Chapter 27 Mara's gaze traces the steady trickle of blood cascading down the stone steps. It pours from the crumpled man beside her, Life leaking from the wound in his chest. And though Death has a duty to fulfill-gathering this soul for the Mors and whatnot-Mara would like a moment longer to admire such an act of violence that was surely warranted. Kitt-with a detached ruthlessness that awed even Death-plunged a sword through this man's chest. She had never seen this soul before, but the king had doubtlessly delivered it to her for a reason. It is admirable, Kitt's conviction. For he and Death are one and the same. Yes, they do what must be done. Mara drags the stoic soul into the afterlife while the king and queen converse in hushed voices. She trudges through the Mors' swampy earth with the happy couple in mind (this is facetious, of course-they look rather miserable together, to her delight). No, Death does not feel threatened by Paedyn Gray. She admires the stubborn soul, that is to be sure. But this Ordinary, as they call those mysteriously untouched by the Plague (Mara would have to ask the trees about that), is not fated for this Azer. Rather, her soul is tethered to his brother. And Kitt's belongs to Death-eternally. She leaves the disoriented man on a patch of cracked earth. "... he killed me. Me?! I did everything for him, his father... And all out of fear he was a bastard?" A pang of hurt hits Mara in the chest, right where her thawing heart resides. Kitt had not confided in her. She blames this lapse in judgment on his fragile mind. For he would have shared something so significant with her-she knows it. Their connection runs deep, unlike anything Death has ever felt (in this lifetime, at least). Such a bond as this is woven into their very beings. This is Fate (and the last man Mara thought this of quickly met his-brutally). Death is nothing if not obsessive. Every creature is compiled of flaws, and Mara is more aware of hers than most. Her intelligence and insatiable curiosity are only rivaled by these possessive tendencies-nobody is perfect. But she has diligently buried that part of herself for longer than a lifetime, you see, and it has grown rather tiring. It is not Death's fault that Kitt Azer makes her feel young. Alive. Like she is staring into the face of a lost lover. Mara spends some time (it is impossible to know how long in the Mors) collecting trapped souls from their cold corpses. Her craft has been rather neglected since her intrigue (infatuation, some might say) with the king. So, Death listens to the griping of every soul she drags, even apologizes for not tending to them sooner. For she is not a monster. When Mara finally steps back into the land of the living, night has fallen over Ilya. She makes her way to the king's study, rather giddily for Death (and one might even be able to tell from her expression). Kitt is found precisely as he always is, hunched over a pile of parchment and scribbling relentlessly. "It seems I missed your second wedding," Mara says by way of greeting. She knew of their plans for a ceremony on Loot. Strange, these humans. The king doesn't look up from the steady stream of ink he guides across the page. Golden hair sticks up between the woven crown atop his head. He manages only a few muttered words. "No... I have to keep writing... before it's too late." Hmm. Death seems to have caught him at a bad time. It is the Plague that has hold of his mind now. Or rather, a power Mara knows to be quite dominating. But this brief spell of hysteria hardly deters her. Kitt will soon be free of the Life he grapples with and cling wholly to Death. "I dragged the soul you killed to the Mors." Mara takes a seat before the king's desk. "He seemed less than pleased." That cloudiness in Kitt's gaze retreats at the words. He blinks then, as though waking up from a dream. The king is back. If only for a little while. "Calum," he murmurs. His green gaze (Mara's weakness in every lifetime) falls to the ink coating his palms. "I don't know what came over me. He was a threat and suddenly... suddenly, I was running him through with my blade." Death's boot taps a steady beat against the worn rug. "You did not tell me your worry of legitimacy." A crease of confusion forms between his brows, right above those eyes Mara has fallen for more than once. "It was not your burden to bear." "What is yours"-Death stares at him pointedly-"is mine. Our eternity begins very soon." Kitt visibly fights to stay focused. He shakes his head. Runs a hand down his face. "What do you mean, our eternity?" "Well, we are fated, of course," Death says simply. "You have sacrificed your soul to be with me. We will rule the Mors together." She reaches for the king's hand, her cold fingers brushing his. "Never again will we be lonely. Not beside one another." Kitt looks down at where their hands meet. "Mara..." She likes the sound of her name until a humorous chuckle follows. "Your company has been very much appreciated, and I think we both learned something from one another. But..." "But what?" Death's voice grows chilled. She has heard a version of this speech before, from lips that look like his. "But," he sighs out, "you are Death." Mara's foot ceases its tapping. "I didn't want to meet you." Kitt says this in the way humans shrug-casually and without thought. "I mean, you can't fault me for that. And I've enjoyed our time together, but we can't be together." He offers an apologetic look. "You do understand that, right?" Oh, Death understands. All too well. She yanks her hand from the king's with an icy fury. "You think you are too good for me?" "I didn't say that-" Mara laughs, the sound sharp and so unlike her usual stoicism. The king startles at such an outburst. "You think I am not precisely the power you seek?" Slowly, she stands to her feet. "Few are lucky enough to behold me and live. But none are so foolish as to deny me." Kitt lifts his hands, as though Death is a creature to be tamed. "Mara, I know you." He holds her frigid gaze. "I am not afraid-" "You should be!" she snarls. Her frozen heart is breaking in two, and the feeling is painfully familiar. "I am your Death, and it will not be kind." The king clutches his chest then, wincing at the pain that pulses there. "Mara... please." "I will not be made a fool," she seethes. "Not again!" For the first time, Kitt can see every emotion crashing into her features. She wears it all-hurt, betrayal, the memory of a moment that mirrors this one. "You may not want me, but Life no longer wants you." Death leans over the desk, skewering Kitt to his seat. "Your soul is mine. And what is left of me could have been yours," she murmurs. "But now I won't be so gentle." Mara is not a monster-unless you make her out to be one. As she vanishes from the study, Death is reminded of her abhorrence for the living. They are just as fickle as the Fate that toys with them. Yes, whatever part of Mara longed-a rhythm to revive her heart, a loving caress to warm her cheek, a green gaze to look her way-has died all over again. Her heart is a coffin. And any man she lets inside will surely meet their doom. Fondly, Mara thinks on this. Not quite a monster, no. But revenge is certainly a bitch. In a romance-themed observation show, several participants undergo a series of interactions and conflicts filled with love, misunderstandings, and power struggles. In the end, one couple rises to over...