SSKG

A day in the life of Death isn't as bad as you'd think.

Author’s Note: This is a largely standalone story set in the Stalwart Companions universe, and I think it’s readable enough on its own. However, certain moments will certainly be more satisfying if you’ve read a couple of the previous stories. It’s up to you.

Death was excited.

To the casual observer, this might seem like a terrible thing, especially for his next customer. One might feel that a tall, skeletal figure in a black robe ought not to act like a giddy child, fussing about and wondering what his birthday present is going to be.

And in a normal world, that would certainly be both out of character, and more than a little worrying. But this was The Accident, a world that had not known the touch of a mindful creator, nor even the attentions of a cosmic practical joker. It was a world that, by all accounts, should not exist. If the Architects ever figure out where all that spilled matter and energy went, it probably won't.

But for now, it persists, and its Death is glad for that. Death, sometimes called The Taquero by those who've met him at at the really interesting social functions, couldn't be said to enjoy his job, exactly. Nor did he dislike it. It was as much a part of him as the cosmic essence from which he was formed, as integral to him as his memories. And it was fine.

His true passion, as savvy readers might have guessed, was the preparation of tacos, the consumption of tacos, and the invention of new tacos. Though this food was common to only one region of The Accident, it made the perfect sendoff to souls around the globe.

Tacos were easy to understand, comforting to all, and perfectly delicious to any palate. He would sometimes make variants with ingredients or spices from a client’s home town, just as he sometimes appeared to them in a culturally defined form they would find familiar, and comforting. But most of the time, and to most customers, he was tall, swarthy, enamored of his own creations to the point where it showed, and possessed of kind eyes.

Well, people swore up and down that he had kind eyes, but no one had ever looked long enough to be sure. Few indeed even knew what color they might be.

He would have felt rather cramped in the small bedroom in this northern continent where his taco stand was now situated, if the room had been all there. As it was, only the important bits seemed to be present.

There was a bed, sturdy and worn, with lovingly hand-made blankets on it, where a middle-aged couple lay peacefully. There were three walls, various belongings lying about in a mostly-organized fashion, and a decades-old painting in the corner that depicted what looked like a younger version of the couple in the bed, and four children.

He sharpened his best knife for this occasion – no other would do – and began to chop a slab of truly excellent steak. His reputation was on the line, after all.

On the bed, both husband and wife were rather pale, being local to this northern clime. But the wife was a good deal more pale than the husband, and it was Time. She opened her eyes slowly, her nostrils flaring at the smell of frying meat, and looked rather puzzled as her head tracked toward the taco stand. But, rather than look afraid or upset, she was more curious than anything.

She got up, or at least the most essential bits of her did, and made her way to the stand. She sat at one of the stools, and didn’t look at The Taquero’s eyes.

“Good sir, I welcome you to my home. But… uuhhhh… Bit of an odd place to set up shop, isn’t it?” she asked, with polite interest.

“I do a lot of my business in bedrooms, actually.” said Death with a soft smile.

“With food that smells that good, I suppose most people don’t mind.” said the woman.

She was of average height for her people, grey eyed, with salt and pepper hair. She too clearly enjoyed her meals, and seemed to regard Death as a kindred spirit, and rightfully so.

“I must confess,” said Death, “that I’m trying a little harder today. The taco may be the perfect food in its own right, but… well, I really hope you like it.”

“I’ve never heard of tacos.” she said, a little nervously.

“I know, they were invented in a land far to the West, and a little to the South.” said Death, genially, “And this taco is a specialty of mine. I use spices from around the world for the beef, my own salsa recipe, limes grown in my own garden, and meat from my own private stock.”

The woman looked impressed.

“Why all of this for me? I’m no one, really.” she asked with bemusement.

“That’s surprising.” mused Death, “I’ve never met no one before. Besides, I’m fairly sure your name is Eorcengod. If it’s not, I’ll have to amend my records.”

Eorcengod looked even more confused.

“Alright, you know my name, but why?” she asked again.

