Hunger

Hunger

  by Joseph Bush

  She cried as she fed. The tears streaked clean lines down her blood-soaked face. Sobs racked her chest, tight with terror and strange, dark power. Her fingers ached. She let her head hang in shame, blood dripping off of her chin into her dark lap in the moonlight. Her arms were soaked to the elbow in thick, clotting blackness. The blood of a young man pooled in her lap, sticking to her thighs under her shredded skirt.

  The scent of fresh flesh stung her nostrils, her hunger rose. Whimpering, she held a morsel before her eyes. The tears rose again, uncontrollable, as she lifted it to her mouth. The hunger was unbearable, like a rift in her belly, threatening to tear her in half.

  Her head pounding, roaring like a great dragon, she leaned over his body. She bit off another chunk, its tang sharp and horribly delicious. Her mind raced, trying desperately to reconcile her hunger and her nature. No longer in control, her thoughts drifted and slowed, congealing, as her body took over, feeding.

  Everything faded, her sanity slipped. Her vision clouded, the roar growing, drowning out all else. As she faded, a different her rose, older, stronger.

  She picked up a cape, standing.

  It was heavy in her hand, not fabric but woven metal.

  Then, darkness.

  Hunger

  By Joseph Bush

  Days she walked. Nights she slept. Without past or future, she continued on, not stopping too long, walking.

  She was following a road that led east. It connected to a road that headed north. She had a vague memory that there were cities near the intersection. She passed caravans of wagons and horsemen but they gave her a wide berth on the road, careful not to trample her. She paid them little attention, closed in upon herself.

  She knew only her name and the name of the place she was going to. Dismal thoughts flitted about in her mind, accompanied only by confusion and loneliness. An unexplained sense of loss beckoned her towards despair as she walked, though she knew not why.

  Days and nights uncounted passed.

  There was a town ahead, little more than a collection of shops and homes on the small stream that fed the farms nearby. The road continued through the town, crossed the river somewhere within the short stone wall surrounding it. She followed it, paying little attention to the people or their community. Dusk was setting as she arrived, and she decided to see about a room to sleep in, and perhaps some food. She was unbearably hungry.

  She passed the old rusted gates and shuffled past the children running in the grass. The town seemed largely as unconcerned about her as she about it. She made her way down the broad path between the buildings, watching for an alehouse or inn.

  She listened to the people as she walked; her grasp of the language was rusty, but seemed solid enough. She briefly wondered where it was she had come from, that lay at the other end of the road from her destination. Presently, she reached what passed for an inn, more of a boarding house than anything. Farmers and craftsmen were busy talking about trade and the weather, concerned about the heat. The girl hadn’t noticed.

  In a quiet voice, she asked the young woman sitting in a chair inside about a room and a meal. She was easily excited and gabbed about the establishment. Apparently, little business was had from travelers here. The girl’s father was more concerned with his new guest, she wore hardly any decent clothes, her skirt was old and worn and thin, almost to transparency, and her shirt looked rather too large for her. Her bag had strange protrusions that struck the older man as either weapons or tools. Since she did not carry herself as a craftsperson from the Silverglades ought, and so he assumed the worse, even as his daughter, bless her heart, prepared her a room and set about making a meal.

  The girl paid in strange coins, they looked like ordinary silver, but they had small glimmering jewels in their cut out centers. Perhaps she was a foreigner, the man thought. Or even a thief. He thought it best to notify the constable and the priest, both of whom had traveled for miles, even to the Glades themselves. They would know what to do.

  And so, as the stranger sat to a meal of porridge and fresh bread, the man went out. He walked quickly and waved off greetings as he strode towards the town hall. He entered and asked for the constable, and when he arrived, gathered the priest, who had been chatting with the constable’s assistant about some unimportant nonsense about her daughter. The innkeeper explained that the situation was indeed grave and their attention was of the utmost importance.

