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Recently, I sold a fantasy short story to Aurora Wolf called, "Skarthonian Consequences." It is about the life and times of a knight called, Andromalius De'Grothic. They purchased it for their on-line site as well as adding it to their Anthology coming out this November. So, using 3WW and Flash Friday, I crafted this flash fiction to shamelessly plug it.

Enjoy.

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Sir Andromalius stood outside an old hut in the gathering mist of the morning. It started to rain. He stared at the draped animal skins covering the entrance knowing she was inside. The scent of herbs and dried meats teased his childhood memories. With a deep breath, he moved the skins aside and stepped in.

“Mother, I’m home.”

An old woman in tattered robes, hunched over a wooden table. She continued to cut vegetables and tossed them into a small caldron. A witch’s pentagram was etched on the caldron’s side as she mumbled softly.

“Mother. It’s me."

She kept cutting.

“Your son.”

She stopped and looked up with feeble eyes.

“My son is dead.”

Andromalius placed a gauntleted hand over her tiny hands.

“I’m not dead.“

She pulled her hands away and nodded towards his two swords.

“The knight’s sword with always serve you well. The other…”

“My death? How?”

She grabbed the caldron and hung it over a cooking fire.

Andromalius grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around. “Answer me mother! Use your second sight. Look beyond the viel.”

She shrugged off his hands and sat down in an old wicker chair, a small wooden mug sloshed on a tiny table next to her. She reached into the folds of her robes and pinched a little powder into the mug, swirled it and then took a drink. She let the warmth of the potion move through her and her eyes rolled back.

“Mal’Rapture blesses you with power… and curses you to slay the ones you love. You will always be alone”, she predicted.

Andromalius drew the crystal blade. The firelight danced along its edges.

She looked at Andromalius, then the blade and gave a feeble smile.

“I love you, son.”

The sword felt heavy in his hand. He tilted the blade forward and liquid flowed though it’s mercurial channel. He looked up from the blade and then to her. He felt nothing. He sheaved the blade and left the hut, letting the skins flutter in the rain.

The rain stifled his mother’s tears. “Goodbye.”