Shadows flowed. Viscus darkness massed and boiled.
Creatures pushed up from the shadows stealing
‘cross the land. Beasts rose up, on two legs toiled,
they twisted and writhed as they marched, molding
bodies into man shapes to swarm the mount
led by a figure pointing a bony
finger at Sarn. Whispers gave an account
of the assault on fortress’ stony
heights. “They want what’s in you. They need that fire
in your eyes,” grated Hadrovel, former
Orphan master and torturer whose pyre
had rendered him to bones that one summer.
“No…” The word tore out of Sarn but no more
followed; fear dried up his voice, his blood roared…
Sarn’s tongue had stuck to the roof of his mouth. Fear twisted
his stomach into knots, the blunt features
of his torturer, his sanity twisted.
That nose broken– it crooked like a creature’s.
Heavy brows leaned hard on pits that swallowed
eyes brimming with misery. A knife bit
bit deep drawing magic-flecked blood swallowed
by the torturer drinking from the slit
wrists of his bound captive. “I can’t let them
have it because I need it too,” he said.
Small hands tugged on Sarn’s pant leg reminding him
that he wasn’t alone. “Papa?” the boy said,
Curtains drawn, covered windows; past fled and
left Sarn in a locked room, head in his hands.
The memories ravel up and leave him
with his insanity but not alone.
Within this locked room two others with him
are kept: his brother, son and relief’s boon
now that the remembering is done. Past
sins he can’t forget, past wounds that still sting
and the son who worries with eyes downcast.
He hugged his sweet son and let the boy cling.
He ignored his brother’s pointed questions.
What he’d seen beyond the window no words
can express. He fears that it’s a vision
the past is not done but only deferred.
That reckoning’ll come, others’ll steal
the magic in his blood without appeal.
~ ~ ~
These sonnets are based on a scene from the second book in the Curse Breaker Saga. Sarn’s magic is out of whack after events at the end of book one. What he sees is part memory, part a warning and part a vision of future trouble…
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “1984.”