In a land under a tree, many years before today, lived a vile sorceress that wanted to kill a king. The sorceress was gnarly as an ancient root, rotten to the core, and her midden stench stifled all children's songs whenever she passed by. Black was her hair and black were her shoes, black was her dress and black were here teeth. Black was her soul, and her name whispered Death. In a land under a tree, many years before today, lived a proud and noble king that wanted to die. He had lived many years and had seen many things, had ruled justly, with grace, and with virtuous intent. His name was sung proudly by earl and peasant alike, but the king himself had no fucks left to give. For once, long ago, by a girl on a branch, the king was foretold the day that Death would arrive. Long had the king waited, long had he tried to stall and to linger, to postpone and to hide. From his inevitable fate, his quickly nearing end, no life left to live, no road around the bend. The king now, as a good king should, had left all in good order, and all was good. There was no war and no famine, and all the people knew, that the elderly king was the justest of all. Then, on a Tuesday, the sorceress climbed down from her branch, mounted her steed, which was black as the night, and trod forth in great haste. Right through the lands the sorceress flew, past valleys and hamlets, past mountains and fields, until she arrived at the king's castle's gates. "Open the door, let me pass to the king!" The sorceress shouted, her face split by a grin full of hunger, and bloodlust, without mercy or grace, ready for murder. And her name whispered Death. The old king, in his hall, said to his king's guard, "Bring me my sword and hold my wine. I shall face this here witch, and she shall be mine. Let her come to my gardens at midnight today and we will see who's whose to slay." The guards, slightly baffled, but impressed nonetheless, bade the sorceress to come and to meet the king's request. She smiled and she danced and she strode into the keep, for she knew the king's heart, and what was buried within since that day, long ago, when she was but a girl on a branch. As night fell, word had spread fast as a fire, of the king's brave endeavour and his courageous heart. People hastened to gather near the king's castle's gates. And when midnight came, all held their breath and waited in silent regard of what was to come. A battle, perhaps. A flash of the blade. But silence met silence, until quietly came the toll of a bell. "Twelve strikes the clock, the clock strikes twelve." The old king was a sore sight, as he stood in his gardens, stooped, bent and tired, sword's tip on the grass. His heart filled with sorrow, got pierced by regret, when his gaze found the witch's, whose name whispered Death. "I should not have denied you..." Less than a whisper came, "You were meant to be free. The years have been harsh, on both you and me." The witch smiled and she danced and she took the king's heart. Right from his chest, still beating and blessed. Then she drank the blue blood of the proud and noble king that now lay on the grass, face-down. And dead. As the witch strode out through the king's castle's gates, she grew young and fierce and spoke to the crowd, with a smile and the dance of her new-found youth. "The king is dead, long live the king!" The witch curtsied and called "Now bow before your queen!" Thus came to power, in a land under a tree, a new ruler, the Queen. And her name whispered Death.