A Red Thread

There was a red thread, tied about your finger.

I saw you there, surrounded by shouting tin suits, hiding in the dust.

Clutching that strange little stick, fur as dirty and thick as the forest floor.

I’d followed that thread for days. Weeks. Months.

I worry not for what else could have happened, had I not. It was fated that I would know my fate. It was fated that I would hunt it.

But those knights would have killed you, most certainly. And if they hadn’t, then too would the forest have reclaimed you.

I slipped that thing from your grasp, and in its glow I caught your wide eyes. You suspected much the same from me.

Bleakbrook Coven. The First Branch; the last torch carried by a lost coven.

I scooped you from the dark, and I spoke to you as quietly as I could:

“I know what you have lost. I can only hope to offer something like it.”

There was a red thread, hung about my throat.

By that thread, you were always to lead me to the end of my road.

It is my duty, if not my fate, to try and extinguish the fire that was set to your soul.

Whether I burn alongside you, or you bury me with peace, know that I held no regrets about this.