Well of Sorrows
“He choked it off, coughed into the darkness of his room, then raised an aged hand to rub at his face. He wiped away the tears that wet his skin and sighed—a tired sigh, a weary sigh—and his hand closed over the crescent-shaped pendant on his chest.He’d been dreaming again. The same dream he’d had these last long years, since he’d drunk from the Well, since he’d choked down the cold, sweet waters of the Lifeblood.How many years now? He couldn’t remember. Too many. And yet apparently not enough. ...Not if he could still wake with the feel of tears drying on his skin. Although he knew why the dreams had returned recently, knew why they seemed so fresh.He grimaced and sat up on his cot, moving slowly, letting the pendant go. His feet touched the cool white marble of the floor, and he shivered, the sensation running down into his arms, tingling in his fingers. He shrugged, stretched the muscles in his back, wriggled his toes, and then stood, leaning on the cot for support as he yawned and reached for the robe tossed on the chair beside the bed.He stilled when he saw the black mark on his arm, felt the familiar frisson of fear, followed immediately by anger.MoreLess
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