It had all started with noise, just as
most everything in the world does. This was, however, a different
sort of noise. It was not the sort of noise that pulls itself
together into a collage, a picture suddenly and slowly coming into
focus. No, that was not the kind of noise that this had been and as
Pan sat, her long auburn hair blowing around her face like wisps of
flame, she felt the pang of loss.
It had been normal the day before and
the whole of the town was bustling, busy as bees. The sun was not
shining down upon then and no beautiful smells came gently carried
into the town. It was, in fact, a gray day, one where the cloud
blocked out the sun and left the air cold and the world empty. It was
the sort of day where the only smells were those of burning logs and
oil meant to keep the chill out of homes. It was the sort of day Pan
disliked her job as town guard.
A guard position, or so it was said,
was not a profession for a young lady. It was tradition that the
youngest men of the town would put their time into, come out of,
start families, and be vaguely familiar with martial skills. This was
ordered by the king for each town, city, and hold to uphold in case
there were ever invasion from the ever present mage threat. Pan,
however, had felt differently and, through a test of skill, she had
rightly earned her position. Though, truth be told, the guards
operated more like a police force, settling disputes and marital
quarrels. On the off occasion that there was something to be killed
it was most often a bandit or some sort common draccus that wondered
too closely too the town. Or else it was a spitfire hawk hunting game
and killing the chickens. Very rarely had there ever been any real
threat.
Well,
expect, Pan thought as she strolled through town, her short
sword kept still so as it would not bang against her armor, for that
time a stray pack of black dogs wondered near. The creeping death
that they brought with them killed a few townsfolk and nearly
crippled our farms.
The armor that Pan wore was a listless
silver that did not reflect the light that pressed against it but
rather absorbed it, pulling it into the depths of its own oblivion.
It was old armor, the sort that had been used by many before her, yet
Pan felt a claim of title to it. When she donned her armor she was no
longer the child of a baker, no longer the wild daughter of the town
smith but the sworn sister of the town guard.
Pan had power, a fact that she smiled
at, even on the most bitter and gray days.
“Guard! Guard!” a voice called to
Pan's left and she spun toward it. It was the town crier shouting to
her, waving his meaty hand in the air, beckoning her to come.
“Yes,” Pan called back, donning
her most commanding of voices, “what's the problem here?”
“A boy I paid to pin up these
posters, as sent by our King, has not returned and it has been
several hours. I fear something may have happened to him.”
The town crier was a fat man named
Hendrik who had dodged service with the guard due to his poor health.
It was well known that when news would come from the King and it
could not be simply shouted in the streets he would pay local boys
and girls to tack the fliers to the door of every resident.
Yet in all that time he had never once
come to any of the guard for help with a missing child. It was
something that simply did not happen.
“I will find the boy, Hendrik, and
make sure that no harm has come of him.”
Hendrik's huge frame shuddered as he
exhaled in relief, “Thank you, Pan, thank you. The boy's name is
Jeremy. I do hope you find him.”
Pan nodded and set off. The boy,
Jeremy, was one that was familiar to her. He was a kindhearted child
no older than ten. Oft times he would follow Pan on her patrols,
discussing with her all the gossip of the town and complaining of his
older brother, Thomas.
On one particularly memorable
instance, Jeremy had complained of Thomas' constant desire to play
mage and knight, a game in which one person takes up a wooden stick
as a sword and whacks the other while they try and use their spells
to stop the knight. In reality it was a cruel little game that older
brothers everywhere invented and practiced as a way to terrorize
their younger siblings. Naturally, refusal failed to stay the hand of
the knight, so, feeling equal parts bold and foolish, Jeremy decided
to exact revenge by coaxing the local stray cat to relive itself on
Thomas' shoes.
Pan had snorted in laughter when she
heard, “you, my boy, are smart as the crack of a whip.”
Jeremy smiled from ear to ear at that,
“there's reasons not mess with a mage.”
Remembering the event Pan quickened
her step and began her search for the other small children in the
town. They would be her guide to finding the poor sweet boy.
Finding the boys was a rather
difficult task. The first thing that Pan had done in search of them
was to stop by the houses of several of the children that Jeremy was
wont to run with. The mothers and fathers of the house were rather
surprised and afraid of her presence and it only made matters worse
when she informed them of her interest in their sons and daughters.
One mother in particular broke down in tears at the mention that Pan
was in search of her boy.
