by Ross Turner
He’d explained to her how he’d been called an ogre, a demon, even a giant, but that none of them meant a thing, for they were just names that men gave to their fears to turn them into enemies.
Somehow that seemed to make men feel better, he’d told her.
Fear provided focus, and perhaps even somehow lessened the frightening concept of a nameless enemy.
The demon Reaper had looked at the world in a way that Marcii was only now beginning to understand. His observations had never been wrong and Marcii vowed to open the eyes of her new townsfolk, in just the same way that Reaper had opened hers.
She wanted to raise a community that didn’t pass judgement in the terrible ways that Tyran had so ruthlessly encouraged.
She wanted to tell everyone about Reaper and how wonderful and loving a creature he was.
She wanted to help people understand that not every unknown entity in the world is a threat.
Certainly Marcii had a mammoth task ahead of her. She realised one evening, as she sat down to once again regale a handful of her townsfolk, that this would be a duty that would last her lifetime, and probably many more after that.
She selected one of the many tales she often told of the witch Malorie, the demon Reaper, the mysterious Raven, the old man Midnight, her Guardian Ekra, and the young orphan Vixen.
Each tale was woven purely from truth, without even the slightest need for embellishment.
Her words painted pictures of the dark landscapes that she and Reaper had many a time scoured, alone together in the darkness. She somehow managed to bring to life Malorie and Reaper’s indescribable relationship. Her voice rose to match the highest, screaming wind of Malorie’s wroth, and dropped so low as to emanate the slightest movement of the earth itself as her visions had sent her skipping across the land.
And all the while, even as the nights passed and the years turned, Marcii still told her people her tales.
The stories never grew old, for the events she drew on were infinite in number, and seemingly as timeless as the slow, ceaseless turn of the earth itself.
After many years still to come, undoubtedly they would be woven into legend and folklore, for even those tales must always originate from at least some semblance of truth.
The young Marcii Evans always sat beside her husband, Kaylm, in the shadow of their home: the newly mended tower that was, and always would be, Raven’s Keep.
They each told tales of their own, for although they were now as one, unified forevermore, their lives had at one point had been separated by terrible circumstances.
Their two children, Jenson and Malorie Evans, played with their friends’ children in the long, warm summer days. And when the evenings drew inevitably in, by the comfort of soothing firelight they too sat and listened to their mother and father tell their stories.
This became tradition throughout Ravenhead and their children’s faces were always wrought into shock and horror and delight and joy as the words reached their ears and sent their imaginations wild.
Reaper seemed to fascinate them and they could never seem to relive enough of Marcii’s stories about the enormous demon.
This pleased her greatly and she delighted in recalling more and more fond memories for them all to share.
And so life went on, as it always will.
It had taken an awful lot to get there, for no victory comes without hardship and sacrifice.
But then, those whom we hold so dear, that we fight so hard to protect, and suffer so greatly for, are always worth it in the end.
Thank you for reading Midnight
Book Three of The Dreadhunt Trilogy
I hope you enjoyed it
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