“Because this is what I make for cooks, chefs, and butchers. People who know their meat, and people who make their way in the world by feeding the bodies and souls of others… they get the Special, before they go.” said Death.

A tear rolled down the woman’s cheek, but she smiled softly.

“It’s Time, then.”

It was a statement, plain and cold as the snow outside.

“Not until you’ve had several of these. They’re nearly ready.”

Eorcengod looked back to the bed, which was even now beginning to fade from view, with the rest of the room.

“I don’t suppose you can tell me what happened.” she mused.

“I can.” said Death, kindly, “I hate to say it, but it was the meat.”

Eorcengod was affronted.

“It was not! I have never, not once in my life, sold or served rancid meat!”

Death chuckled, and held up his hands in a placating gesture as the meat sizzled.

“If you had, you wouldn’t be getting the special! No, it seems that too much of the red is bad for the human heart. A design flaw, if you ask me.”

“Oh.” she said, somewhat embarrassed, “I suppose it’s good that my husband and my children have a taste for the greens and the grains. It’s good the boys know how to cut a slab as well. My husband, well, he never had the knack.”

She hesitated.

“Will I be seeing them soon?”

“Not too soon, by human standards.” said Death.

“Good.” she replied, as Death slid over a plate of meat, placed on some sort of yellow flat bread thing, with glistening green sauce on top.

Death showed her how to pick it up, and she took her first bite. She groaned in bliss.

“It delights the tongue, Sir!” she said.

“It also feels like it should hurt somehow, but it doesn’t.” she added more thoughtfully.

Death nodded.

“Perks of your condition.”

She ate. They talked. They swapped recipes. Then, she wandered off into the light, licking her fingers as she went. If there was an afterlife, it was starting off rather well.

Then Death was by the side of the road, many, many miles away. His fires still burned, his metal stovetop still sizzled with oil. From the wreckage of a smoldering wagon, a man and his dog approached.

Both were thin, gangly things, and about the same shade of brown. They moved in companionable silence, seeming none the worse for wear. They approached The Taquero, and the man sat at a stool. The dog settled beside him, his body the picture of patience, with the exception of his wagging tail, and the drool that threatened to drown them all.

Death began to prepare two servings of meat. This man, Carlon, would want pork. The imaginatively named Barkster Junior would want beef.

Carlon sighed.

“Pretty damned sure I got stabbed by that bandit.”

Death simply nodded.

“Business must be good.” Carlon continued.

“Interminable.” said Death.

Carlon laughed, bitterly at first, but his newfound clarity of mind washed that away in moments.

“Good one.” he said, after reacquiring his composure.

For Carlon, Death had adopted the demeanor of a long-suffering bartender. Bespoke service based on the needs of the client yielded the best results, in his experience.

“It’ll be hard for my family, I suppose.”

Death thought for a moment. He couldn’t see the future, but there were things he did know, with atomic, or perhaps tachyonic, precision.

“It won’t be the end.”

Carlon’s face was a mask of relief.

“Thank you.”

Death nodded, “It’s Time to rest. Everything that is done in one’s life affects others, including your death. But the moment after? That’s just for you. Here.”

Carlon sank his teeth into the best taco he’d ever eaten, though he extracted a promise from Death to never tell his wife he’d said that. He wandered away, with a well-fed Barkster Junior leading him toward the light.

After a short while, the dog came trotting back.

In that time, several wild dogs had congregated around the taco stand, each busy with a plate of their own. They made way, however, for Barkster Junior. Even wild dogs recognized and respected a Xolo, a dog tasked with guarding people in life, and guiding them to whatever came next.

Death placed a carefully-prepared bag on the ground in front of him.

“For the trip home.”

Barkster Junior lived up to his name in gratitude, gingerly picked up the bag in his mouth, and went in search of Carlon’s children.

Guz the Lich was in his cell, examining a small pile of papers. The Old Man had tasked him with an act of community service for his past misdeeds, and he didn’t mind. He was even now examining drawings of magic circles found at a crime scene, and later he might work on that spell that Lady Bluebell of the Heroes Contingent had asked him to help finish.