“Oh, what has little Graham done
now, oh tell me he hasn't hurt himself, please please, tell me he's
okay.”
Pan stifled a nervous laugh and
comforted the woman. When she knew what it was that Pan wanted with
her boy her demeanor changed drastically.
“I couldn't tell you where that boy
is. I never see hide nor hair of him except when it is time for him
to eat. He's just like his father, running around all day and only
coming home when he wants a hot meal.”
The woman's ranting continued on for a
few minutes more and, when at last Pan managed to disengage herself
from the woman's woes she had no further questions to ask.
Barring the help of the mothers and
the fathers of the town Pan was left to old fashioned footwork to
locate the other children. For near a hour she walked the town, going
where the children were known to frequent.
The clear blue steam that flowed not a
few yards from the town was a known sanctuary to the children. It was
there they would go to play their games of knights and house, or to
try and capture or antagonize all forms of wildlife. In the summer
months they would jump into the cold water, washing off sweat and mud
that clung like brambles too them, refreshing themselves for more
mischief. This was the first place that Pan checked and, ducking
under the thick brush that had grown in over the past few months of
fall, she found not trace of the children.
“Black damn,” she swore as she
untangled herself from the brambles and bushes, her auburn hair
tangling in every branch, as if they were trying to pull her in and
keep her. The thought made her shiver and, she thought, it would be
good to get a trim before the days end.
If the children were not near the
water it was known that they would be off in the fields further from
the town. The fields were not a place that the children often dared
to venture. It was far enough from the town that, were something to
happen, there would be no chance for help. Yet, it was this very
prospect of danger as well as the fields open, endless flatland that
appealed so greatly to the children.
As Pan came to the old elk tree that
stood sentinel, marking the separation between the small and
crowded wood and the open field, she heard the cries of children and
her blood ran cold. The shrieks and cries she heard were not those of
children at play, but the frightful screams of children who have come
face to face with something monstrous, something dangerous.
Pan drew her sword and ran toward the
sound of shrieking children.
The children had grouped together at
the opposite end of the field and, directly in front of them was a
snorting Steel Boar. The creature was digging its metallic hooves
into the soft ground, rooting up the ground. It's head was tucked
low, its blade like tusks were white as bone and as long as Pan's
forearm. It was clear, Pan noted as she approached the boar from
behind, that the children had been dodging the mechanical hybrid for
some time. Each of them shone with sweat and the ground all around
was torn to pieces.
And there was, Pan noticed, the stench
of fresh blood in the air. A shiver slithered down her spine at the
thought.
Pan shouted out, “Hey!” and the
Steel Boar ran forward a few yards, turning just short of the
children and stopping adjacent to them to see where the sudden sound
had came from.
It locked its eyes with Pan and she
stared down at the beast. It dug its hooves into the dirt and Pan
entered into her fighters stance, legs spread wide, body hunched low
and sword angled above her head like a scythe.
The boar took charge at her, a full on
dead barrel. The world slowed as Pan focused on the beast, everything
narrowing to a thin tunnel and when the boar was just a few yards
away, Pan shifted her weight, turning away from the charging animal
and expertly slipping her sword under the Steel boar to its soft,
fleshy belly.
Pan twisted and, bring her blade up
with her, she dug deep into the flesh of the boar. The wet sound of
tearing flesh and blood and intestine spilling form the body filled
Pan's ears for a moment and she knew the beast was dead.
Pan turned and looked down at the
hybrid animal. It's back was all metal and wires, its tusks, though
appearing natural, were made of an alchemical mixture that made them
strong a steal and hard as bone. From what little Pan knew of these
creatures they grew and functioned like their organic brethren, yet
they were twice the threat. The only way to slay one of these beasts
was the cut at its underbelly; an unenviable task.
Pan flicked the blood off her sword
and walked toward the children. Though the beast was dead they
huddled and shivered in their fear and, all subtly dotting the grass
around their sweaty, dirty bodies there was blood.
With two big steps forward Pan was
inside the cluster of children, pushing them apart. In the heart of
their sweaty mass was Jeremy who held the head of his gored brother.
Kneeling down Pan asked, “What
happened here.”
“We were playing mages and knights
when we heard the boar rustling in the grass. Thomas threw a rock at
it and it charged him. We all ran from it at first but Thomas tripped
and stuck him,” said Jeremy, his voice slight and quivering.
“Fucking idiot,” Pan cursed, “how
bad is he?”
