Word transmits fast, like blood pouring from a freshly slit throat. Rutlers broken walls are pouring with whisper. “Some silly cunt thinks he is clever making shit like that up in my town!”, “The Fuckin’ cheek”. “Wait ‘til I find out which peasant dare speak of the fuckin’ forbidden round here”. Trix’s bark wasn’t worse than her bite. She could sniff out a leaf amongst the trees in a forest. She’s potent, and she’s heard word of the sightings around town, and nothing around the village exists without her knowing. She’s dressed prestige, foreign white silks, covering her whole body and hair over the coat of armour she undoubtedly has on. She starts at daybreak, marching round the market place tipping barrels of produce upside down in a rage with her squadron of guards. The town folk dare say nothing. The market stall owners, struggling for wealth in their poverish clothes stand by and watch their homemade produce destroyed by fierce hands. She halts. Stops by a blacksmith where Gabriel works for a glance at his new produce. “Oy, what thou got for me this time, mutt?”, “better be something fuckin’ useful this time”. She’s firm with Gabriel, she knows her position, he knows his. “got…got thee little sumat you might like Ms”. His stutter is pitiful. He hands her a freshly shaped dagger, looks like it had been smoothed for a god. “Thought tha might be able t… use it quickly, being light en’ all”. Trix looks at the metal, inspects the quality, her face is cold. “Thy common little accent makes me sick” she confesses, before sliding the dagger and popping it into her long coat, rushing off with her party.
The paths part like a polarised magnet when Trix is storming around the village. Peasants and common folk seem to gather up their coins for the day and retreat to their shacks. There’ll be no more earnings for today. It’s a frozen desert by the time she reaches the courtyard. They’ll be no religious practice today. It has reached midday, the darkness from the night refuses to part. They’ll be no light today. She’s here for good reason. Amongst the darkened snow, one of her associates notice a homeless boy, shrieking under the debris of a broken shack. She sniffs the air, she can smell his dirt. She approaches him calmly, lunges down on one knee and peels his hands away from his face. “What’s thy name, squire?”. She asked softly, as if not to wake him. ‘Reggie’, the boy shakingly whispers. “Please don’t hurt me miss, please…ple”, “I’m not going to” She interrupts him. Her knights stand, obediently, like sitting dogs. “Miss, I have nowhere to go, My ma’ was killed…Plague.”. Reggie’s eyes flood with tears, he grabs Trix’s hand tightly. He has no faith, god has failed him. Trix swallows spit, looks up at her squad and orders, “Take him”. Two gigantic, mammoth of knights takes one arm each and lift him to his feet. His eyes are red, sore. Trix takes her pearly white glove off, wipes the boy’s cheek, and gives him the most minute part in her lips. “Have faith, Reggie”.
I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow. – William Blake