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20 May 2011 @ 02:54 am
Sam walked through the woods. He had considered stealing a horse and riding, but he needed to feel the ground firm beneath his feet. He needed to smell the trees. He needed to know the world wasn’t irreversibly changed.

He still couldn’t make sense of what had happened. A sharp word or two, a flare of rage, his knife in his comrade’s chest—it didn’t fit together. Sam had always had a fiery temper, when pushed to the point. Jenny, his wife, said it was like a smoldering ember—long lasting, unforgiving, and explosive when prodded. His temper had gotten him into small trouble with the army in the past—usually just extra rounds or cleaning duty. Nothing like this. Sam wasn’t a murderer. At least, he hadn’t thought he was until he saw the dead body.

It took him a day or two before he realized why the murder didn’t fit. The Waenx. He wanted to slap himself, it was so obvious. They had stolen his knife—somehow—and killed his partner. Then they had planted a memory. It had to be false, it had to be a lie. Probably for their own amusement, as he could think of nothing better. Sam turned to go back—but hesitated. The Isrianian army knew he was missing by now. It would take him two days travel to get back to the camp, and by then who knew what they would be thinking. He looked guilty already—and with justice and law so new in the country, what would his punishment be? Death, because it was his dagger whether or not his will? The commander was Waenx by blood, and sometimes his judgments fell toward that side of the fence.

Sam thought of his wife and two little girls in Lethet, waiting for him. Waiting for news of them. He couldn’t let them hear about it through a message, or—worse—in rumors.

He was still on the run, whether or not the murder had been at his hand. He kept walking.
Current Mood: depresseddepressed
Alyssamidenianscholar on May 21st, 2011 10:54 am (UTC)
Abigial said:

Poor Sam. *pats him*