“He's still awake, but he stopped
moaning just before you got here.”
“Alright then. Jeremy, I need you to
take off your shirt-yes that's right. This should be plenty.”
Tearing the shirt and stretching it
apart, Pan wrapped it around Thomas' wound, tying it off tight as she
could. Then, hefting him up onto her shoulder, Pan called the other
children and they began their walk to town, moving quickly as they
could. The jostling and bumping of the road rekindled Thomas' moans
and promoted Pan to make small cooing sounds, slowly calming him back
into silence. Yet even as he was silent Pan could hear the bubbling
in his breathing as the blood began to pool in his lungs.
“Come,” she said, beckoning the
children to pick up their pace, “we must hurry.”
Returning to town Pan commanded the
gaggle of dirty children to return home, excepting Jeremy. There was,
to her small surprise, no argument roused from the children and,
after they had gone, Pan walked with Jeremy to the town physician, a
man freshly appointed to his position after several years studying at
Ase'ar, The University of The World.
“After I hand Thomas over to the
physician I will go to your parents and tell them what happened. You
will stay and give your brother support, Jeremy.”
The boy nodded and silence lulled.
The physicians hut small and packed
with a hundred different types of medical tools, potions, powders,
plants, and so on. An alchemical chandelier hung about them and cast
blueish light over the room that mixed with the gray light of the
outdoors, lending a peaceful aura to the room. Despite how densely
packed the hut was, everything was in place and perfectly ordered,
though what that order was Pan could only guess at. Still, the
scalpels and saws and braces that hung on the wall, as well as the
rainbow arrangement of potions, eased Pan's mind.
Standing up, the physician looked at
the three who had just entered into his hut, defiling it with the
blood and dirt and sweat that caked their bodies, slithering down to
the floor. His coat was eggshell white and hanging around his neck
was a large metal pendant, patterned with a snake sneaking up a rod,
the identification of his profession as an arcane doctor.
“What what?” he said, stepping
toward the trio, “what's happened?”
“It was a steel boar. Gored the boy
when he was in the field. I did my best to tie off the wound and keep
him from bleeding out,” Pan said as she passed Thomas to the
physician.
Quickly stepping away with the boy the
physician set the bleeding boy down upon a table in the left most
corner of the room, directly beside the majority of his medical
instruments and potions. Once down he stripped him of his clothes and
removed the make-shift tourniquet, pulling caked dried blood from the
wound. Picking from the wall a small hooked tool and a mirrored glass
the physician picked at the wound, pulling the flesh back like a
marionette, moving the flesh and his mirror so as to see the
lacerations that the steel boar had caused Thomas.
Replacing the mirror the physician
grabbed a bottle full of yellow-green liquid, a small pair of
tweezers, and some balls of cotton. Pulling back the red-black flesh
the physician fished inside of Thomas, pulling out dirt and fragments
of cloth. Once sufficiently satisfied that nothing lurked within the
wound the physician removed the stopper from the bottle and, turning
it upside down, he soaked one of his balls of cotton. Taking up the
ball in his tweezers he began to liberally wipe and dab at the lips
of the wound, removing the dried blood.
“The boys condition is not good. Are
you aware of the infections that come from the tusks of a steel
boar?” asked the physician without turning away from his work.
“No,” Pan replied tightly.
“They are siege beasts, you know.
They were made with the intention of charging foes in battle,
weakening the line. Their armored backs make them hard to kill, but
their alchemical tusks are the real trick. They are made from the
same bone that make up their organic cousins, however, the draccus
was a clear inspiration for its effectiveness. Those damned tusks are
made porous so that the bacteria can seep into the tusks. Fucking
Black Alchemists. Toy with nature, make a war beast, and then, when
the wars done, nothing left but to let it free.”
The last part was said under his
breath, yet Pan heard it.
Kneeling before Jeremy she whispered,
“I'm going now. You stay here. I will send word to your parents.”
Jeremy nodded, his brown eyes far
away. Pan hugged him before she departed and she felt his warm,
brackish tears touch upon her cheek.
Hendrick ran toward Pan, calling out
to her and weaving one of his bulbous hands above his head, “Guard!
Guard!”
Pan slowed enough to allow the crier
to catch up to her and when he did he asked, “have you found
Jeremy?”
“Yes, Hendrick. I found him in the
field. He was playing with some of the other children. There was some
trouble with a steel boar and now he is waiting with his brother at
the physicians. It does not look good.”
