Prompt #87

He stood on the horizon like a mountain that broke the landscape in two. There was the sky. There was the earth. Then, there was him.
The plants would scare at his approach. The animals would quiver with his each step. He would watch all this as a cloud watches the ocean; passively moving; passively touching everything without the need to be touched. But the oceans have been touched and they darken under the caress.
He comes closer. He becomes no bigger than he was before and he becomes no smaller. He only walks towards you with sure steps and broad shoulders; the clang of his armor begins to ring in clarity. When he is only a few feet away—a mountain of a man and the incarnation of a god—the world washes of color.
“I am death” he says. He reaches out with a gloved hand, sharp points on each knuckle and metal disks cascading like the scales of a dragon to his wrist. You watch the movement, mesmerized, and quake like a leaf under the potential of his touch. But his hand never lands, it only remains hovering a few inches away, and you can see, for a moment, in the gap of the armor and in the slit of the helmet, yourself staring back. “I am death and I say come.”
At the same moment, you feel yourself saying it as well.

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