Jane Jago’s Drabbles – Four Hundred and Twenty-One

He took the ring from the dying finger of she who made him and carried it always close to his heart.

The day he lost it was beyond horror, and he felt himself diminishing as he searched. He had lost hope when a voice spoke from behind him.

“Lost something?”

He turned, quick as a whip, to see a woman with floating auburn hair holding the ring in the palm of her hand.

He snarled at her and snatched it.

She laughed, like cracked silver bells, and a hot wind roared about him as the Master took back his own. 

©️jj 2020

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