Hendrick's fat head turned the color
of the moon, his eyes and mouth resembled craters now more than the
features of a human face. Pan did her best not to stare at the
horrified man, instead allowing the silence to grow wild between
them.
“Is Jeremy okay?” The criers voice
was as thin and wispy as the wind or else a single strand of hair.
“Yes, physically. I cannot say as to
how his mind handles these things.”
The crier nodded and looked glum. He
knew that something must be done, he could feel it deep within him,
begging him to move like living flame under his foot. Yet, as to what
must be done he could only grasp.
Finally, “I will go to the boy. Wait
with him. You are going to retrieve his parents, yes?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Tell them that I will take
care of their bills. They will have enough to worry about without the
pressure of a doctors bill.”
Pan nodded and, with only a bit of
shuffling about in uncertainty, Hendrick left her to deliver her
morbid message.
Thomas and Jeremy's parents took the
news of their sons possible death as well as was expected. Their
mother, a thin woman with a round face stared off, glass eyes, her
brown and gray hair a messy halo about her. The rag that was in her
hand had found itself wrapped tightly around her fist and pulled
tight, as if she were tying off the outcry of pain that bloomed
within her.
Her husband, a lean, muscled man with
leather brown skin, wore a broken face. Tears fell freely from his
eyes as he wrapped her arm around his wife's shoulder. The couple
seemed pale and shriveled. Pan got the impression that every bone in
their body had been replaced with fractured glass and, with the
slightest touch or movement they would shatter into dust to be
scattered in the wind.
Yet off they went, shuffling in
bug-like fashion as Pan watched, her heart heavy as lead in her
chest.
Having had her share of tragedy, Pan
decided to treat herself to a drink and lunch at the Lightning Tree,
a small inn that had sprung up in place of the Pissing Pig, which had
burned to the ground five or so years back. The Lightning Tree
received its name, or so the owner, a man with sandy hair, a long
pointed noise, and golden eyes, claimed, from the great beast of a
tree that had been used to build it. According to him, in his home
land there was a tree that had produced the most beautiful of fruit.
It was a pale fruit, the color of the stars, and it was used
primarily for brewing.
However, the Seven grew jealous of
this tree and the worshipers that sprung up in its honor. It was
planted by fae and was, therefore, an affront to them and as such
they sent a bolt of lightning to burn the tree. However, the great
beast that was the tree stood against this trail and, though it was
blackened, it did not fall or burn, but nor did it produce fruit
anymore. So it was that as time passed and the worshipers of the tree
and its planters died off that the tree was forgotten by the town
from whence it came, at least until Mr. Walker came to use its black
wood for his inn.
Pan loved that story and all the other
stories that Mr. Walker would spin like a spiders web, entertaining
her as she ate.
Today was no exception, “Pan, have
you ever heard the story of Simmon de Feor ?”
“No, sir,” said Pan between
mouthfuls of warm honey bread.
Mr. Walker grabbed a jug of warm
smelling summer cider, pulled up a chair beside Pan, and poured
himself a mug, allowing the spiced cider to fill the air, making it
pregnant.
He took a long drink, “Well, Simmon
de Feor is more commonly know as Faesmith. Does that ring a bell for
ya?”
“Oh! Of course. He made the same
sword Oren of the Vale uses. The blood-drinking sword.”
“Yes, that is likely his most famous
creation. Or maybe it was infamous? But that doesn't matter, what
matters is how he learned to craft as he did.
See, Simmon went to The University of
The World and learned everything from rune-craft to naming. He was a
top student and, it's said, he was dear friends with Oren of the
Vale, before he was “of the Vale.” He could craft the most
intricate of runes, the kind that would make the smiths of legend
weep. The sort that were dangerous and beautiful. The sort that broke
the Iron Law.
He could, or so they say, sing to his
creations, caressing them gently with magical energies. Yet, even
with all of this, Simmon was no better than any genius might be.
He merely built upon what others had
done before him. He was not an innovator, just an exceedingly clever
student. Until, of course, he stumbled across a book.
See, dear Pan, all great stories and
adventures start with the discovery of a book. It is with them that
we can open up the doors that were once locked. They are keys and
clues and the only real, true treasure in the world. And when Simmon
found this book the doors were blown wide.
He packed up his things and left only
a note and he searched from land to land for whatever secret thing
was in that book, of which there is no shortage of speculation.
