Dance of Fate

This time the dream was more vivid and in sharper focus, as if a spyglass had been adjusted to the correct length.
The throne was still there, as it always was; a throne made of earth and stone, with intricate patterns carved into its surface, patterns that caught the eye and mesmerised. From unknown sources, trickles of water flowed. The moisture ran down the sides and gathered in pools on indentations cut into the armrests.
As usual, there was a man sitting on it. He wore an aged suit of armour: it had a style that was no longer commonly used. At a guess, it could be from several hundred years ago. Across his lap lay a naked sword, bloodstained and rust-bitten. It, too, was dilapidated. A second man was standing in front of him, clad in a bright yellow overcoat, a mud-smeared white shirt and dark tan britches. A dark belt was slung around his waist, and hanging from it, a sword. A slight beard, dark, like his hair, covered his chin.
“Why did you do it?” The standing man asked, as if he could not comprehend.
“Because I had to.” The sitting man replied, simply. The stander suddenly drew his sword and, moving as though being forced, made a quick stop-thrust, stabbing the sitting man in the chest. His blade met no resistance. The ancient armoured man never even reached for the sword across his lap nor uttered a single sound. Blood welled around the blade protruding from his chest. It had shattered the armour where it struck, age having mistreated the metal. He fell lax in the throne, his body giving up. His bowels released: one of the many indignities of death. The stander dragged the dead body off the throne and threw the corpse to the ground.

You can find the complete version of Dance of Fate in issue 69 of TBD.

Fraser Thomson