"If you don't stop being so damn iconoclastic, I will leave."
She said that so often, and every other time it was an empty threat; her way of dealing with his rants about how King Touchstone was too damned lazy and impotent to have sorted out this bit of the Kingdom yet. Chasel, High Bridge, Belisaere - all of those had been sorted out already, but south of that fork in the Ratterlin the Dead still plagued townsfolk trying to survive.
The mill had the good fortune to have been built on a small island, giving it a fair amount of protection against the Dead, another reason why the miller had always thought the threats empty. She'd always come back by nightfall when there were things to be done in Qyrre.
The next night, she did come back. As the last of the sunlight vanished from the sky, the Dead once again massed on the bank of the river. This time, in the light of his lantern, he saw a familiar face at the front - his beloved wife, now a shambling corpse.
He drew the weakly-spelled dagger from his belt, and touched it to the mark on his forehead. His mark, and those on the blade, flared at the touch. The Dead turned away, shielding sightless eyes against the light. He smiled. Even now, he didn't want his wife to see him lunge the dagger into his wrist and pull it sharply through the flesh.
As the last of his blood fled through the severed arteries, the three marks on the dagger flared once again; the marks of fire, cleansing and peace.
Re: Meme, eh?
Date: 2005-09-12 07:17 pm (UTC)She said that so often, and every other time it was an empty threat; her way of dealing with his rants about how King Touchstone was too damned lazy and impotent to have sorted out this bit of the Kingdom yet. Chasel, High Bridge, Belisaere - all of those had been sorted out already, but south of that fork in the Ratterlin the Dead still plagued townsfolk trying to survive.
The mill had the good fortune to have been built on a small island, giving it a fair amount of protection against the Dead, another reason why the miller had always thought the threats empty. She'd always come back by nightfall when there were things to be done in Qyrre.
The next night, she did come back. As the last of the sunlight vanished from the sky, the Dead once again massed on the bank of the river. This time, in the light of his lantern, he saw a familiar face at the front - his beloved wife, now a shambling corpse.
He drew the weakly-spelled dagger from his belt, and touched it to the mark on his forehead. His mark, and those on the blade, flared at the touch. The Dead turned away, shielding sightless eyes against the light. He smiled. Even now, he didn't want his wife to see him lunge the dagger into his wrist and pull it sharply through the flesh.
As the last of his blood fled through the severed arteries, the three marks on the dagger flared once again; the marks of fire, cleansing and peace.