His days of attempted conquest were far behind him, and this seemed the best way to honor the memory of Yermo, a Hero, and the only man that Guz had ever loved. It didn’t hurt that the work was fascinating, when it wasn’t trivial.

He pondered the drawings before him with care, when he smelled the most wonderful thing. Tacos.

Given that the nerves in his undead nose were largely non-functional, this was an anomaly but a somewhat familiar one. This happened approximately once a year, and truth be told, he was glad of the company. He didn’t get many visitors.

Without turning around, he said, “Good afternoon, my old friend. Lovely sunset outside, isn’t it?”

The golden rays coming through the barred window glinted off the stainless steel top of the taco stand, which was located just outside the cell.

“I’m not the best judge of these things, but I rather think so.” said Death.

“True.” mused Guz, “You’re terribly double-minded. Death and tacos. It’s like you heard a bad joke, but you misheard the punchline.”

Death chuckled, “Perhaps. In any case, people seem to prefer my attentions over Tax Day.”

Guz turned, and gave what passed for a smile on his desiccated face.

“The tax collectors never bring a feast to soothe the souls of the financially bereaved.”

They shared a smile, and a moment of companionable silence.

Death broke it first, “I have to ask…”

Guz interrupted, “‘Tis tradition, and one I value.’”

“… yes. Well, would you consider destroying your phylactery and coming with me? They’ve hardly even warded this cell. It would not be difficult. I’ll give you the Special!”

Death said the last in a deep sing-song voice, and Guz laughed.

“Every year, that becomes more tempting.”

The lich gave his best approximation of a sigh, as he stared at a pair of old leather boots in the corner.

“I have things to do yet. I’m doing good in the world now, did you know that? I have, for want of a better word, been reformed.”

Death gave him a puzzled look, “Have you now? Do you think it will help your chances?”

Guz sent a scornful glance his way.

“You know I’d never allow some upstart god to tell me what happens next. That’s not why I’m doing this.”

Death nodded.

“Very well. Tell me if you change your mind.”

Guz, being a lich, tended to say everything rather dryly. But this time, his voice carried an absolute desert of good-natured sarcasm as he said, “You’ll be the first to know.”

Death, for all that he looked human in this day and age, had taken a few millennia to sort out the differences between humans. At the beginning, he mostly saw them as a haze of recently-released energy. An individual’s self-image only became visible with practice.

This human was, by current standards, rugged, handsome, and strong. He stood tall, a picture of affronted force and elegance, as the crowd around his corpse cheered.

Somewhere, music began to play, and some in the crowd found it in themselves to dance. The dead King shook his head in disgust. Then, he started, as if he felt Death’s eyes upon him, as well he should have. Death gazed at him dispassionately.

The King turned, and headed toward the taco stand, hands on his hips.

“You see what they’ve done? After all I’ve done for them?”

Death nodded, “This happens sometimes.”

“I gave them art, and culture, a strong military! I revitalized our farms, I brought our smithing forward by a century! And for what? For them to strike me down like a dog!”

Death cocked his head, considering, “From what I’ve seen, they’re rather more gentle with dogs.”

The King paused, glaring, “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“Side?” asked Death, “I am Death. I don’t have the privilege of being on a ‘side’. I just move people from one to the other.“

The King’s glare subsided, a little, and he sat. He sat in silence as Death prepared a taco that most assuredly was not the Special. Death said nothing as he worked. Being dead had a habit of stripping away everything that clouds the vision of the living, and the King was clearly thinking.

“I suppose,” he mused, “that bringing the kingdom into the modern era might not have required so many slaves.”

Death began to fry the perfectly serviceable, store-bought chicken.

“And maybe torturing some of those poets was a tad excessive.”

Death added a little of the spices that were almost past their use-by date.

“Truth be told, burning that orphanage to kill the bastard prince during my campaign may have lacked a certain elegance.”

