Blood Rain
There was a time of magic and wonder, long ago, but that time has long died. It did not disappear at once, but in violent fits and slow creeping blights of malice. In the last time of magic, true magic, there was a hunter. Our story is not about him, it is about the mistake he made.
Our hunter was a strong man, a brave one some would claim. He was born a nobody to a family of nobodies in a nothing town. The quiet stagnation of this home tugged at his edges and chafed against his more adventurous spirit, his more intense temper. His youth was spent in a long daze of identical afternoons, learning all the deadly arts he could. First it was a battle for sustenance, waiting patiently in the underbrush to suddenly burst into a flurry of action, deadly graceful as he felled any creature with a reasonable amount of meat on its bones.
Then he began to fixate on stories. Every traveler and old man had one to tell. Some tale of a wily fae, vicious dragon, lingering spirit. They all shared the same sense of concealed fear, which always seemed justified by the stories. Of course such beings, so strange and powerful, could be nothing but enemies.
The hunter took up stranger weapons and set upon a new quest. He pursued these remaining artifacts of a perishing time with a fervor he had contained since birth, for now he had a purpose. One after another fell under his blade, flame, arrow. It gained him fame and fortune but the only satisfaction for him came from these his violent delights.
Then began his fall, if he had ever been anything but fallen.
There was a whisper, spoken in slight glances and nervous shifting feet. Something old, something from the beginning of things. In the forest primeval there was a witch or a demon or an angel who had always been. A quixotic beast, willing to grant wishes to those who pleased it and was pleased to tear apart those who insulted it. These tempestuous whispers buried themselves in the hunter’s mind, pulling him toward his fate.
The day promised storm, the air thick and heavy, sky close. All was awaiting a release.
The hunter prepared himself and stepped into the woods as he had so many times before. He did not fear, though its absence did not mean he was confident either. There was no space for nerves or bravado under the boring sense of purpose.
It was a full half day before he reached the ancient elm. It stood defiant in a clearing of dead leaves. Its trunk was gnarled and black, twisting up toward the sun.
Then there was her. He started ever so slightly. He had not expected her to come to him. She was so unremarkable. Perfectly human looking save for the solid, shining midnight blue of her eyes.
She smiled as he drew his bow.
“Lower your weapon, child. You know not what you do”
He did not respond.
“I am of the first life, to kill me would be to commit a sin beyond anything else you have known.”
She tilted her head at the hunter and he shivered as her eyes dragged over him.
“Why have you made yourself into this? You hunt your beasts filled with a hate you see as light. You are... rotting. I suppose that is only right for one who ends life”
He did not think or feel as he let the arrow fly.
She grinned a smile wider than should be possible as it sunk into her heart. As she died, he felt the change.
The forest shuddered. The very earth trembled. Something very important had just been broken. This was a twist in fate and nothing would be right again. Within his chest he felt a tug. He knew without knowing that the small tug would grow, it would consume him and make him the monster he truly was meant to be.
The sky broke open and thick drops of red tumbled down, a terrible mourning.
