Several miles from Guadana, through the endless fields and winding mountains in the Belisaurian territory, lay the small, dingy town of Herskes that few in the Cumbrian kingdom would ever lay eyes on.

The snowfall started to lighten up a great deal, however, many individuals passing by began to hurry through the vast forest that surrounded the area, their coats and scarves blowing in the raging winds. Their torches illuminated the icicles that hung from each crooked branch and the mouths of darkened caves that loomed in the still mountains above. The braying of the horses could be heard from afar, followed by the encouraging voices of the men who struggled to push their carts through the knee-deep snow.

* * * * * * * * *

Despite Herskes being a small town, their marketplace was unbearably overcrowded.

Behind each wooden stall, the women had knobby apples and roasted corn cobs out for display. Most of the men sold livestock, such as geese, chickens, and goats. The scents of manure, sewage, spices, and freshly baked bread rose in the air. Children rushed through the streets, shouting and playing, while additional people brought their goods through the wagons being pulled by the mules.

A girl suddenly shrieked, nearly dropping the basket of corn she held in her hands. As the others followed her gaze, they soon discovered a tall figure emerging from the woods. Some boys who were in the middle of a game in the street took one look at the looming shadow and began to run away, shouting on the top of their lungs.

The young coal miner was covered head to toe in soot, carrying a pickaxe and several ropes on his left shoulder. He kept his head low, but walked slowly, his shoes crunching against the snow in the road. The whispers and pointing of the individuals nearby made his face flush, but he approached one of the fruit stands. Before the woman who was selling the produce could speak, her husband stepped in front of her, glaring at the towering figure.

“Yes?” he demanded.

The young man’s stomach grumbled as he pointed at a large red apple with a dirty fingernail. “Would like to take a couple of these, sir.”

There was a long silence. “I am afraid not.”

His face grew pale. “Pardon?”

”You ought to leave. I have customers waiting in line.”

”Well, they’re going to be waiting a bit longer, eh?”

“I said, you need to leave.”

Gritting his teeth, the young man slammed a few copper pieces at the edge of the stall. “I am no thief. This is honest money. See? Right here.”

A large crowd had gathered around them. The seller swallowed hard. “You best leave. That is tainted with blood. Blood money.” With his right hand, he knocked the coins off the stand, causing them to land in the snow. “You Hollomans only have dirty money to bring. I will not bring the curse of a murderer upon my family.”

The young man swore under his breath. He turned to glance at the crowd, who backed away as soon as his gray eyes fell upon them. A few other councilmen pushed past them, dressed in velvet waistcoats, polished shoes, white stockings. Their wigs were powdered, covered in curls. The shortest one approached the miner, folding his arms and glancing up at him.

“You are Stacey Holloman, correct?”

He didn’t answer, only smirked. He studied the funny looking man looking up at him. He wondered how long he could last in a brawl. The fool’s arms resembled nothing but frail twigs.

Look at how confident you are now, in front of all these people. Speaking with such authority, just because you have the law on your side. Let us see how bold you are when it is just the two of us here, eh?

“It is best you leave, before you stir up trouble. Or we shall have to inform the authorities. You are trespassing.”

”Trespassing? This land isn’t—”

”Consider this your final warning.”

Stacey gave the salesman a dirty look. With his arm, he knocked over the pile of apples, sending them all tumbling to the ground. A smirk formed on his lips when he saw the enraged expression appear the man’s face. Without another word, he snatched one up, took a large bite. Chewing loudly, he marched his way through the city, cursing everything and everyone he saw.

* * * * * * * * *

Amongst the shadows in the forest, hidden behind a great number of broken branches and fir leaves, sat a small wooden shack. Smoke rose from the lopsided brick chimney. Upon its sagging porch, which was weighed down by junk and a pile of firewood, were two windows that faced northbound, both which had spidery cracks in them. The door, barely hanging onto its hinges, weakly blew in the wind. A large pickaxe rested against the doorframe, and another wild gust of wind sent snow shooting through the entrance; landing on the wooden floor before gradually melting.

