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Icarus's blog: "Augurs, Martyrs, and Agnostics"

created on 03/10/2011  |  http://fubar.com/augurs-martyrs-and-agnostics/b340021  |  8 followers

The Tanner's Remorse.

Alorid wasn't entirely sure why he wasn't a merchant.

He was an age and a half past his prime, married, and one level down from wealthy. He even had a partner to run the store, and pay the taxes when he was away.

His skinning knife glided against sinew, with each artful flick a minescule shred of skin fell into a scrap bin at his feet. Fox fur. He could've raised them, trapped them, married off a pretty daughter or two, and left the skills and store to a handsome son or two.

They had stopped at one. That wasn't the plan when they were courting, and after they had wed, but one was unexpected enough. They had tried for so many years, so overjoyed at his arrival, his departure had nearly brought ruin to their house. The blade jumped and stopped hard in the side of Alorid's palm leaving a deep gash and a trickle of crimson. Cursing and moving carefully, Alorid left the blade in the side of his hand and placed the skin he had been working on aside before it was stained.

He had sworn to never speak of it again, but his memories were his own prison. Stasya was not privy to how often he dwelled on their son, or how he still had the letter informing him he died a noble, just, painless death in defense of his nation.

She was not aware of the allure of the blade or quiet poison of alcohol to still the hounding noise in his head

"your fault"

"Your only son!"

"best years of your life!"

The blade had been out of the wound for several minutes now, drops of blood pittering and cascading on the ground in exploding patterns on the cool floor.

He never meant for time to wander for so long unchecked.

Meeting a beautiful girl.

Kissing his future wife.

Making love to the mother of his child.

Watching Linus take his first steps in the greenest spring he could recall.

Watching Linus from their doorstep, clean cut, handsome, ready.

Reading the sharp, crisp lettering of an indifferent superior informing him his son was not on his way home,

For the thousandth time...

He wasn't sure how many times the knife he had grinded himself, and wrapped in a single strap of dragonhide had arrived poised over his wrist, prepared to make ammends to his son. This wasn't the first time, probably wouldn't be the last.

Perhaps that's why... the stiffer his joints, the sharper the teeth, the bigger the hunt.

"Al?"

Alorid started, his fair, frail Stasya had peeked into the storeroom, her alabastor skin made more ghostly in candlelight. He calmly palmed the knife and placed it casually in its sheathe against his hip.

"Come to bed, its late and I'm cold." Her eyes seemed to look past him, still, and crystalline as the day he had met her.

"Yes, just let me patch up and I'll be right there," he said clenching his injured hand.

"Are you hurt?" She said noticing the wound and the troubled look on her husband's face.

-Not in ways I can let you see-

But he was too great a coward to tell her, too timid to apologize.

All these years, he had hoped she blamed him for Linus.

"Just a bad nick, I'll be up in a minute."

She nodded, smiled that frail, fair smile and turned in.

 

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