Much's Tale: Demons
The arrow cut across the dry stubble, skimming the grass before limping to rest a yard from the tree he had aimed towards. The rawhide burned sharply against his fingers in release, his muscles mocking the effort. Much slowly pulled the offended fingers from the sanctuary of his mouth and stared at the arrow in intense bewilderment. His shoulders slumped, and he sighed with the despair only those on the brink of adulthood and change can achieve. The sun crouched low in the sky behind him, setting his riot of curls alight. He resembled a saint on vellum, his eyes dark and wide as they concentrated on something beyond their sight.
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Always be home by dark, his mother said. The sun had long since set without his notice. Not yet eight years old, he moved swiftly but clumsily, tripping over tree roots he was sure his brother would have missed as he hurried through the half-dark, the tree tops obscuring the emerging stars. Then there were shapes in the darkness. Voices. Half laughing, half yelling words. 'Half-wit.' 'Simple.' 'Idiot.' Pain. His arms jerking, colliding, his feet tumbling over each other. Laughter. Jolting movement, rough shoving and darkness, complete and total, splinters rubbing through his tunic. A warm bruise throbbed warmly on his cold cheek Afraid to move, not daring to breathe, as if breath would mix with his racing thoughts and bring them and the pain back.
A beam of icy white filtered to him, bringing a glimpse of a tanned arm, the reflection of hair a shade lighter than the night sky and a voice calling his name. Much opened cracked, dry lips and heard himself cry in a wordless whimper, just louder than the dry shuffle of a pair of feet on the dry straw nearby. The voice spoke again, and through eyes burning with old tears, Much squinted up into the face of a boy on the brink of adolescence, black hair falling into green eyes too sensitive to stare into long. Robin. His brother. "Devils," Much whispered, the worlds tumbling out of his mouth before his mind could catch at the hem of his fear. "Devils came," he repeated, shivering, and the tears came hot and fast down his face. He could see anger flash across Robin's face like a summer storm, bright hot and quickly fading, replaced by melting love. Much felt his brother's arms around him, cradling him, lifting him out of the rough pen into which he had been shoved. A gust of wind slid across his face as he shivered, relief crowding his mind and body. His bruised muscles began to relax as he floated in the warmth of safety.
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Much blinked, his hand clenched at the ghost of a years old fear. With an effort he jerked his mind into the present. He *would* hit the target. He *would*. Like Robin. He turned and walked towards the Mill, the bow clutched in his white-knuckled fist.
The arrow cut across the dry stubble, skimming the grass before limping to rest a yard from the tree he had aimed towards. The rawhide burned sharply against his fingers in release, his muscles mocking the effort. Much slowly pulled the offended fingers from the sanctuary of his mouth and stared at the arrow in intense bewilderment. His shoulders slumped, and he sighed with the despair only those on the brink of adulthood and change can achieve. The sun crouched low in the sky behind him, setting his riot of curls alight. He resembled a saint on vellum, his eyes dark and wide as they concentrated on something beyond their sight.
---------------------
Always be home by dark, his mother said. The sun had long since set without his notice. Not yet eight years old, he moved swiftly but clumsily, tripping over tree roots he was sure his brother would have missed as he hurried through the half-dark, the tree tops obscuring the emerging stars. Then there were shapes in the darkness. Voices. Half laughing, half yelling words. 'Half-wit.' 'Simple.' 'Idiot.' Pain. His arms jerking, colliding, his feet tumbling over each other. Laughter. Jolting movement, rough shoving and darkness, complete and total, splinters rubbing through his tunic. A warm bruise throbbed warmly on his cold cheek Afraid to move, not daring to breathe, as if breath would mix with his racing thoughts and bring them and the pain back.
A beam of icy white filtered to him, bringing a glimpse of a tanned arm, the reflection of hair a shade lighter than the night sky and a voice calling his name. Much opened cracked, dry lips and heard himself cry in a wordless whimper, just louder than the dry shuffle of a pair of feet on the dry straw nearby. The voice spoke again, and through eyes burning with old tears, Much squinted up into the face of a boy on the brink of adolescence, black hair falling into green eyes too sensitive to stare into long. Robin. His brother. "Devils," Much whispered, the worlds tumbling out of his mouth before his mind could catch at the hem of his fear. "Devils came," he repeated, shivering, and the tears came hot and fast down his face. He could see anger flash across Robin's face like a summer storm, bright hot and quickly fading, replaced by melting love. Much felt his brother's arms around him, cradling him, lifting him out of the rough pen into which he had been shoved. A gust of wind slid across his face as he shivered, relief crowding his mind and body. His bruised muscles began to relax as he floated in the warmth of safety.
------------------
Much blinked, his hand clenched at the ghost of a years old fear. With an effort he jerked his mind into the present. He *would* hit the target. He *would*. Like Robin. He turned and walked towards the Mill, the bow clutched in his white-knuckled fist.