I am SO BAD at controling my posting so that you guys don’t get 12983129837912873+ posts after 102938012938+ days of silence.
This is part of another thing I’m writing, so it actually has a title. It’s just that this bit demanded to be written in a #sagatime-ish manner. I’ll probably put the link of the whole thing somewhere on this blog if you want to read it…
(If you haven’t already checked out my other blog [cleverly termed the “First Site”], it’s here.)
My post titles get WAY too long sometimes.
Once upon an archived bookshop, a bishop sits at the desk in his study, scratching a letter to himself. Far away, he knows, his troops are fighting, one ordered step at a time. He does not wish to be with them.
The door of the study opens, and he looks up to see the boy peering in from the doorway. He wears white, as all of them do, and bites his lip in apprehension.
“Don’t be scared, boy,” says the bishop, and glances down at his letter and the inky words coiling over the page.
“I’m not, sir.”
“Why do you come?”
“The doorbell just rang, sir.”
He frowns. He has not heard a doorbell; he does not know how he could have missed it. But he stands, and he walks down the white spiral staircase to the front door, and he looks through the peephole.
There is no one there. No one visible, at least, and that is the same thing.
He turns away from the door to see the boy standing at the foot of the staircase.
“There is no one,” he says, annoyed at the waste of his time.
Then he sees what is in the boy’s hand, and he dodges the arrow as it whistles past.
He flicks a dagger out from inside his robes and stalks toward the boy, who levels the crossbow again. The lock turns, clicks, but he does not hear it.
He knocks the crossbow from the boy’s fingers. He raises the dagger; metal gleams. The boy cringes away.
And he falls forward, blood pooling underneath him onto the boy and the boy is bleeding too and the dagger is crimson.
The girl with the bow looks at the bishop and the boy and their bloodstained clothes mixing, and she thinks of sacrifice.
Then she leaves — leaves the ink drying and words whispering and paper waiting for the kiss of a pen.
And all is still.