They go down below
17th November 1102
Tiny flakes of snow swirled through the chill air netting themselves in the heavy weave of Harndall’s cloak which was already sodden with their melting bodies. Behind them the hollow shell of the ruined church loomed, blackened arches curving upwards like the ribcage of some giant rotting creature.
All around him were men, men with swords, their sharp edges menacingly slicing through the soft forms of the unfortunate snowflakes whose suicidal trajectories intersected them.
Sigurd meets a butterfly
Sigurd knocked and tentatively pushed open the door, hovering in the doorway for long moments as he peered into the darkened room.
Varda shuffled, adjusting her position on the bed and smoothing out her skirts. Her eyes were blackened hollows, dark purple blossoms blooming around the budding green of her irises. Though Hepsie had done an admirable job of setting her nose, its noble, equine slope would forever be marred by a slight hump. Sigurd carefully smoothed the unintentional grimace that flickered across his face before she could notice it.
Radomir waits
The fist was crunching into his face before he knew what was happening. He felt the bones of his nose cracking under its weight, a dreadful crushing feeling he remembered well and a gout of blood spurted onto the fist that was coming in a second time. Sigurd’s fingers curled around the neck of his tunic pulling him upright as his fist collided with Radomir’s exposed belly.
“You bastard!”, Sigurd was snarling, his teeth bared, “You dare touch her!”.
Sigurd finds a beast within
Sigurd gazed down at the floor, his eyes fixed on a small scuff mark just beside his left toe where some heavy chair had been dragged across the soft-wood floor.
Varda lies still
Varda stumbled into the room pulling the heavy door shut behind with an echoing thud. The pain in her nose was intense, a heavy throbbing that flooded across her cheeks and pooled in her sockets.
Radomir is drenched
Radomir thrust open the door to his wife’s room. The rusty hinges squealed at such rough treatment, the warped wood of the door bending beneath his forceful hand.
Sigurd remembers a drought
Sigurd stirred restlessly, sleep eluding him once again. It was hot and stuffy in the room and the weight of the bedspread pressed down on him, claustrophobic as a shroud.
