Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Day Five-Hundred-Seventeen: Yikes


Hell. We found Libby.

I don't know where she hid out last night, but it was good enough to confuse Pubton's trackers. (Including me. I've become somewhat adept at it.) I searched until 3 am, until my eyes were drooping and my head bobbing, and I found no sign of my wife beyond the occasional familiar boot print. The muddy ground's made it tough to track.

I was called back to the scent a few hours later, when an early morning labourer, on his way to work in one of the fields, called frantically for help. I couldn't hear most of what he said, but I heard the word 'Libby' quite plainly, and that was enough to get me out of bed and out the door, still in my ragged-ass mayor's clothes.

Libby was lying on the mound of dirt where once stood a beautiful golden tree, so recently her prison. She was covered in grime, a wild, desperate spark flitting in her eye. A paring knife danced from one hand to the other. Most of the time, she was pointing the knife at her belly.

A small crowd had formed around her, but no one dared to get close. Libby didn't respond to anyone until I pushed my way through to the front.

"Get BACK!" she screamed, pressing the knife lightly against her belly. A small trickle of blood slid down the rise. "YOU GET THE HELL BACK, DRAGOMIR! THIS'S YOUR FAULT IN THE FIRST PLACE!"

Grimacing, panicky, I urged everybody to back off and give us some space. I think the crowd moved maybe five feet away, otherwise remaining staunchly on the scene. Jackasses.

Hands up, I took a few careful steps towards my wife. The knife didn't cause any more wounds, but it was as threateningly close to my child as I would ever care for it to be.

"Libby. Please. Drop the knife, honey. S'okay."

"IT'S NOT OKAY!" A few tears slid through the dirt on her face. "HOW… HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT? I'm going to… to give… to bring… another… another FREAK…"

I shook my head. "No. You'll have a baby. And we'll raise her. Or him. And he, or she, or it, will be lovely. And ours. Please, c'mon, Libby, drop the knife."

Libby looked to the sky. "He… he was… I… I thought he was perfect…"

Two more steps. "I know. So did I. 'n he's still our boy, and this will be too, maybe, so-"

"NO!" To my horror, Libby raised the knife, head lolling crazily. "NO NO NO! HE'S A MONSTER! I ONLY GIVE BIRTH TA MONSTERS! I MUST BE A FUCKING MONSTER! GET RID OF THE GODS DAMNED MONSTERS!"

I jumped forward, but it was too late. Libby's knife came down -

- and with a sudden, unexpected BOOP, the knife went sailing away, landing in the mud.

I skidded to a stop in front of Libby. The horror and pain in her face faded instantly, replaced by near-comical confusion. She'd seen it as clearly as I had: just before the knife hit her stomach something within had pushed up, deflected the knife to one side, and sent it flying. The milky white of Libby's belly was as pristine and unblemished as ever.

I wasted no time. "GET HER!"

The crowd descended. Gently, but forcibly.

Libby's under close watch. For now I've left her with Queen Daena, who's the closest thing to a friend that Libby's ever had. I think Daena can stabilize Libby's mood… and Daena's occasional attendants will help her keep an eye on Libby. Fortunately, it shouldn't be too difficult to catch Libby if she tries to run away again…

… because her stomach has grown. Not by much, but it's noticeably bigger. It's bigger than it was when she had either Eve or Grayson.

I… I don't know what that means.

I saw a dark side of my wife today. She was prepared to kill her unborn child (and possibly herself) without knowing if it will be… you know… abnormal. And while I have to admit that the odds are stacked against us so far…

Seriously…

I'll have to keep an eye on her.

Sincerely,


Dragomir the Wanderer

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