’d started appearing in The Melancholy. “Why are you still here?”

Some of Luster’s anger vanished with her surprise. “W-what?”

“The other Marigolds, they’re all gone. You’re the last one. Why do you hang around? You must be lonely.”

Luster was. When her sisters had existed, they hadn’t spent much time together. Their focus had been on the souls, but they’d found moments to socialize. It might have only been once in a handful of years, but that had been enough.

“So? What does that have to do with anything?”

“You haven’t abandoned The Melancholy or the souls who come here. You believe in what you do, right?”

“Of course.”

Other Death Dealers might not think much of her job, but she mattered. Souls that had improved themselves deserved another chance at life. Most went on to better Earth Realm in some way.

Knowing this, Luster couldn’t give up. Even if she only transported one soul every fifty years, that meant there was still hope.

“You’re a Marigold,” Strike said.

“Yes.”

“It might not be only souls you help renew.”

The weight of his words hit her. She let out a soft, “Oh.”

Strike couldn’t look at her then. “We’re not friends, but you’re the closest thing I have. Knowing you’re here, fighting the good fight and all, it makes my job bearable. Thank you.” He let out a small laugh. “I should have told you that before now.”  

“Uh… you’re welcome.”

“Just, even when all the humans are gone, don’t forget that you’re important to me.”

“Okay.”

Strike nodded. “I need to go before my Grim starts plotting my death.”

“Okay.”

Strike waved at her. He still avoided her eyes. “Bye.”

Luster could only manage a small wiggle of her fingers in response. Then he vanished, leaving her dazed as she contemplated Strike’s unexpected confession and the warmth it had left behind.

Next time, though she wouldn’t show it, she’d be glad of his visit.