  Meanwhile, the girl in the in was led up to a room on the second floor, where she laid her bag on the only available furniture, the bed. She sat next to it, left alone by the innkeeper’s daughter, and slumped back, her back and legs relaxing. She couldn’t remember how long she had walked, the earliest thing she could think of had been a fire in the night.

  The priest, ever more tactful than the constable, suggested that he have a look at the stranger at the evening meal, and that he handle things unless she turned out violent. The innkeeper had said she looked rather thin and underfed, not like proper folk ought to look at all. From this, the priest assumed that she would attend the meal whether she was shy of the townsfolk or not.

  Sure enough, as the other sparse boarders gathered in the small dining hall, the priest noted that the girl had indeed been their since before the others. He had a good look at her without her knowing, as well. She was attractive, almost stunningly so, and quite young. She had smooth black hair that had a sheen of red in the light. Her eyes were startling, a warm black again, and when the light shined on them, they reflected a sparkling red. He saw that she wore an expression of hunger, impatience, of fear, but also, one of sapped strength.

  Perhaps she was an evacuee from one of the many wars he had heard so much about lately. She was definitely worth his attention, not because of her looks, though those did key him in, but because of the aura she had. When he looked at her, he felt a slight chill; in the astral plane, she radiated a deep red violence.

  Being a smart man, he figured he had a reasonable guess about her past. Being a priest of Iain, he was bound by duty and love to keep the town safe from danger. He also felt obligated, as members of his church often do, to help the girl. It was entirely possible that she didn’t even know the extent of her soul’s pollution.

  He approached her carefully, quietly, but not stealthily as she greedily lapped up soup. There was something feral about her, but her eyes, past their eerie color, betrayed vulnerability. She only barely looked up at him as he approached. When he sat down next to her, however, she turned her attention to him, an old, instinctive fear kicking in from nowhere. He wore the white and grey robes of a priest and carried with him the words of his god. She knew his kind. He was dangerous, and she was worried. She didn’t yet remember why.

  “I am Felswen. How are you, traveler?” he said, his voice smooth and rich, lacking some quality she had expected.

  “Are you not a Priest, Felswen?” she inquired, her grasp of the language complete now.

  “I am, but I would have thought it obvious.” He smiled, and despite herself, she smiled as well. “What is your name?”

  “Psamathe,” she said, the word seeming awkward in her mouth. She hadn’t really thought of it until now, as if she hadn’t really known the name from before.

  “And how do you come by our town of Kora, miss Psamathe?”

  “I came by the road. I am going to Athon,” she replied, a measure of comfort setting in around her with this Felswen. She decided that he wasn’t as bad as she thought he would be. He was actually rather attractive, with deep green eyes and a kind complexion. Before she had too much time, he startled, apparently at her destination.

  “Ah, I see. And where do you hail from then?” he stuttered.

  Put off by the question, she evaded by inquiring, “Is
something wrong with going to Athon?”

  “Well, it is¡K You see, miss Psamathe, Athon lies far north and it is a very dangerous place. It is full of fell magics and frightful beasts. I wonder why you are going there?” Though a man of faith, Felswen was also a man of rationale, and her voyage seemed a fool’s errand for someone so young. He had heard of professional free companies never returning from the lands of Skystone.

  “I’m not sure¡K” she said, revealing more with her lack of knowledge than she would have with a simple lie. She was, however, too confused about the whole thing herself to have lied to him.

  He considered her for a moment, his analytical mind working on the puzzle. After a few moments of silence, with only the clinking of the cups of other patrons, he decided that she was going to need further help with whatever she was going through. He at least needed to clear her soul of whatever it was she had done. That much was clear.

  “Could I invite you to a lunch tomorrow? Before you move on?”

  “Well, I, uh¡K I suppose so, but where?”

  “I will prepare a basket for us and we will lunch at the park. The flowers are in bloom right now.”

  “That sounds lovely,” Psamathe said, confused, intrigued, lonely for company.

  Felswen left soon after, deep in thought.

  The next morning,