A Parable

It was a warm summer evening as King Darius and Abtin, his scribe, were walking the winding paths of the palace gardens. Surveying his beautifully manicured gardens, the king leant forward to breathe in the perfume of particularly striking Chrysanthemum.

At this point, Abtin felt a whisper of ice cold air run up his spine. He turned around, only to behold Death, his bone-white scythe shimmering in the light of a naked moon.

Before Death had a chance to speak, a breathless Abtin told the king he must immediately leave for Acre, having seen Death and wishing to be as far away as possible. The king acquiesced, granting Abtin his fastest horse.

In an attempt to regain his stately composure, the king continued his walk through the gardens, only to soon come across Death himself.

“Why did you frighten my scribe”, queried King Darius.

“It was not my intention”, replied Death, continuing “I only came to inform him that I would see him on the road to Acre tonight”.

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