The room itself; only being lit by a small fire burning in the hearth, consisted of a table against the wall, covered in handmade tools. Broken shards of glass littered the ground, and a pile of metal pots and pans, covered in cobwebs, sat in the corner, waiting to be used. Nearby those was a nearly overflowing chamber pot, followed by dried leaves that had made their way in through the broken window. A fresh row of frost gathered beneath the wooden ledge, which made it difficult to shut. The crackling sound of the flames filled the air, nearby the shredded remains of a mattress.

On the pillow sat two dolls.

In the darkness, a slumped over figure raised a glass bottle to his lips. In his other hand was the small portrait of a fair skinned woman and two little girls. The young man’s gray eyes focused on the image for a long time, before he slowly set it down on the table.

His loneliness had gotten the best of him as it did every night— it was just the snow and the trees, the mountains, and his reliable pickaxe. No other soul that came by, just him, and this old, rotting shack. Most days he aimlessly wandered by in the trees, hunting squirrel, deer, possum. His nails were blacker than the coal he broke up to feed his fireplace. He’d pretended not to care that he never received visitors, but by God, he was so damn lonely, so very lonesome, even lonelier than he was on the wretched farm he grew up on, and he needed to escape. Just once in a while.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to experience it for the next couple of hours. His fingers lingered around the tarnished pendant attached to a rusted chain around his neck; a small valuable that he had carried with him ever since he was young.

Now, he was free.

His steps were clumsy and delayed. To his dismay, when he attempted to take another swig, he found that the bottle was empty. Cursing to himself, he threw it to the ground, causing the glass to fall all over the place. He then wiped his moist mouth, before grabbing his coat and stumbling out of the door, the cold air causing frost to cling to his whiskers.

He couldn’t remember how long he had trudged through the snow, but he was relieved to see Alden’s tavern appear in the distance. The sound of a fiddle rang in his ears. It looked almost to be a slow night, with a few of the townsfolk’s horses and wagons tied near the entrance. The moment he stepped through the threshold, he leaned sideways against one of the double doors, causing it to loudly bang against the wall.

”Rise and shine, boys,” he yelled. “Rise and shine.”

The scent of tobacco filled the air, and the men who were seated at the rounded tables stared up at him. The man who was playing the fiddle stopped. A few of the women who were serving beer to the customers froze, before whispering amongst themselves. Thomas Alden, in the middle of wiping a glass clean with a rag, immediately walked forward and pointed his left hand at the newcomer. He was a short, chubby man, with a poorly fitted wig.

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” ‘Tis a beautiful evening—”

“You,” Alden barked. “Out.”

A smirk gathered on the young man’s lips. “Evening, gentlemen. It’s a fine night.”

Alden glared at him. “Stacey Holloman, if you do not leave the premises this instant, we will have no choice but throw you out by force.”

”Get a couple of yer bitches to do it.”

”I said, get out.”

Stacey snorted, before breaking out into full force laughter. The room was incredibly still, and Alden’s face grew pale, whiter than snow. Stacey then straightened up his body, before spitting out the wad of tobacco he had been chewing to the ground.

He was an enormous man, just shy of seven feet tall. Years of working in the coal mines had given him a muscular physique—his biceps bulged through the ragged coat and vomit stained shirt he had on. His black hair was unruly, but it was the wild look in his large gray eyes that unsettled the residents of Herskes. Rumor had spread that he had strangled his own wife and children with his bare hands.

“I needs me some ale,” Stacey replied, his words slurred. “Then I be on my way.”

Alden swallowed hard. “You are not welcome here. Now, get out, before I call the—”

”Why did the music stop?” Stacey exclaimed, making his way through the room. He knocked over a few tables, causing some men to scramble to their feet and move away from him. A grin spread across his face. “Come, now, keep playing. Don’t stop.”

