5 December 2006
Disclaimer: I am not making money by writing this. I do not own the idea nor the characters. I only own my own writing style, and share pretty words in fruitless hopes of beguiling.
-----
As Above
-----
A normal day, bright and hot. The ground burnt the bare feet of small children running circles round each other. One hundred people in one village of thieves. Pretty thieves, ugly thieves; petty thieves, skilled thieves; male thieves, women thieves. A village of thieves, one-hundred strong.
Thick as thieves, as the saying goes; thick as thieves, as the truth goes.
Women cooked lunch, healthy chicken broth to help their husbands, brothers, sisters, neighbours, daughters, sons to stay healthy, and salted meat to ease the pain in their bellies. Men were roused from sleep, ready to eat, ready for strength for the night. Sons and daughters ran back in, dusty feet numb from the hot sand. Dirty hands splashed with water. They all knew better than to touch their food with dirt.
Rowdiness ensued all through the midday meal, after the meal, well into the evening. Children giggled and screamed, stealthily snatching toys from one another, returning each item with a smile. They ran through the streets in packs, running home. Everyone in this village were the only people they ever knew. The loud voices of fathers and brothers, the firm scolding of mothers and sisters, the screams of happy children -these were the only sounds they knew. They poked at chickens; chastised half-heartedly by an aunt. They snuck a gold piece, but ran back groveling for forgiveness, offering the gold piece with some food.
They all ran home as the sky darkened to its sensual deep azure, exhausted but happy.
Thick as thieves, as the saying goes; thick as thieves, as it always was.
They all woke up to screams of horror, cutting to their marrow and twisting their souls. They all woke up to fire, licking hungrily at their belongings. Rough men, men with mean hands and cruel tongues. They took them all, slashing their mothers' throats before their eyes when their screams crescendoed, dying in their throats along with their spirits.
Broken bodies lay around, ninety-nine men, women, and children dead. Blood mixed with gold, death mixed with magic. The ghosts lingered, crying out in rage and sorrow. Their blood lightened till it was one with the precious metal, hot and liquid; poured into castings. Their flesh was gone, their blood jewelrie. Their pain and hatred tainted the gold, their punishment to these intruders. It was would be cursed, evil, unclean. No matter how much the beautiful gold -witchcraft gold- would shine, darkness would stain it.
Ninety-nine men, women, and children gone. No more to run gaily in the streets, no more half-hearted chastisements, no more strong fathers with mischievous eyes. Ninety-nine were gone, only one left. A ten year-old boy with white hair and strange eyes, hidden behind a wall, witnessing the horrible crime wrecked upon this tiny village; the only one willing to tell the story of what happened there. The ghosts consoled him; the idea to put them to rest all his own.
His will grew strong, his soul stronger. Each day he lived with the images of his slain family, revenge taking holding of him. He became a thief, the best of them all. He was their king, feared and renowned. He was strong, arrogant, and handsome. A pretty thief, a skilled thief, a male thief. Only one thief, but one-hundred strong.
Thick as thieves, as the saying goes; thick as thieves, as it should have stayed.
-----
I just wanted to write something. Feedback is appreciated.