Death reheated some day-old tortillas, and placed the meat on them, garnishing them with a serviceable but second-rate salsa.

“I’ve done some terrible things, haven’t I? My children… oh them I loved, but their mother?”

Death nodded to the crowd, “The one dancing wildly on the table?”

The King glanced over, and choked back a sob, “Oh. Oh I was a rotten bastard to her, wasn’t I?”

“Were you?”

“… I was.” he said, after a pause.

He had one of his tacos.

“These are very good!” he remarked.

Death did not comment.

“I was a rotten bastard to every one of these people, wasn’t I?”, asked the King.

Death shrugged, and began to prepare more tacos.

“The worst part is,” the King continued, “I felt nothing. It didn’t make me… happy, to do those things. But I also didn’t think I was doing anything wrong. It was just the job. You know what it’s like.”

Death kept his face impassive.

“It is not my place to judge, if indeed there is any judgement to be had. But in point of fact, I don’t know what it’s like at all.”

“No?” asked the King.

“No. Have you suffered, even for a moment, since your passing?”

“I suppose not,” mused the King, “other than this ravenous hunger. It’s like a hole opened up in my stomach.”

Death watched in silence as the King ate second order of tacos. And then a third.

The King stopped, and asked, “I don’t suppose it’s always like this when you’re dead? Just… always feeling this hunger?”

Death shook his head.

“It’s not hunger. There’s not a thing wrong with your stomach. Your mind is at last arguably functional, though.”

The King thought about that for a while.

“So this is what they call guilt.”

Death nodded.

“Well, I suppose I’ve earned it.”

The King got up, and wandered away from the taco stand. The great hall with its gilding and carved furniture and dancing people had long faded. Eventually, so did the light into which he walked.

Death was in a mood to put royalty behind him, but what waited at his next job soured his disposition even more. His taco stand appeared in a yard in front of a modest house. Behind the house was a modest farm, with crops dried and withered. The house itself was not in disrepair, but that was not far off.

On the porch were three children.

Death took children all the time, and children always got dessert. But today, there was a problem. It wasn’t Time. Not for any of them. And yet, they were absolutely, positively dying of starvation.

A person’s Time was a flexible thing, dependent on chance and probability, the choices of the client, and the choices of other humans around them. Death does not dictate when the Time will be, and neither do the gods. Oh, the gods can kill someone directly, though it’s rare. More often, they’ll tell their followers to kill someone, but even then, the humans involved have made a choice.

A daft choice, in Death’s book, but it’s not like they asked him. Except for the ones who did. The ones who drew him as a skeleton and used lots of candles and chicken blood, prayed to him for favors. He heard them, of course, but it’s not like he could actually do anything even if he wanted to.

But he looked at these children, and it was wrong. The oldest was a boy, fourteen years of age. The girl was perhaps ten, and the youngest boy was seven. He’d double checked the records, and carefully. This wasn’t supposed to be happening.

They stared back at him, shocked at his appearance, but far too tired to do anything about it. Death, in turn, did something unusual, for him. He stepped out from behind the taco stand, and approached the children directly. They were alive, for now, and none of the usual rules seemed to apply.

The oldest boy looked as though he might ask Death a question, but thought better of it, and slumped exhaustedly. The youngest one was not quite unconscious, but not in any shape to talk, and so Death turned to the girl.

“Hello.” he said quietly.

The girl, too thirsty to cry, nonetheless gave it a good attempt as she said, “We haven’t got anything!”

“I can see that.” said Death, “May I ask why you haven’t got anything?”

The girl heaved another dry sob as she said, “We’re supposed to die!”

Death was perplexed, and it showed in his tone as he said, “I can say, with reasonable certainty, that that’s not the case.”

The girl sighed, “Fate said we have to die.”

Death began to have a horrible suspicion.

“Did she, now?”

The girl just nodded.

The goddess that called herself Fate these days was prickly at the best of times. It seemed that somehow, these children had run afoul of her, and this was why they were starving. Again, it was wrong. Gods would sometimes smite their more rebellious followers, or the occasional atheist, but this was rare, and usually a quick, showy sort of thing. That was expected, and even right by some standards.

