Last Light

Daybreak - IV

The Swordsman trudged through the rugged, tall grass with heavy steps. With each stride, he sank wrist-deep into the mud. He was weary, but at least the weather was improving. The thick rain clouds were swiftly dispersing in the strong wind, revealing the faint glimmer of the last stars against the pale morning sky. The firmament gradually changed its hue, shifting from dark blue to pale blue-yellow, then to pink, and finally orange. To his right, the sun emerged as a red orb, while to his left, the fire wheel and the silver crescent of the Twin Moons formed a structure of ring and semicircle, that slowly disappeared beyond the horizon. Daybreak.

The Swordsman was soaked through and through, feeling like a wet, stray dog and fighting the urge to shake himself dry. Everything was sodden and heavy, as if he wore iron armor.
He had suspected that walking through the night wasn't one of his better ideas, but considering his even greater aversion to another inn with its drunken guests and stinking beds, he had evidently chosen the lesser evil. He hadn't spared a thought for the last village just a few minutes back; he had even circumvented it widely to avoid catching the attention of the gate guards - and this detour had now resulted in his boots being thickly caked with mud and dirt up to the shaft.

He steered purposefully towards the paved path nearby, feeling a sense of relief with the audible crunch of gravel under his shoes. If he could find something now to scrape the mud from his boots, he would be a good deal further along. He scanned the roadside for something useful as he continued towards the fork in the road; but when he caught sight of the shadows of the crosses at his feet, he stopped abruptly, looking up.
In the light of the morning sun, their silhouettes stood out darkly against the bright orange backdrop. The rising sun was so bright that he had to shield his eyes with his hand. Two of the crosses stood apart, one large and one smaller; the figures hanging from them were partially decomposed, the bodies indicating a mother and her child.

However, the third cross was directly in front of him; the morning light filtering through his closed fingers. The young woman on the cross had not been dead long: Her skin was pale but not sunken, her bare arms and legs bloody and scraped, wrists and ankles rubbed raw by the ropes that bound her to the cross. Her red-blond hair hung in strands over her shoulders, the curls drawn out by rainwater, her green eyes half closed, dull and milky, expressionless. Her throat had been cut and left to bleed out; her white dress was soaked with blood, but the rain of recent days had already washed much away.

During this time, there were many reasons why women were tied to the stake. A persistent rumor of witchcraft or druidic abilities or about an alliance with the Black Lands was enough, sometimes just living in the wrong city or being promised to the wrong man. Green eyes, red-blond hair; although witches were usually burned or dragged to unknown places, it was likely why she had been placed on the stake.

For a moment, the Swordsman continued to stare at her face: Her mouth was bloody, her lips swollen and cracked, a red spot amidst the pale skin of her face. The sight reminded him of a freshly bloomed rose –

The image of a rose garden appeared in his mind's eye; blood-red roses against dark green ground, deep green ivy on whitewashed stone, snow-white clouds against a bright blue summer sky. Contrasts, wherever one looked, so vivid that it was almost painful not to look away –
Then, a girl. Black hair, blue eyes, pale skin, and at first glance, there was nothing unusual about her appearance. It was only upon closer inspection that it became clear: Her hair was wet, dripping strands over narrow shoulders, the blue of her eyes tinged with blood, almost turning them purple, her skin swollen, cracked, pale from cold and dampness. Water dripped from her open mouth, flowing out in small streams –

The Swordsman shook off the memory and continued on.
He tried to ignore the sweetish smell as he passed the other woman and her child, no longer looking back.
Instead, he turned his gaze resolutely towards the path branching northward; the Castle should be in sight once he reached the hilltop.