by M. C. A. Hogarth
Copyright 2010 M.C.A. Hogarth
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Sedikit was dying. I could smell the sharp tang of it on his breath, hear it in the strained hiss that passed between his parched and parted lips. I wrung the rag, letting the drip of the water displace for just a moment the sound of the male's distress. This sickness had already killed Marne's baby, the one that had stolen the last of her wit with its birth. In that, it claimed two victims, for I sorely missed Marne's humor.
Daridil stepped into the room, his passage ruffling the woven grass curtain hung in the door and allowing in the mingled scents of sun-baked clay and rikka sweat. I did not look at him, knowing what he would say.