“Did she say when you have to die?” asked Death.

The girl stared at him, puzzled.

“I’m being serious. Was there a deadl… a particular time specified?”

The girl shook her head.

“I don’t think so.”

“Then wait here.” said Death.

He returned shortly with three glasses, and a pitcher of water. Once they were hydrated, he’d see about juice, and then some more solid foods.

The children were not restored in that moment, it was just water after all, but a few sips was all it took to restore their hope. A few more, and they began to feel slightly more aware of their surroundings. Once each had a glass, and a bit of a rest, Death guided them all to stools at his stand.

And then, they told him the story.

This farm was part of a village, and everyone there was a disciple of Fate. Things had been going well enough, until their parents died. Their father had been killed by a passing wolf. Their mother had taken ill shortly thereafter.

Death remembered them, of course, but refrained from mentioning this.

The eldest, Jethen, had done his level best to keep the farm running, and had made a good go of it. There was a serviceable crop, and the children had, with help from the neighbors, been able to harvest it all. It looked as though things might get better, with time, when the yearly Offering to Fate had come.

“Fate is very particular about the offerings she accepts.” said Jethen bitterly, having recovered his voice a little.

Enna, the middle child, nodded in agreement.

“The priest said we got it wrong. There was supposed to be a white feather with the rest of the offering. Best we could find was light grey.”

Death didn’t seethe with rage. He was notorious for not doing that sort of thing. But, for a brief moment, he considered giving it a try.

“This was enough,” he asked, “to incur the wrath of Fate?”

“She was really mean about it!” piped up Geren, the youngest.

Enna nodded again, “She spoke to everyone in the temple. Said they should make us leave so she could smite us without ruining the building.”

Jethen made a sound that was one part derision, one part hopelessness at the memory.

“Didn’t want to scratch the precious stained tiles, I bet.” he said.

Enna continued, “The priest begged her not to hurt us, and so she said fine, they could kill us. All of them. But he begged some more, and we gave all the money we had, and some of the other people made extra offerings too.”

“And this did not dissuade her?” asked Death.

“Just made us die slower.” said Jethen wretchedly.

“She said she wouldn’t touch us, she’d leave us alone,” she explained, “but that all the villagers had to leave us alone too. And then, next year, our crops wouldn’t grow. Now, our food stores are all gone.”

Death watched the children. Their hope was beginning to dim. Such was their situation that not one of them had asked where he, and his taco stand, had come from. They were staring death in the face, more literally than they could know, and they were resigned to it.

The Taquero sat back on the little stool he kept behind the counter, and thought. Passing on, he knew, wasn’t so bad. And even if it wasn’t their Time, the universe was not so fragile that it wouldn’t survive their passing. But these were children. Children who died never got enough time to see and feel, to know pleasure or pain, to know true happiness or sorrow, to be good or evil.

A grown person who came to him was more… complete, and there was a fairness in that. It was not for Death to judge, but it was not for him to take people before their time, either. By causing the withering of the crops, Fate technically broke her vow to leave the children alone, and that meant Fate was breaking the rules.

And if Fate was going to break the rules, then Death could certainly bend them.

He looked straight at Jethen, then Enna, then Geren. As he looked straight into their eyes, transfixing them, his voice changed. It was usually calm, and impassive, though on the deeper side. Now it resonated, seeming to echo through the world, and carrying every pitch at once.

“I AM DEATH.” he said. “THE DAY SHALL COME WHEN I SEE YOU AGAIN. ON THAT DAY, THERE SHALL BE NOTHING TO FEAR. TODAY, AND TOMORROW, AND FOR YEARS TO COME (probably) YOU SHALL LIVE.”

The children stared at him in awe and trepidation, and if they’d been properly hydrated, they’d have needed a change of clothes.

“What about Fate?!” Enna cried.

Death smiled, thinking back to his conversation with Guz.

