Blood

The woods of Ithilien were alive with the hunt.

The first arrow whistled past Deorla’s face, snapping through a birch trunk. The second struck her horse’s flank — a warning shot, not yet meant to kill. The cries of men followed soon after, echoing between the trees:

“In the name of the Prince of Ithilien! Drop your weapon!”

Stitches finds himself younger, and on his knees within a cluster of trees. His hands are red. His knife is red. The corpse of a maimed doe paints the ground below. His breath is slow, he feels calm, and in a way, even happy. Footsteps behind him alert him to turn his head. Another adolescent approaches him, breathing shakily as she addresses him. Her hair is red like a sunset, and down to her lower back. Her skin pale and fair, offset with greatly wide and colorful green eyes.

The pale green eyes set in his head glance up towards the stars. It’s so cold, he thinks. There’s a warmth, like warm water being poured over his shoulder, forehead and chest. Some of this warmth trickles out of his mouth from the corner of his lip. Slumped against the house of an acquaintance he had promised to watch over, his legs lay sprawled out and his mind uncertain how long exactly it took to crawl from where he fell to where he now is.

Syllea had left the inn trembling and crying. Cat followed her, seeming very attentive to the girl's feelings. Syllea did not notice this, though. She wanted to run until the inn was no longer in her sight but got no farther than a few steps past the door; she collapsed into the grass and let out a heart-wrenching scream. Tears poured down her face, her fingers dug into the grass beneath her, and her breathing became rapid and quick as she struggled to get air into her lungs.

Clash of steel.

Sparks.

The young elf desperately parried.

The last strike disarmed him.

He dreamt of a shining face of some ancient spirit, caged within a sullied blade.

And thus spoke the voice that was within the sword:

Red really does look simple.