Funeral Pyre

photo-20180312154628322

Sparks float like butterflies.

He watches and remembers.

She lay in his arms, blood soaking through her clothes.

“Promise me,” she croaked. “Promise you won’t leave me for the wolves.”

“I promise,” he replied. 

Fire plays with golden locks of hair, turning them to ash.

“You’re mad,” the villager said, pulling at his horse’s reins. “You can’t go into the Grimwood. Nobody comes back.”

“She’s in there,” he said. “So I follow.”

And he spurred his horse on, on into the shadows of the trees.

Ash settles on the snow.

“I’ll follow you,” he vowed. “To the very edge of the world!”

She laughed. 

He sees the grey at the edge of the trees. Dawn will be here soon.

The valley blazed, houses torched, villagers slaughtered, death as far as he could see. Her work, her butchery. 

He chased her so long. Now she is dead.

It’s over at last.


Word Count: 150

This is for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and Enisa for providing the prompt photo!

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