November

Issue 26

    The young Watcher lay hushed, drops of his blood mingled little by little with snow.  Fatigue settled, energy drained, a fresh wound on his face slowly opened.  He moaned.  

    Out of the reddish sludge the Watcher took to his feet, and with weary steps walked through the shadowy forest to the old stone-walled castle on the outer borders of Canaan.  

    A loud thump echoed through his tired body as he pushed open the heavy wooden doors across the moat and dragged himself up the narrow stone stairs to the comfort of home.  His humble abode (as far as castles go, Sethson Manor was quite small) delighted his spirit, but it could not cure his aches or remove his exhaustion.

    “Never prepared,” he mumbled.  His wounds he tended to as well as he could.   Fresh clothing seemed pointless since blood continued to drip from his face.  A sick feeling lodged in the pit of his stomach.  

    Outside the wrought iron gates of the castle the Whisperers gathered.  He could feel them.  “Cowards,” he snapped.  “Show yourselves.”  His trembling fingers touched the deep open scratches.  The pain began to eat from within.  

    “Extraordinary,” he said.  “Nothing from this world ever inflicts pain like this.  Never prepared.”  He sighed this time.