Scythe (Arc Of A Scythe)

Chapter 1: No Dimming Of The Sun

The scythe arrived late on a cold November afternoon. Citra was at the dining room table, slaving over a particularly difficult algebra problem, shuffling variables, unable to solve for X or Y, when this new and far more pernicious variable entered her life's equation.

Guests were frequent at the Terranovas' apartment, so when the doorbell rang, there was no sense of foreboding---no dimming of the, no foreshadowing of the arrival of death at their door. Perhaps the universe should have deigned to provide such warnings, but scythes were no more supernatural than tax collectors in the grand scheme of things. They showed up, did their unpleasant business, and were gone.

Her mother answered the door. Citra didn't see the visitor, as he was, at first, hidden from her view by the door when it opened. What she saw was how her mother stood there, suddenly immobile, as if her veins had solidified within her. As if, were she tipped over, she would fall to the floor and shatter.

"May I enter, Mrs. Terranova?"
The visitor's tone of voice gave him away. Resonant and inevitable, like the dull toll of an iron bell, confident in the ability of its peal to reach all those who needed reaching. Citra knew before she even saw him that it was a scythe. 𝘔𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘥! 𝘈 𝘴𝘤𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦! "Yes, yes of course, come in." Citra's mother stepped aside to allow him entry---as if she were the visitor and not the other way around.

He stepped over the threshold, his soft slipper-like shoes making no sound on the parquet floor. His multilayered robe was smooth ivory linen, and although it reached so low as to dust the floor, there was not a spot of dirt on it anywhere. A scythe, Citra knew, could choose the color of his or her robe---every color except for black, for it was considered inappropriate for their job. Black was an absence of light, and scythes were the opposite. Luminous and enlightened, they were acknowledged as the very best of humanity---which is why they were chosen for the job.

Some scythes robes were bright, some more muted. They looked like the rich, flowing robes of Renaissance angles, both heavy yet lighter than air. The unique style of scythes' robes, regardless of the fabric and color, made them easy to spot in public, which made them easy to avoid---if avoidance was what a person wanted. Just as many were drawn to them.

The color of the robe often said a lot about a scythe's personality. This scythe's ivory robe was pleasant, and far enough from true white not to assault the eye with its brightness. But none of this changed the fact of who and what he was.