“Death is the only immortal who treats us all alike, whose pity and whose peace and whose refuge are for all — the soiled and the pure, the rich and the poor, the loved and the unloved.” - Mark Twain

Nlemeanya was so, so tired. She looked wearily over the edge of her nest at the world below that She had given so much to creating, so much to filling with life, and hoped to feel some sort of fulfillment in what she knew to be her final hours.

But she did not.

She felt cheated, cut short from Her ability to continue to observe and create and shape and bring life. She had done so much good for this world, this Aururiel, why was She being forced to leave now?

She tried to scream out in rage, cry out with all the anger that She felt towards the inexorable tide of time and the universe, but could barely manage a whimper. Her power was nearing its end, and time refused to even let Her grieve properly. It was simply unfair.

But despite the weakness of Her cries, it seemed like Her brethren noticed nonetheless. Because she was certain that she felt others approaching Her nest as well, others as close to death as She was. So, summoning as much energy as She could muster, she returned to her perch, and awaited those that would come to say goodbye.