Cerysen

Death

The Grand State Bedchamber was the height of opulence, made only the more so by the capital letters in its name. It was huge and perfectly round, wallpapered in cerulean blue and furnished with a variety of small ornate tables which served little or no discernible purpose. There were several hidden doors in the walls, leading to the parlour, kitchen or spacious bathroom and a carpet had been thrown over the floor, but mainly, the Grand State Bedchamber was furnished by bed. 

It was huge. It was colossal. It was red velvet and gold gilt and tiny frescoes painted by court artists. It was a supreme example of royal splendour, but at this very moment, it was the deathbed of King Alaxon. He was an old man, made small by years of aging, but there was still a power in his frame that suggested he was not to be trifled with. Alaxon the All-Knowing, they whispered in shady pubs, after several empty tankards were lined up before them. Alaxon the Artful, they muttered to each other in secluded streets after the bars had closed and walking was harder. Of course, he knew this, and encouraged the whispers as best he could. King Alaxon knew the power of words, and a reputation. He cultivated his. 

Tonight, however, his reputation, his words,  would not matter to the visitor. The visitor did not know or care about his money. It didn't make a difference whether Alaxon was a king or a beggar, a deceitful do-gooder or an honest pirate, for all were equal in death. 

Death stood at the end of the Land of Bed. She looked at her hands with mild curiosity. "Hm. Female." she said, her voice smooth and almost musical. Death looked down at herself and sighed. "Always a dress. A trailing, grey dress. Never pants. I like pants." 

King Alaxon opened his eyes at the sound of her voice. "Ah," he said. "Death, is it? I must say, you are exactly as I thought you would be."

Death looked up. "Of course. I appear as you imagine. One day a man, the next a woman, the third neither, the fourth both." Sounding mildly disappointed, she added. "But never any pants."

"Sorry," said Alaxon. He coughed. Death waited. After the small hand on the clock had ticked around the numbers ten times, the King of Cerysen spoke again. "Are you sure this is the right time? It has been a while. Perhaps I'm not going to die afte—" 

Death glided towards the body. It was only a body now. She waved a hand over the king's eyes and waited as a light blue tendril of smoke curled around her fingers. Then, glancing at the colour with a professional's interest, she snapped her fingers towards her palm. The smoke disappeared, though if one looked hard, a light haze of blue coated Death like a second skin. Job done, she closed her eyes and shimmered.

A man, dressed in vibrant green with shocking red hair, stood in her place. "Finally," he said in a gruff but pleasant voice. "Pants." He faded into the air.

Somewhere, a baby was born.