The smell of blood fills the streets in my village.
It used to be something that would set me on edge. Wandering the pathways, I'd catch a sudden whiff, and in an instant I was a deer caught between a hunter and a cliff.
That's the problem- when smells emanate.
They're impossible to run from.
The floggings have been frequent enough since childhood, that now, when the smell entraps me, or when I pass a huddle of guards beating the life from someone- it's easy enough to ignore.
Still, I wish there was something that could be done about that smell.
Trying my best to ignore the cries of the teen boy being killed behind me, I wander over to a vendor off to the side of the street.
The vendors face is about as round as the apples she sold- but not nearly as plump.
Her dark eyes glaze over as she forces them away from the bloodbath only feet away, offering me a forced smile.
"Mornin', love! Care for an apple?"
Turning my fingers over the surface of a delectably juicy red, I pluck it from its bunch and take a bite, allowing the juice to leak over the front of my dressings with little care.
In return, I offer the vendor 2 pence.
"What's this one done?" I ask, motioning my wild mop of long black hair towards the boy behind us, now silent in his pleas for mercy.
The vendor twirls her chubby fingers uncertainly, lowering her voice to a whisper barely audible over the sounds of other villagers waltzing past.
"Tried to save his young bride from a trial, he did. Gave one of the guards a good hook to boot." The vendor shoots a small smile, before realizing her mistake and quickly straightening her hunched posture.
Taking another bite from my apple, I carefully side step a stream of blood pooling down the cobblestones beside me.
"Shame about the trial. At least the two will find each other in the After."
The vendor, processing my words, offers only a small nod.
"Light be with you." She calls, as I continue my walk down the streets of Beaurain, the unfortunate village which I call home.
It hadn't always been like this, or so, I'm frequently told by my inebriated mother.
"Magic was the source of our joy, and the catalyst for our destruction."
I never really knew what she meant by that; likely because the only magic humans could use has been made illegal.
The punishment; death.
Without her magic, my mother withered away. Talentless, uneducated, and otherwise useless.
In a lot of ways, she made me thankful that I never knew the stain it could leave on ones soul.
I could smell that stain the moment my modest hut outside of the village comes into view.
Overpowering the smell of manure piled behind the barn; and swine wallowing in muddy pits to the side, and even the fermented fruits plaguing her breath, the stench of failure engulfed my mother.
"I brought some apples and bread from the village." I say, trying my best to cover the venom in my words as I drop the bag of goods in front of her on the kitchen table.
Our hut had little to offer- one room with a couple of hay filled sacks for the two of us.
The kitchen table and one creaky wooden stool were among the last furnishings to our name.
YOU ARE READING
Indignation Rising
FantasíaAnnora never knew magic. She never knew the power, the awe, or the imprint of it's touch in her mind. A bit over twenty years ago, while in her mother's belly, magic was made a crime. Those who knew magic were forced to relinquish it- or die by orde...
