Convergence

As the universe began in fire and fury, so shall it end in a whimper.

So few stars left in the closing stages of the universe. When life graced its domain, when it dared to look up at the night sky in terror, before the eyes of mortals beheld wonder rather than terror, they developed a name for this phenomenon – heat death. The point in time where all that would be left is darkness, as the last stars burn out, and all is returned to dust. Some said that there would come a time where they might look up at the night sky of their world and behold no light. That the dark is all that would remain.

No life to look upon the dark, and the pallid splutters of dying suns. No life left in this universe. No eyes to behold the end of all things.

Life, ever constant companion of creation. Life, ever kept in balance with death. Life, always breaking free of death, and breaking the boundaries of the worlds that spawned it. While the universe marched towards its end, life ever sought to break its boundaries. Life reached beyond its means. Life consumed, and consumed, and consumed, until death reclaimed it. Life rose above death, only to be cast down in turn. The same cycle repeated over and over. Across stars. Across galaxies. Across clusters, and across one end of Creation to the next. No life, to witness the end of all things, only death. And death does not possess open eyes.

They are here now. All of them. Across time, across space, all have come to the end point. Moons, some called them. All brethren indeed, but not moons, if ever such a term could be applied. No planets do these bodies orbit now. No longer bound to the celestial dance of the cosmos. If they are sharks, the sea of space is bereft of prey, and all that is left is the apex predator. They are here, all of them – a thousand time a thousand moons, multiplied by the number that carries the name infinity. All here, gathered in the dead of space, singing the chorus of the song named silence. No eyes in this universe to behold them. No ears to hear their laughter. No hands to craft the instruments of one's own demise.

They are not here to meet their demise today. There is nothing left for them to feed upon, but it matters not. Life has ended, and unlife has reached its endpoint.

It happens slowly, like the formation of a star system. As if gravity itself conducts this macabre display. One moon joins another, necrotic flesh becoming as one. The celestial dance which birthed suns, birthed worlds, birthed life, is mocked in the coda of creation. Moon after moon joins, pace ever increasing. Size ever expanding. Larger than any planet. Larger than any star. One last sentinel in an empty universe. One monument to stand over the wasteland, where none remain to look upon its works and despair. One final act. One final edict.

No song now, but the whisper. The whisper that shall be the last words the universe shall hear. The whisper that comes not from mouths, but from fate. The whisper that is repeated over and over – a signal from the end of the universe – an echo of the end, as life once saw the echo of the beginning. A word repeated over, and over, and over, from the end until eternity…

"Make us whole."