“ONLY TWO THINGS ARE TRULY FATED IN LIFE: DEATH AND TACOS. TODAY, LEAVE FATE TO ME.”

And with that proclamation, he was simply gone. So was the taco stand. When the children went back to the porch were several bags of tacos, several pitchers of water, a few pitchers of juice, a bag of limes, and a container of salsa.

“His eyes,” said Enna, “so blue!”

“No, they were hazel!” countered Jethen.

“I’ve never had tacos before,” said Geren, “I wonder how you make the flat round things.”

In a town about a two-day cart ride away from the children, there was a man who lived rather comfortably, all things considered. He ran a brisk trade, travelling the roads and buying and selling anything from which he might be able to profit. For all that, he was scrupulously honest, believing that business was always better when you returned to town and people were happy to see you.

Garlad, for that was his name, was also a worshipper of Death.

It wasn’t a serious thing, truth be told. He’d had a number of pets over the years, for which he had cared diligently, but they did tend to die of old age rather sooner than he’d liked. The same could be said of two horses he’d adored.

A fellow merchant from a faraway land had sold him a box of candles, each in a glass with a representation of Death on them. That seafaring trader, once properly drunk, had confessed that the candles didn’t seem to work. At least, every time he prayed for someone to die, they seemed to suddenly come into a lot of money instead.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This was not the work of Death, but The Accident does have a god of ironic consequences.

And so Garlad never prayed for that sort of thing. He prayed for the souls of the cats, dogs, birds, and horses that he’d loved in years gone by. He was doing this now, as he did every week.

“… and please tell Fluffles to be careful chasing the birds. I don’t know if he can hurt himself climbing trees in the afterlife, but it happened here, and I’d rather he didn’t…”

“FLUFFLES WILL BE FINE.” came the resounding voice right in front of him.

Garlad looked up, too surprised to be terrified.

Death stood before him, the giant skeleton in the robe, with a scythe that looked like it came right out of the painting on the candle.

Garlad hesitated, finding the courage to form a response.

“Thank… you?”

“YOU ARE QUITE WELCOME.” said Death. “I HAVE A TASK FOR YOU. YOU WILL BE COMPENSATED.”

“Ummmm…” said Garlad.

“YOU WILL NOT BE REQUIRED TO KILL ANYONE.”

“Oh, then absolutely!” said Garlad, relieved, “I mean, if it’s within my power. What can I do for you oh great… uhhh... Death?”

“THERE ARE THREE CHILDREN ON A DEAD FARM IN A TOWN EAST OF HERE. YOU WILL ADOPT THEM. IT WILL NOT BE HARD, AS THEIR PARENTS ARE QUITE DEAD.”

Garlad was, if anything, more shocked.

“If that’s what you ask… I suppose I should. Can’t let children be all on their… wait, did you kill their parents?”

“I DO NOT KILL. I AM MERELY WHAT COMES AFTERWARDS.”

Garlad sighed in relief again, and thought. Death decided to offer some encouragement.

“I WILL PROVIDE FOOD AND MONEY FOR THE FIRST YEAR. THEY ARE VERY HARD WORKERS. THEY COULD HELP YOU OPEN THAT SHOP YOU’VE BEEN TALKING ABOUT.”

Garlad grinned, “You really were listening! Very well, I’ll be off. If I leave now, maybe I can cut twelve hours off the journey. Ummm was there anything…”

“ADOPTING THE CHILDREN WILL SUFFICE.”

“Oh, well if that’s all then.”

Fate’s great hall was spartan, as great halls go, especially those belonging to the gods of The Accident. The walls were plain, but competently painted. The pillars were sturdy, but largely unadorned. The only concession to comfort was a throne designed to look like one side of a scale.

In the middle, there was a large pool of what one hopes was water. In that pool, Fate watched her followers, spied on other gods, and exchanged the occasional bit of gossip with her priests.

The smooth, clear water of the pool began to ripple, disturbed by a force that Fate recognized at once.

“Death and tacos. You’re ridiculous, you know that?” she said by way of greeting.

