Perhaps it was the work of some god, or some tremor somewhere in the universe, that lead to her existence?
I knew her to have stood before the hearth, born from the very embers themselves. She would spend the rest of her days in the forge, sparks flying as the iron smashed. Forging hammers, daggers, knives, swords and a magnificent silver scythe.
She would lift the newly crafted weapon above her head, another tool for her arsenal.
Always, she would sit before a job, and select whatever weapon she would need, be it knife, a sword, or the golden ring, brought forth from the fires in pure and incontestable solitude.
In the beginning, she’d approach with a candle in one hand, and a ring in the other. She was a maiden of the sheerest light. The one who carved beauty a new definition, and rose to become the embodiment of perfection. And when she smiled, it was so cruel, the way it glowed.
Her smile, so radiant that it would deny winter its arrival. Little did I know that it was buried deep inside her. That smile, cunning and deceptive in all it’s trickery, all it’s glory. The worst part, she was unquestionable, she was perfection…
If you were lucky, you got the knife, quick and painless. But if you were poor, and some befouled puppet master hated you that day, you’d get the scythe. The scythe… in the spotlight, brought down on your heart, by her hand as she cleaved through it. It was unnatural, the way such grace intertwined with such brutality, a peerless combination. Continue reading