Those that believe in the Seven will
tell you that he made a deal with a fae woman, impregnating her with
his mortal seed in exchange for a secret magic. Those who worship the
fae will, curiously, tell something similar. And to an extent they
were right.
Simmon did find a woman, and a
beautiful one at that. He found a women in a far off land where night
stretches on forever and the purple lands are populated with
creatures whose names have been lost to the time, blown in the wind.
And he fell in love with this woman, deep and true as any love could
be and, in that land of night skies and purple lands, where the
waters tasted sweet as honey, he resolved himself to stay.
But, of course, this story would be
nothing without tragedy. Of course there were those that travel the
land, seeking out the fae that make their home among the humans.
Those who wear the mantle of the Seven and, when they find those
ungodly creatures, they destroy them.
And so, one a day when Simmon had left
his lady love to journey and discover his new land, these men came
and slew the woman, mangling her body and leaving it to leak blood
into those sweet waters. When Simmon came and found his lady dead, it
is said, he found those men that took her life through magical means
and took from them their lives. And when he was done he returned from
that enchanted land, now tainted by the touch of death, and vowed
never to tell the secrets of his lady love.”
Mr. Walker was silent then and that
silence radiated outward, sucking sound from the room. Pan quietly
sipped the last of the spiced cider she'd ordered for herself and
sat, soaking in the silence around her.
Then the noise came, descending down
upon them with indignation. It was the sound of screaming and alarm
bells. It was the sound of invasion, of marching death.
Pan jumped up from where she had been
sitting and, sword drawn, ran out into the chaos. The sirens wailed
and screamed madly, begging and pleading for attention. People
screamed and babbled, shouting questions that were promptly ignored.
Mr. Walker came out then, “What's
happening?” he shouted above the wail of the sirens.
“Invasion,” Pan replied, absently.
Mr. Walker muttered something then,
something that Pan did not understand at the time, something that
would not come back to her until years down the road when she
remembered this grim day and when she did finally remember what he
said this day would all make sense. But now, as she was, her mind was
too far gone, fear gripping it and adrenaline pumping through her
veins.
The rush of danger pushed her into
action and Pan ran forward, heading toward the town gate where she
was sure the guard captain would be. She swan upstream, past the
growing horde of frightened town-folk, some of which carried their
children to their breast or lead them by hand, pulling them should
they slow. Those without children dragged their material goods or
else their animals with them. At one point Pan saw the physician, a
sack filled with what she was sure was medical equipment and, just a
few paces behind him, was Jeremy. Where were his parents?
Turning off from her course and
dodging thee gaggle of runners Pan ran headlong into the hut that had
been the physicians. Inside there was no semblance of order. The
walls had been picked, their contents in the bag of the fleeing
physician or else on the floor. The impression of God-like
cleanliness that had pressed upon Pan when she had come earlier had
been disrupted and, in its absence, a rift grew. Chaos had been here,
like a wind storm or else the fury of the Seven.
Holding the hand of their boy, huddled
in the corner, were Jeremy's parents. They were stoic, statuesque, a
perfect part of the scenery.
“You must go,” Pan said, her voice
louder than the sirens and the screaming, “it is not safe.”
There was no response from either
aside from a blank stare, “did you not hear me? Can you not hear
the alarms? It is not safe. Something is happening and you must
leave.”
Still they stared, their eyes
fathomless, abyss-like.
Anger flurried within Pan's chest,
fanned hot by the black faced statues that stood before her. She
stepped to them both and, only a few inches away, pulled back and
slapped the both of them hard across the face.
“You will leave here now. You will
find your boy and the physician, or else I will drag you both from
here myself,” she commanded.
“What of him? What of Thomas?”
asked the mother with a croaked whisper.
Pan looked down at the boy on the
slab. His chest rose and fell with great effort and with each breath
came a gurgling sound. His skin had lost its color and, to Pan, it
appeared as though he were slowly decomposing into nothing.
She knew he would die and, in those
broken faces that his parents wore she could tell that they knew as
well.
Nantosila, take this one,
Pan prayed, into your wormed embrace. Dear Goddess, from
the sky he came and on your soil he walked, now weary he comes into
the Earth so he may rest.
“You must leave
him,” Pan spat these words as if they were poison, “you know he
will not recover and to take him with us would only bring him greater
pan. Give him to Nantosila, or else Jeremy may grow to resent you
both, or else suffer a similar fate.”