The clicking sound of a pistol made him turn his head. Alden’s face was covered in sweat, and his arms shook as he aimed it at his head. Stacey studied him for a moment.

“You heard him, you blubbering fool,” one of the maids snapped. She was a mighty pretty thing, and he softly whistled as she set the tray roughly down on the table. Her facial features was what Stacey struggled to remember the most. Ah, Bessie Taylor. Almost reminded him of his Eliza. An indignant expression crossed her eyes as Stacey reached over for her hand. He bowed and kissed it, causing her to flinch.

”My dear lady, would you like to have this dance?”

The pistol went off, grazing Stacey’s shoulder. Smoke rose from the barrel, and warm blood leaked down his left arm. Alden clenched his jaw, repositioning his hands. He took a couple awkward steps back as Stacey glared at him, releasing Bessie’s hand. He gulped as the man’s towering shadow fell over him. There was something that twinkled in his gray eyes.

Alden’s body went sailing across the room, knocking over several tables, before crashing against several wooden barrels that spilled ale all over the floor.

As the customers began to shout and charge at him, Bessie rushed outside, yelling at the top of her lungs. Stacey wiped his jaw, before swinging at each man. The sound of crunching bones was music to his ears, and the women began to scream, attempting to get themselves out of the doors and climbing over each other. A deep ringing set in Stacey’s ears, and he took the pistol between his large hands and snapped it in two after stepping over the unconsious bodies of the men on the floor. Alden’s face was bruised. Stacey slowly approached him and placed his palm on the man’s shoulder.

“I just wanted me a beer,” he slurred.

Alden groaned.

The silence of the tavern made Stacey’s stomach twist. With his blood soaked fingers, he grabbed a wooden mug, before filling it up to the brim with ale, foam settling over the surface. As he gulped it down, his gray eyes spied the fiddle lying in the middle of the table. In a fit of rage, he smashed it as hard as he could against the table until it was a pile of splinters that dug into the palms of his hands.

Stacey sank to the floor, heavily breathing.

* * * * * * * *

He first remembered laying eyes on Eliza when he was about nineteen. That was the year that his pa had lost his sight and his ma had gotten sick. He and his brothers had to help out on their farm.

But she had appeared to him, almost in a dream, while he was out harvesting potatoes and she stood out in front of him in an olive green dress, barefooted with her curly hair loosened about her shoulders. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

And he was incredibly startled.

She waved at him, and he shyly looked away. He didn’t expect no woman to pay any mind to him. But the moment she gave him that sweet smile of hers and mentioned that her folks had just moved in the area, he was lost.

When she became pregnant with their first child, her father threatened to shoot him in the head, so they both packed what little belongings they had and fled into the night, towards the mountains. Their second daughter was born in the shack he had built with his own hands, a strong roof and walls and a stone fireplace.

His darling girls were three and six—balls of energy that seemed to bounce off the walls. He had recently gotten a new job in the mines. Eliza took up sewing for a few ladies in the country side. Every night, he would bring home game for them—rabbit, deer, squirrel. Then he would take his fiddle and play in front of the fireplace, with his girls sitting on his lap and Eliza clapping her hands to every beat.

It was Christmas Eve.

He had spent all of his money at the shop—scented soap for Eliza; chocolate and two small dolls for the girls. He ran down the hills, smelling pine and firewood. He remembered the snow in his hair, but the door to his shack was open. As he stepped in the room, the bag he held fell to the floor with a thud.

Blood splattered the walls, staining the floors and Eliza’s hand sewed curtains. The cupboards were rummaged, and all their dishes and glasses were smashed to the floor—-the knocked-over money chest which had contained their small savings bare.

He noticed Eliza’s blood soaked form on the ground. Something wasn’t quite right with her neck. She laid next to the cold bodies of his girls. He held them all in his arms for hours, until the coals of the fireplace slowly died and left them in the darkness.

* * * * * * *

“Mr. Holloman, the court has found you guilty of destruction of property, scandalous public behavior, and assault. You are sentenced to receive a hundred lashes in the public square.”

The judge’s voice and the jeers of the crowd were muffled against Stacey’s ears, which were stopped up with mud and snow. He didn’t remember how he had gotten here. He only knew that he had a terrible headache, and his stomach was sour. A couple of hours ago, he had been puking his guts out in a small cell. He was shirtless, and his bare feet dragged against the frozen earth as he was led to a wooden post. A thick rope tightly bound his wrists together. Strands of his dark hair fell over his wet face.

Warm sunlight had peeked through the clouds above, causing some of the snow to melt. The crowd’s roars grew louder as he was kicked to his knees and his arms were secured to the post. Tomatoes, eggs, and a dead cat was thrown in his direction. He managed to raise his head and spied Thomas Alden at the front of the crowd. His left arm was in a cast, and a bandage was wrapped around his head.

The whizzing sound of the whip filled the air, landing across Stacey’s back. He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth against the searing pain that coursed through his body. The guard yanked it out of his flesh, causing bits of blood to spray across the wooden post, leaving specks on the snow. With each lashing, Stacey grew dizzy, his fingers digging into the splinters of the post. His breaths became heavier, his gray eyes wet. He struggled to count, and when he skipped a number, the guard would start over again.

As the sun set in the sky, the crowd had long dispersed. Stacey laid on his stomach in the mud, his head buried in his arms. The marks of the recently untied ropes had left marks around his wrists. With what remaining strength he had, he dragged himself through the snow, leaving behind a long streak of red, like an artist’s paintbrush.

He wasn’t sure if he would make it to his shack, but he did. His blood soaked hand that reached for the water bucket he had on the porch shook as he dumped it over himself. Groaning, he packed a layer of snow across his raw back and leaned sideways against the steps. His breaths were visible in the cold air. More than anything, he longed for his tobacco pipe, but it was on the table inside the room. He then struggled to his feet, wincing in pain. Breathing heavily, he made his way up the steps.

In the trees, he thought he spotted the movement of a figure.

A faint smile crept across his lips.

* * * * * * * *

Stacey’s skin was peeling. Festering, bubbling, revealing the flesh he never wanted or knew. But this was no unfamiliar occurrence, although it greatly irritated him.

He knew where to go, to seek refuge. Despite the pain shooting up and down his blood soaked back and neck, he made his way into the night, back into Herskes, concealed by the shadows. Once his gray eyes met the cemetery, his pupils became dilated.

He dropped to his knees at the first grave.

* * * * * * * *

The effects of Stacey’s hangover made him sleep for the next few days. When he awoke, his back was itching terribly, with large keloids forming upon his renewed but sensitive skin. He felt around for the portrait of Eliza and his girls, exhaling with relief once his searching fingers found it. For a long time, he held it as tightly as he could to his chest.

After slipping into a shirt, he scooped up his chamber pot and dumped it outside. His stomach grumbled, and he realized that he had no more food left in his home. With the last few lumps of coal in his pocket, he decided to go into a different market, and try his luck in selling them. He needed to return to his work in the mines, but his back was in so much pain that he could hardly move around.

With a quiet sigh, he sat down on his mattress, resting his forehead into his large hands. Overwhelmed by the wave of loneliness that suddenly descended upon him, he closed his eyes. He tried to imagine that he wasn’t alone, that his shack was so cold and empty and silent. He imagined his girls dancing to the sound of his fiddle, Eliza’s sweet laugh, the tap of her foot—

That was when he glanced at the pillow. A deep lump rose in his throat, and his gray eyes became glazed over. Viciously, he began tossing the items in the room, flinging aside his tools and turning over the table. He raised his arms over his head, breathing heavily as sweat beaded down his face.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no.”

One of his daughter’s dolls were missing.