Friday Fictioneers – 20/3/2015

photo by Rachel Bjerke

Cold ash in the grate, Nemain sat and stared.

Vaguely she remembered times past, when the fire raged, the bustle of feast days. Smiling and laughter.

A leaf carpet where once were fresh reeds. Tapestries torn from the walls, burned in that very hearth. Animal carcasses thrown down the well, to poison their water – those left untouched by the slaughter then destined to die slow and painful.

Only 4, she was spirited away, silently.

2 score years later, it crept upon her. Pressing the small blade into her palm she swore vengeance for blood long spilled.