Jeremy's parents
stood there, silently, and the distance between Pan and them widened
and deepened.
“Okay,” said
the mother, her voice little more than a whisper.
However, as she
shambled like a corpse for the door her husband stayed. She looked
back at him, eyes dull, but said nothing. She merely left him there,
towering like a lonely giant above their dying son.
“I'll bury him,”
he said, seeing that Pan's eyes were fixed on him, “I'll bury him.”
Pan left him there, allowing him the
privacy to preform his morbid task, and continued to the town gate.
When she was only a few yards away she
saw her commanding officer, standing tall and gallant as always. The
sight of him in his metallic gray armor, gray hair being tossed by
the wind, and sword at the ready eased her mind. Commander Bryn had
fought in the King's army when he was a young man and had received
the King's grace as reward. Anywhere he went he would have power and
position. Bryn would never want for money nor land nor, if ever
something befall his wife, women.
Commander Bryn turned and saw Pan's
approaching her. His wrinkled face looked grave as he squinted to see
her in the orange light of the setting sun. Bryn raised a great,
mangled paw and waved her to him.
“Sir, what's happening?” Pan
asked, standing tall and brave next to her superior.
“Take a look,” Bryn said, passing
a telescope to her.
Peering through it Pan saw the grim
death that was soon to be upon them; a siege of the Black Alchemists.
Their dark robes and mutated bodies giving them away immediately. Pan
felt the touch of fear and grim certainty that soon nothing would be
left of her town but the ash customary whenever the King's Justice
descended upon the land.
“Sir, I don't understand. Why are
they coming here?”
“To kill every last one of us, Pan.”
Pan looked at her commander then,
looked at the man she had so long considered to be fearless. She
looked at him and saw all the fear and anger and regret painted
plainly on his grizzled, angular face.
“Why the hell would they do that?
We're loyal to the crown. We worship the Seven and pay our taxes in
full.”
“The Black Alchemists aren't sent
out for taxes. You've heard the stories. You know why they'd be
here.”
“We aren't harboring any criminals!”
Pan replied, indignant and fear-filled.
The guard commander was silent, his
eyes focused forward. He was still as water, but only deceptively so.
Below the surface the waters churned and shifted with the kind of
angry bitterness that sought to drown the first fool to dip their
toe.
“Round whatever of the town is left
and leave. They will track you, but better a life on the run than the
torture that awaits you if you are caught.”
Pan did not pursue the guard commander
beyond that and shame and fear were born in her as a result.
Her first stop was to the Lightning
Tree in search of Mr. Walker. She came rolling through the doors like
lightning, loud and booming with her voice, calling out for her old
friend. She called and searched frantically but found not hide nor
hair of him, or much else that would indicate that he'd ever been
there.
Puzzled but frantic Pan left the
Lightning Tree with reluctance and went about checking every corner
and home in the town. Most people she encountered screamed and
shouted, oblivious to her directions in their total fear. Many a time
Pan found herself with sword in hand, shouting and spitting
frantically, even threatening, so that they would compose themselves
and leave.
Children cried, snot dripping from
their noses as they asked and begged their parents for explanation.
People, as is their nature, gathered together what they could, trying
desperately to hang onto their lives through their collected junk.
Pan would force many of them to leave behind all but the essentials
and when the townsfolk would fight, kick, and scream, Pan would leave
them to their fear and dread, leaving them with the promise that they
would not be coddled or cared for because of their stupidity.
The gathering of the frightened took
the better part of an hour and as the whole of the town ascended the
hillside Pan turned to see the place she had called home. She watched
as the first fires began to spread and the scent of blood began to
taint the air. She watched as a convergence of mutated figures
descended upon the town like flies or a black plague. She listened
as they burned and killed, stabbing at the heart of her home and,
years from now, when Pan was asleep in bed with her lover, well, who
would blame her for awaking in a sweat, the scent of blood in her
nostrils.
All this Pan watched without shedding
a single tear as a black cancer formed within her and gorged itself
on regret and anger and the knowing of answers to questions unasked.
Slow poison spread through her veins and, turning away, she found
herself glad of Mr. Walker's, no, Simmon's, disappearance.
*Apologies for fomatting issues, one and all. Blogger is not a fan on indents. Aside from that, I hope you enjoy this peak at the collection of short stories I am working on and, if you like me then you can find me on facebook or subscribe to the blog for regular updates on said collection and regular posts. Thank you.*
As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner
