But it made no difference to the wound, for despite the throbbing and the mark, there was no pus, no festering to clear, simply the laceration and the blood that came from it, a cut that had seemed unchanged after so much time. He saw the reflection shimmer, saw the face in the reflection change morphing into something else. His senses reeled as the world spun, and from his ears droned the loud thrum as a blood moon shifted across the sky like a flaming torch. Incessant voices rang, voices of blessings and curses, of forgotten times and long dead wolves. It was a sea of noise, a plethora of visions upon visions, each as nonsensical as the other, culminating into the thrum that resonated through each ear until each of his senses were dulled to the sound of it.
The anger seethed through him in a great torrent, a toxic mix of ire and frustration that had culminated in sleepless nights and tiresome days, and it boiled then as he swore and through the dirk aside, the blade burying into the soil near to the hilt. A hand wiped away the crimson stains that stung and burned the eyes, while he spat the taste of iron from his lips. He would find no answers here, by the water, in the trees, Only voices, voices that gave no answers, that made him angry, made him fearful.
Forget her, she’s nothing to you now. Never was.
Elliot forgot she even existed.
And how am I to remember you , if you do not even remember yourself?
Say no more of burning trees and cruel masters.
Tell me about your Grange. Were fortunes and pots to piss in worth leaving for?
Elliot forgot she even existed.
And how am I to remember you , if you do not even remember yourself?
Say no more of burning trees and cruel masters.
Tell me about your Grange. Were fortunes and pots to piss in worth leaving for?
The nicker of a horse took his attentions away, and the blue roan stood aside of him, ears flicking upwards, curious, then back again, the smell of blood from its master agitating its whipping tail and shifting hooves. He looked to it for a time, watched it stare back, as if the great pools of black had all the answers he needed.
Tell me about your Grange.
He kicked a foot into the earth, still moist from the previous rains, and he leaned forward to retrieve his dirk, wiping it clean upon his trousers before sheathing it, eyes turning back to his stallion. Stone, she had named it. It was still taking time to get used to.
‘T’fuck does it all mean?” he asked the horse.
The horse could not answer, it’s ears pricking upwards to his voice, before it turned away, oblivious to his dilemma. He turned to face the water again, watched the stream bubble over the rocks, timeless, uncaring as the horse.
“Answers. Nary enough of t'speak of.”
It was dusk when the blue roan slipped out of the glen in a steady gait, where he came to the marked tree he’d been shown. Nobody knew where she lived, not the soldiers, not the militia, nor the tradesmen, the bakers, the smiths. Her name brought caution, disdain, hushed whispers. A cave, a hovel, a hole in the ground, nobody truly knew, even his rage and threats and fists had only resulted in pleas for mercy, for answers they though he wanted to hear, broken men in broken alleys of broken spirits, with nothing to offer but pleas and begging and cries of fear. Until one had given him the answers he sought, afraid, young, unknowing.
***
“A tree. She.. There’s a tree,” the youth stammered, looking for help in a dark corner that never came, shivering, afraid for his life.
"What bloody tree?! Speak sense, boy, or I'll shit on your castrated fuckin' bollocks."
"Notes, messages, by the south river, at the fork north of town... they say some leave notes, requests. Potions, spells.. dark magic.. she takes them, finds them.... that's all I know, that's all I know!"
"No messengers? Where'n t'bloody 'ells does she live, boy? Don't fuckin' like t'me...."
"I don't know! No one does, no one.. no one cares! She-- she's dark, they say she practices dark magic, an' blood rituals, an' sacrifices--"
"Young whelps, an' cuts t 'eads off of young babies, an' what any other bull's shite they say 'bout witches, aye, I've 'eard." He pressed the dirk against the cold line of his neck until youth began to shiver. "Y'know where this tree is, aye? Where she takes yon messages?"
The youth nodded, his rasps thin against the press of cold steel.
"Show me."
***
The dusk was a pale orange, and he watched it set behind the trees, long shadows reaching across the path like tendrils, his rouncey's coat a silver sheen, hooves shifting as the man moved upon his saddle. Soon the dusk would be twilight, and the moon would be out with all its brilliance, and he would look upon it's pale cast of blue and scowl. But the sellsword could wait, would wait until the next dawn if it meant finding a sliver of truth within all this madness. A connection between bitter words, between hidden whispers and a name that made them look away, made them look distant, dismissive. A name that seemed to mean something, about a time forgot, about someone changed.
Sometimes, a man choses t'forget, simply as he don't want t' remember.
Perhaps the witch would know.