“SAYS THE GODDESS WHO STARVED CHILDREN OVER A LIGHT GREY FEATHER.”

“Oh, what do you care?” she asked, “You take children every day. And use your inside voice, the echo is murder on my ears.”

“YOU WOULD BE SOMETHING OF AN EXPERT ON MURDER.”

Fate sighed, “Such compassion from Death.”

“WHAT AM I, IF NOT THE LAST ACT OF COMPASSION?”

Fate scowled, and turned her gaze on Death. And then she scowled harder.

“That’s it, you overblown undertaker! You have no right to question the dictates of Fate! And what is that doing here?”

Death, normally polite to a fault, had brought his taco stand with him. In all of it’s grease-stained and lightly rusted glory, it offered a stark contrast to the nearly-empty great hall. Even with its fires gone cold, and all foodstuffs neatly put away, it was the seat of Death’s power.

More to the point, he’d brought his seat of power into her hall.

She stormed over to the stand, looking for all the world like she would demand to see Death’s Manager.

She slammed her hands on the counter, and sniped, “They’re my subjects. My worshippers. They’re mine to do with as I please!”

Death replied, “YOU KNOW THE RULES ARE DIFFERENT FOR CHILDREN. THEY KNEW ONLY THE WORSHIP OF FATE, AND FARMING.”

“And still they insulted me!”

“THEY HAD NOTHING ELSE TO GIVE.”

“They knew the rules! Damn it all, if they’d simply not made any offering, they’d have been fine! They’d have gone without my blessing, but I wouldn’t have had jurisdiction over them either.”

“AND WHAT DILIGENT, HARDWORKING, FATE-WORSHIPPING ORPHAN WOULD HAVE THOUGHT TO DENY YOU AN OFFERING?”

“They. Broke. The. Rules.”

“AS DID YOU. WITHERING THEIR CROPS IS NOT WHAT MIGHT BE CALLED ‘LEAVING THEM ALONE’.”

Fate chuckled nastily, “Oh, but they were left all alone, to die.”

“AND YET IT WAS NOT THEIR TIME.”

“That was my call to make!”

“WAS IT? ARE YOU TRULY THE WEAVER OF ALL LIVES ON THE ACCIDENT? IN SHORT, WHO DIED AND MADE YOU FATE?”

“No one! Like any goddess – whether created by the will of humans, or ascended from the masses – I found a hole, a niche, an empty place where no god was, where one was needed. And there’s nothing you can do about it!”

She slammed her hands on the counter again, and leaned in.

Quicker than any eye could see, a butcher’s knife flashed through the air, severing the end of Fate’s left pinky. She recoiled in horror.

Being a goddess, her form was not flesh and blood, but energy shaped by will. The severed slice of digit turned into a formless blob of cosmic energy, which Death scooped up onto his finger. Death had observed enough humans threatening other humans that he knew what would disturb her most.

He licked his finger.

Fate’s pinky had already reformed, but that did little to assuage her outrage.

Her own voice changed, was magnified, and was infused with the clatter of infinite scales tipping.

“HOW DARE YOU!”, she cried, “YOU HAVE NO RIGHT! DEATH CANNOT GO TO WAR WITH THE GODS.”

Death smiled, his face beginning to more closely resemble that of all the monsters people imagine when they think of death.

“I WOULD NOT DREAM OF IT.” he said, “BUT I CAN’T HELP BUT NOTICE THAT YOU DIDN’T TRY THIS ANYWHERE NEAR KINGSMOUNT.”

Fate, regaining her composure, said, “What does that have to do with anything?”

“YOU DIDN’T TRY THIS ANYWHERE NEAR THE OLD MAN. SHE WOULD NOT STAND FOR THIS.”

“So?” said Fate defiantly, “She and her “Heroes“ unmade a few gods, what of it? They were old, weak. Are you going to tattle on me like a mortal child?”

Death’s face remained the same contorted mask, that same amalgamation of every horror, but his voice went back to normal.

“What do you think happened to the last Fate?”