Flash Fiction, Sort Of: An Introduction To My Novel

This is what I have been working on tirelessly for some time now. I’m up to 40,000 words. I’m a little worried because I’m not even halfway to where I’d like to be, but hey – this is a first draft! The novel is as of yet untitled but it is considered fantasy, though it is completely and totally character driven. Enjoy!


He had been tied to the tree for two days now, linen shirt clinging to his sweat soaked skin, wrists rubbed raw by the coarse ropes that held him there. The sacrifice. He wasn’t moving but she knew that he saw her. His skin was sunburned and flaking, lips cracked, desperate for water.

She was so far away, a lake and some nameless song between them, but it felt like she could touch him, like if she just reached out, fingertips extending as far as her arm would allow, her hand would meet his sticky, perspiring skin, stroke his raw and peeling face.

She had hated him before this. Hated him so much it was bruising. But now…well, he was different, wasn’t he? He was here with them, here now, and he wasn’t trying to escape. His dignity had been stripped away before their very eyes – nearly naked and on his knees before the High Priestess, he had laughed (Oh proud, proud man) and accepted the fate she had contemptuously thrust upon him.

He could see her. He was watching her.

“I killed you,” he whispered, his voice, though broken, still reaching her on the far shore of the lake. “Her,” he corrected, his eyes clouding over. He was slipping back, back into memory, into long ago. “I killed her.”

“I – I didn’t know,” she stammered, unsure of what to think. He drifted, losing himself within the dream. He jerked, and looked up again, surprised to see her standing there.

“You’re still here,” he sighed in relief. What would he have done if she had left?

“I’ve been here,” she replied, surprised to realize that it was true. “I’ve always been here.”

“I won’t do it again,” he said fiercely, sudden tears glinting his eyes. She didn’t know what to do – she wanted to hold him, to comfort him. It was a sudden desire, and stronger than her confusion.

She had never seen him cry.

“If he told me to do it, I wouldn’t. I know better now,” he said hoarsely, a sob rising up in his throat. His voice was thick with regret.

“I know that, Blayze,” she assured him, though she was not certain it was the right thing to say. He seemed to accept it, and though tears still fell from his sleep deprived eyes, he calmed again, and fell, deeper, deeper, into the dream.

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