970 AF, Village of Malot

The morning dew yet lingered into the day on the fields around Malot, barely thawed after a harsh winter. For all the remnants of winter, spring made its presence felt across the reborn landscape; blades of grass and tree leaves alike joining together in a seemingly endless sea of spring green. The sun too, king of the skies, signaled the arrival of the spring and slowly warmed hearts and land in equal meassure. Only the people of Malot seemed to live in past seasons, their expressions and thoughts marred by hardships and their bones still possesed by the frost of winter. Here a weathered barn, there a creaking cottage, the buildings around the village looked much like their owners as if they were naught but reflections in a mirror. Only the youth seemed sheltered from life's relentless trials and scurried to and fro, playing and dancing while they needed not toil in the fields so early in spring.

A certain youth by the name of Edward was also running alogside his brother and friends, basking in the warm glow of the sun after a troubled winter, well aware of the work awaiting them in the weeks and months to come. Their play took them around the village, by the mill on the hill nearby, along the banks of the river and through the awakening forest. Though worries encroched on their minds, their youthfulness remained steadfast in face of the coming year. By the time they reached the nearby forest, however, a sense of dread seemed to overwhelm their spring joyfulness as if it were a mere ephemeral bubble on the water surface, dispelled by the faintest gust of wind. It was so that they felt as they walked along the winding bloodied trails as if lead by leash. The blood, though by no means fresh, was still very visible and the youths felt their nostrils invaded by the metallic scent conjured by their very minds for, indeed, the genuine smell had long since dispersed. Some recalled the culling of various animals in the Harvests prior, carcasses hanged by tree branches and left for the blood to siphon out, while others let themselves be lead to times of sorrow: wounded friends and family.

Edward, however, felt the frost of winter return to him, grip his spine and chill his very veins. He curled his fingers as if gripping the handle of a weapon and looked around warily, heedless of his companion's gaze bearing down on him. His sight darted from tree to tree; his eyes bore great sorrow, regret and anger about them; all of his emotions coalesced into the mad gaze of a cornered beast and from the farthest recesses of his soul came visions of fire and smoke. Around him, the early spring forest turned to alien houses and walls engulfed in a storm of wails and fire. The smoke joined the smell of blood and threatened to choke him to death and, before long, the stench of burning flesh permeated the street alongside the chill of twilight. Behind him, he heard horses neighing in pain and his footing began losing its balance with what seemed like a great wave sweeping him forward. He let himself be carried forwards by this unseen wave and the wails and cries seemed to lose themselves under the sun's twilight glare. The few remaining sobs were soon drowned in the bestial roars and demonic laughter that followed the sighting of a single ray of light springing from atop a great keep in the distance.

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Close by, as if calling to him, someone cried with renewed vigour, the same vigour that always seems to burst forth when one finds itself at death's doors. Edward charged towards the direction of the cry as it seemed to fade with each step he took. He did not know why, but his body felt increasingly heavier and the apparently stright alley turned into a trickster's capricious maze. At long last, he reached the cry when it finally faded into nothingness, leaving behind not a human's body but two fawns, so famished their ribs showed themselves and frightened beyond reason with tired tears welling up in their eyes as he approached them. He tried extending his arms to them and his bestial gaze turned mellow with pity and regret. The fawns, paralyzed with fear or, perhaps, understanding him, did not move one bit, but, when Edward finally touched them, the two collapsed like puppets whose strings were cut. The pity and regret turned once again to anger and despair. Along these two, came a sense of guilt and try as he might, Edward found himself chocking for air each time he turned to the heavens to cry. 'Did I do this?' he asked himself as he looked at his trembling bloodied hands. 'Whose blood?' the question lingered on his tongue but found no expression outside his own thoughts.

Edward lifted his gaze from his hands, now rough but clean, and looked around: no more the dying twilight city, but the recovering forest under the noon sun; no more the crying and the roars, but the chirping and bustle of renewing nature. One thing remained, however: in front of him, silent and cold, the two fawns laid motionless, their corpses battered by the passage of time for they had sat there for some time. One of them had an arrow lodged in its side while the other seemed untouched, its death serene if compared to the arrowed sibling. It was to these two that the trail of blood lead the youths. They talked among themselves: 'How did the second one die?', 'Papa said it wasn't one of ours that did it.', 'Well, satisfied now? Ye wanted to see 'em.'

Edward alone sat silent, kneeling before the dead as if in front of an altar. He sat silent and confused, looking at those he felt he wronged but did not know why or how. Did he follow the cries in those labyrinthian alleys or did he follow the trail of blood, he wondered. Surely, these two could have cried no longer, but the wailing he had heard left a scorching mark on his soul from that day forward. Whether an illusion or some vision, he had lived those moments in the twilight city just as truly as he had lived his entire life.