Mnemosynis/RWPartOne

Two weeks I've wandered. Far from home and all that is familiar. It is my curse, my destiny, this wretched life. I was chased out of my village by the very loved ones I stood up to protect.

The local god of harvest had come down to our village. The people weren't praying enough, he said. There needed to be more sacrifices, more feast days. He had two gods of the wood with him. The harvest god himself was tall, gold-skinned, gold-eyed and gold-haired. A gold the color of wheat ready to be taken down, touched with the amber light of sunset. The wood gods were short and stocky. They looked like moss-covered tree trunks come to life. They creaked when they moved.

Last time they made an example of the cooper. That was nearly two years ago. Today there was to be another example made. If we weren't going to make sacrifices, then we were to be sacrificed. The more we resisted them, the more we suffered for it. The village elders said to just do as was asked as that was the natural way of things.

But the young men were brash and spiteful. They are theirs had been hurt before. For not praying before every meal even in winter. For not offering up burnt prayers and spices even when there was nothing to harvest and nothing to plant. They were pushed and they would resist. They knew some would die, but they were angry and were looking for a fight. Sparrow lost his sister in the chaos of the last visit. He was to be allowed the killing blow if things got that far.

And so we six stood there defiantly. Most of us had farming tools. I had a pitchfork I'd sharpened. The smith's son took the hammer from the village forge. Sparrow had an old sword. It was his grandfather's brother's who had once traveled as far as Lookshy. The harvest god stood tall, looking down on us unworried. He chastised us for our foolishness. We told us we were to be this years example, the memory of which would hopefully last a good, long time. The two wood elementals began to advance on us.

Before we could strike back two of us had fallen to the wooden onslaught. A sickle and the forge hammer hit the ground followed by the blood of those who had held them. I lashed out with my pitchfork and struck true. But the god was unharmed. The wooden sinew of it's form pulled itself back together. It swung at me and I rolled under the blow, coming to my feet next to Sparrow in time for him to be struck down. I grabbed his sword as it fell, cutting my hand on the blade.

I could hear my mother in the background, screaming, crying, asking me not to do this. Asking the gods to spare her son. Then the gods attacked me. I felt calm and panic. Then I felt sick, but so much more. Time slowed down. Time was going terribly, terribly slow. In an instant between heartbeats I dodged and struck. The god screamed at the loss of it's arm. It's scream silenced at the loss of it's head. I turned to face the other elemental and struck it a mighty blow before it faded out of sight.

Time seemed to resume it's normal pace. I was feeling more than a little cocky. I told the harvest god he would never come into the town again, and if the crops failed I would find him. He called me a prince of the earth and conceded, though I could tell he was still angry. He vanished as well.

No one would look at me. No one would speak to me. The gathered crowd parted for me as I walked through them. The sun seemed awefully bright, as if it was right in my eyes. I didn't feel much like talking anyway, only the sudden need to rest, as if drained everything in me. As if I'd burnt through myself. I wandered in a daze to my house and went inside. My mother didn't follow. I assume they buried the dead. I felt regret for the fallen, but I felt so drained. I fell asleep.

And awoke to fire and smoke. Our house was burning. I rushed to my mother's room, but she wasn't there. I went to the door, but it was blocked from the outside. Had the harvest god returned to kill me? I summoned all my strength and kicked the door. It blasted into flinders. At a single kick. Outside the whole village was there. They called me demon. They called me Anathema. They didn't want anymore to do with gods and spirits. They cursed me saying that the gods would kill them all if they didn't bring me to them. They began the throw stones. My friends. People I had known since my earliest days. They threw stones. At me. I fled down the south road of the village. They could not catch me. At least I didn't see Mother standing in the crowd with them.

It wasn't until two days later when I saw my reflection in a stream that I learned of the mark on my forehead. A monk once lived in our village for a time when I was younger. He taught us to read and write. How to work with numbers. And of the old legends, which I thought were nothing more than stories. I was wrong.

My name is Running Wind, and I am Anathema.