Unedited Sneak-Peek of The Silver Rift
I feel my fingers quiver as I hold the arrow that’s pulled back in my bow. The string of the bow is pulling back, insistently, wanting me to set free the arrow onto my target. It isn’t the tension that I am struggling with, though. I have grown strong in the years since Tassus wreaked havoc on my world, so I am not too weak to hold its place . . .
. . . it’s his eyes.
The eyes of the man who thinks I am about to take his life. They are young eyes — grey, unimpressive. They aren’t pleading with me to spare his life, as I think they should.
He wants to die.
The anger and disgust over the realization about his desire to die is why I am shaking. I want to kill him just as much as I have wanted to kill all the others, but I won’t take this man’s life.
The only things moving around us, other than my fingers and the string I am holding, seems to be the red and yellow leaves being taken from the trees by the wind, and our chests from our laboring lungs. But . . . I can never be sure something else isn’t lurking — hunting — in the thick of the woods.
The thought makes me shift my eyes briefly to the area around us, though I know I won’t be able to see the Rift until they are ready to be seen, so I give the thief my attention once again.
I chased him up this hill and half way back down the other side before I was close enough to tackle him. I thought it had been too easy to catch him, and I was now sure the reason why was because he wanted me to close the distance between us.
I relax my arms and the bow at the same moment I release a frustrated sigh. His eyes suddenly turn questioning, but I give him no words. Instead, I stare at him for a moment and consider that, although his eyes are not noteworthy, he is a strong man — at least in body.
Shame . . .
It doesn’t matter how strong his body is, though, especially if his mind can’t bear the weight of the mental and emotional burden this world puts on any who live in it. I lean down and pick up the brown pouch of dried deer meat he had taken from my camp, tying its strap to the leather belt that sat loose on my hips. The next part of my journey — the part I am most concerned about and looking forward to — is about to begin, and I need the meat if I am going to survive. Unlike him, I want to survive. Not because I love what my life has become since Tassus unleashed misery on my lands, but because I want to see his blood spill from his heart after I pull my knife from his chest — shifting his silver robe to crimson.
As I turn to leave I hear a huff escape him. The sound is almost pleasing, but I shake off the desire for company. I haven’t encountered another human in weeks, as I am purposely staying off the paths most take, and it reminds me for a moment that I am still human, too. But most don’t care if they are seen by other people, and would rather face one of their own kind than any of the Rift.
Most aren’t me, though, and I’ll take my chances with the Rift over a human any day.
“Wait!” he calls to me.
I’m moving swiftly away. I have my mother’s long legs that I inherited to thank for the ground I can cover with each stride.
And . . . that’s not all I inherited. I think with a worried brow.
I hear him moving his body to stand as his cloth pants disturb the dirt and rock of the parched ground, and then quick footfalls approaching me. The next thing I hear is the sound of my knife leaving its sheath strapped to my thigh, as forged steel scrapes leather, then a quick inhale of breath as its cold edge touches the place on his skin where head meets neck. His eyes are more scared this time, making me wonder how much he really does want his life to end —and why — but then they harden, again.
“Do it,” he says in a sharp, desperate whisper of words.
Several moments pass before I move away from him, once again.
“Why won’t you do it?” he asks.
I take several more long strides before I begin to answer without turning around.
“Because you want me to . . . and for whatever reason you want to die,” I respond as I stop and turn toward him, “and I am not going to make it that easy for you.”
As I return to the path back to my camp, I hear him begin to laugh humorlessly and mumble. I can make out none of it, except for the word, ‘Great,’ which is spoken in an exasperated huff.
I laugh humorlessly, myself, before responding. Knowing that what I suspected before about this man is truth, now — he’s too weak minded to live or kill himself.
“You want to die,” I yell over my shoulder as disgust for him seeps into my tone, “do it yourself.”
© 2013 Teal Haviland
. . . it’s his eyes.
The eyes of the man who thinks I am about to take his life. They are young eyes — grey, unimpressive. They aren’t pleading with me to spare his life, as I think they should.
He wants to die.
The anger and disgust over the realization about his desire to die is why I am shaking. I want to kill him just as much as I have wanted to kill all the others, but I won’t take this man’s life.
The only things moving around us, other than my fingers and the string I am holding, seems to be the red and yellow leaves being taken from the trees by the wind, and our chests from our laboring lungs. But . . . I can never be sure something else isn’t lurking — hunting — in the thick of the woods.
The thought makes me shift my eyes briefly to the area around us, though I know I won’t be able to see the Rift until they are ready to be seen, so I give the thief my attention once again.
I chased him up this hill and half way back down the other side before I was close enough to tackle him. I thought it had been too easy to catch him, and I was now sure the reason why was because he wanted me to close the distance between us.
I relax my arms and the bow at the same moment I release a frustrated sigh. His eyes suddenly turn questioning, but I give him no words. Instead, I stare at him for a moment and consider that, although his eyes are not noteworthy, he is a strong man — at least in body.
Shame . . .
It doesn’t matter how strong his body is, though, especially if his mind can’t bear the weight of the mental and emotional burden this world puts on any who live in it. I lean down and pick up the brown pouch of dried deer meat he had taken from my camp, tying its strap to the leather belt that sat loose on my hips. The next part of my journey — the part I am most concerned about and looking forward to — is about to begin, and I need the meat if I am going to survive. Unlike him, I want to survive. Not because I love what my life has become since Tassus unleashed misery on my lands, but because I want to see his blood spill from his heart after I pull my knife from his chest — shifting his silver robe to crimson.
As I turn to leave I hear a huff escape him. The sound is almost pleasing, but I shake off the desire for company. I haven’t encountered another human in weeks, as I am purposely staying off the paths most take, and it reminds me for a moment that I am still human, too. But most don’t care if they are seen by other people, and would rather face one of their own kind than any of the Rift.
Most aren’t me, though, and I’ll take my chances with the Rift over a human any day.
“Wait!” he calls to me.
I’m moving swiftly away. I have my mother’s long legs that I inherited to thank for the ground I can cover with each stride.
And . . . that’s not all I inherited. I think with a worried brow.
I hear him moving his body to stand as his cloth pants disturb the dirt and rock of the parched ground, and then quick footfalls approaching me. The next thing I hear is the sound of my knife leaving its sheath strapped to my thigh, as forged steel scrapes leather, then a quick inhale of breath as its cold edge touches the place on his skin where head meets neck. His eyes are more scared this time, making me wonder how much he really does want his life to end —and why — but then they harden, again.
“Do it,” he says in a sharp, desperate whisper of words.
Several moments pass before I move away from him, once again.
“Why won’t you do it?” he asks.
I take several more long strides before I begin to answer without turning around.
“Because you want me to . . . and for whatever reason you want to die,” I respond as I stop and turn toward him, “and I am not going to make it that easy for you.”
As I return to the path back to my camp, I hear him begin to laugh humorlessly and mumble. I can make out none of it, except for the word, ‘Great,’ which is spoken in an exasperated huff.
I laugh humorlessly, myself, before responding. Knowing that what I suspected before about this man is truth, now — he’s too weak minded to live or kill himself.
“You want to die,” I yell over my shoulder as disgust for him seeps into my tone, “do it yourself.”
© 2013 Teal Haviland
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