I am the God of Death. On this day, I truly bear the aspect of Shinigami. Before now, I sent hundreds to their death, to their maker, to their hell. I called myself a God of Death without understanding what it meant.

The light fades slowly, leaching with it all hope of salvation. Warm blood, red, the only color I can see now, covers my hands. I hold him in my arms, waiting, praying for a heartbeat that will never sound again. It is pointless. There is no god. There is only Shinigami.

Those who I sent to their deaths in the past, I pitied. They were weak. Any who stood before me must fall. Any who obstructed my path must be brushed aside. Any who laid eyes on my Gundam must not live to tell of it. Those are the orders I was given. Those are the orders I fulfilled.

I thought that in giving death I became Death. I was wrong. I knew nothing about the identity I assumed. I did not truly understand death, reckless as I was. This final life that I have taken is heavier than all those who have come before. But I cannot lay down the burden. I must continue. Shinigami cannot die, until Death itself, and therefore life, are no more. This is not, then, the final life. It is simply the hardest to bear.

So I hold all I can reach of him. I wish it could have been different. I wish that he were still alive, that I could see his mysterious eyes, his knowing smile, his lethal grace once again. The mask he wore in life is gone, but nothing that was behind it remains now. It makes no difference, in the end.

I know the nature of Shinigami. I will always be here, taking life, giving death. Those I love will go into death without me, leaving me in solitude for all eternity. It has already begun.