"Thank you, but you really shouldn't have gone to the trouble." Reaper said, rescuing the dangerously swaying cup of tea from the kindly old woman, who waved her words away with a veiny, wrinkly hand and a soothing reassurance. "It's no bother, dearie. Keeps me moving about. Good for my circulation."
The assassin took a cautious sip, her eyebrows shooting up in pleased surprise at the taste. Not the watery Earl Grey she'd expected. She couldn't quite place it, but whatever it was, it was good. It tasted of the warm summer days of her youth, of time spent around a crackling winter's hearth, and suffused her with a feeling of contentment. Happiness, even, something she hadn't experienced in... decades.
She frowned, and cast another sidelong glance at her target. Having now met the tiny old raisin with surprisingly clear and lively eyes, it was even harder to understand why so many people'd requested her particular services.
Was it the hooked nose? Did her cookies taste too dry? Were her animals in the yard outside too much of a nuisance?
The sheer volume of identical requests made Reaper suspicious, which was why she'd come here to investigate in person. She might be an assassin, but she still had standards. Rules she followed. Lived by. Was she being stitched up?
She just couldn't figure out why so many clients would want this good soul dead.
Why the dame in red had warned her that her target was a wolf, and not to trust her.
Why the narcoleptic princess had repeatedly told her to not touch anything she was offered, every time her highness startled awake again.
Why the three out of breath sounding brothers had begged her to use the longest arm she had.
Why the tiny, terrified boy had impressed on her to put leagues between them at the first sign of danger.
The friendly old woman sat down next to Reaper with a small groan of effort, and patted her visitor's knee. "Can I tell you a story?" she asked, and without pausing for an answer, launched her tale.
"Once upon a time..." the little granny began, her voice growing in resonance and breadth with each syllable that dropped from her lips like golden beads of the richest honey.
She no longer sounded human, but something more.
So much more.
Older.
Divine.
Reaper's cup rang like a gong when she dropped it in alarm. Reached for any of her weapons. It was already too late. She could feel the bonds of Story wrap themselves around her.
Weave her into the Narrative.
Tie her down.
Render her harmless.
"... an assassin visited poor old Mother Goose, hired by a bunch of naughty ingrates..."
Immortality, of sorts, but at what cost?
