Snippet #2141921

Florian startled at the rough inquiry, but then slowly unwound at the woman’s seemingly genuine concern. How unfair that he be the recipient of it, and not the injured man, or the long-haired girl. It felt like he'd done the woman an injustice. Why had his eyes not turned red, or his hands to claws, like in the stories? She would have known, then. She would know that demons do not die from being alone in a storm. They die from an honest farmer's pitchfork, or the blessed words of a priest.

Would she believe him, if he'd tell her he hadn’t eaten for days, and did not feel the slightest stir of hunger? How his skin seemed to burn warmer for every grain of heat the rain stole? Florian longed for the cold. Perhaps if the rain killed him – if the world itself killed him, he'd be able to accept death. It would release him from this struggle between a need for penance and his cowardly will to survive.

Nay. Florian just shook his head in a silent response. He could not explain, and had no right to. This woman, this village, they could not be burdened with the weight of his sins. It had been a mistake to come here. If it was the only village in the area, as the woman said, doubly so. His pursuers would be drawn here for fresh supplies and information. And he’d been seen. They’d catch him again. Cold sweat heralded a fit of terror. The need to run felt more pressing than ever. He needed to get away, before the plants rooted in the depths of his soul. Before his panic bloomed.

Florian ran.