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The Kingmaker

“They called me Kingmaker. You may call me death.” Chains rattled as her weight shifted, they pull against her ankle warm and heavy.


Across the table cold green eyes glared, brow furrowed, and crimson lips drew tight. The woman sat back in her chair getting comfortable. “I will call you no such thing child. Your name.”


Death felt the smile tug at the corner of her lips without her bidding. “If you don’t even have my name…do you really have anything?”

A small vial was rolled from palm to palm, black label, purple fluid. Death was mesmerized as the vial slid fear, pure, and cold clung like a wrap, and tightened like a snake. Her hands fisted around the arm rests her knuckles whitened from the pressure.


Green eyes glittered, a reptilian sort of joy. “Bottled fear. I have bottled fear. It will enhance what you’re already feeling.” Bits of silver swirled amongst the purple like glitter, leaving trails like a snail invading the garden. Fine, delicate features turned beautiful as a smile turned up her lips. “I have better. I can get you euphoria…we don’t have to do this the hard way.” Silken and soft, with a hard core, like velvet on steel, but colder. The words caressed, cajoled, and teased at a happy ending. Long delicate fingers reached for her, caressed her cheek. They were as cold as they appeared.


“I would rather not do this at all.” Death lifted her hand from the arm rest and reached up to brush away the raptors claw.
The claw sealed tight around her wrist and she leaned forward as glittering green eyes burned with some unknown emotion. “We must.” Spit practically flew at the intensity of the words. The chain around Death’s ankle rattled. “Tell me.” Softer now as the emotion seemed to change, steel warming. “Just tell me?” The steel disappeared, but Death held no illusions how quickly it could return.


Death leaned forward. “Fine. I’ll start before I was the Kingmaker. But will not give you my name.” Tears burned, threatening to spill.

Dear readers, here we have intersections of fate. Have you not heard the belief that equates fate to threads? Well, now you just have. In these intersections; or knots if you will, fate comes to a pivot point. On or off, yes or no. The thing to remember, fate is neither kind, nor unkind. Fate simply is. Fate can make kings or paupers of us all. Sometimes to make sense of the knots fate calls in an artisan. That artisan is Blaine Ciardha, the Kingmaker. This is her awakening.

The Weaver

Death ran her hands through her hair and leaned back in her chair. “It was never supposed to be this way. They were never supposed to die.” She laughs. “That’s not what you want to know though. What you want to know is how I helped him get there.” She laughed and dropped her eyes back to the table, a single tear shattering on the steel.

The green eyed woman set aside the vial of fear and took Death’s hands in her own. “You didn’t kill them. They just died. Just happened to die. What I need to know from you is why were you there in the first place?”

Death laughed. “You really think they just happened to die?”