The Hunger
I’ve often thought about Rozurial’s marriage to Fraale, and that fateful day when Zeus and Hera forever changed their lives. It’s a story that haunts me, and I finally decided to write it out and see just what happened.
The wild roses were blooming in the garden, which meant that before long it would be time to gather the honey and start harvesting apples. Rozurial loved this time of year when everything was still warm and golden with the afternoon sun, but autumn was clearly beckoning from just over the hill. As the sun crept over the horizon, streaking the early dawn with golden tongues of fire, Roz sat on a slope near his home, chewing on a piece of grass, as he contemplated what chores he needed to finish before nightfall.
Fraale, his wife—the love of his life and the one constant in his world—was baking bread in the garden oven. It was still too warm to heat up the house, so she had been doing all the summer cooking outdoors. She had shooed him out when he stopped to grab a roll and some meat for breakfast, laughing and cussing out the loose bricks that were making the day’s cooking precarious.
Now, stomach full for the morning, Roz stretched back, hands under his head, and ticked off a mental list of chores that lie ahead of him. Milk the goats, harvest vegetables to dry under the sun for winter. The starberries were ripe and Fraale wanted to get to her jam-making soon, so he needed to pick a basket of those. He also needed to mend the fence in the southern pasture before the goats broke it down and ran amok.
With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet. The sooner he got busy, the sooner he’d get done. As he stood there, the morning light glinting off his waist-length hair that coiled down his back, a shadow cast across him from a nearby tree. A sudden chill raced up his spine and he let out low growl, dropping into a crouch, squatting as he scanned the horizon for any sign of movement. But the only signs of life were the insects and birds that filled the meadow, and the raggle-taggle herd of goats that had followed him up from the lower pastures. Frowning, he eased himself back to his feet.
“It can’t be him,” Roz whispered, trying to reassure himself. “It can’t be Dredge. Not in daylight. Not at sunrise.”
The last time he’d felt this same, sudden fear, he’d still been on the hunt and his instincts had been keen. At times, Rozurial feared that life with Fraale had blunted them—that withdrawing from the relentless pursuit of the vampire who had killed his entire family had been a mistake. But most of the time now, he was happy. And when the memories swept down to fill his nightmares, Fraale was there to wake him up and hold him until he could breathe again.
He scanned the horizon again. Nothing.
Roz exhaled slowly. Fear was dangerous. Fear was more dangerous than the adversary you were afraid of. Fear could kill.
When his pulse had stopped racing, he closed his eyes and listened. There were no silences in the bird song, there was no sudden cessation of insects thrumming. The wind felt the same—no sudden shifts, no scents other than what should be there. Finally, he opened his eyes and glanced down as one of the goats ran over to nuzzle his side. He patted her head. Trika stared up at him, then followed him as he started down off the slope.
“You’d think by now I could let the past go. It was long ago and far away...but I still hear them screaming. I still hear my mother begging Dredge to leave my sisters alone.” He pressed his lips together into a thin line, then forced himself to take another deep breath. “You know, Trika, sometimes the monsters of the world turn our memories into monsters on their own. Sometimes, the worst way to hurt someone is to make their entire life a living nightmare that won’t recede.”
Trika let out a bleat, as if answering him.
“You bugger, you. Go on with you, get to the herd and fill your belly.” He shooed
I’ve often thought about Rozurial’s marriage to Fraale, and that fateful day when Zeus and Hera forever changed their lives. It’s a story that haunts me, and I finally decided to write it out and see just what happened.
The wild roses were blooming in the garden, which meant that before long it would be time to gather the honey and start harvesting apples. Rozurial loved this time of year when everything was still warm and golden with the afternoon sun, but autumn was clearly beckoning from just over the hill. As the sun crept over the horizon, streaking the early dawn with golden tongues of fire, Roz sat on a slope near his home, chewing on a piece of grass, as he contemplated what chores he needed to finish before nightfall.
Fraale, his wife—the love of his life and the one constant in his world—was baking bread in the garden oven. It was still too warm to heat up the house, so she had been doing all the summer cooking outdoors. She had shooed him out when he stopped to grab a roll and some meat for breakfast, laughing and cussing out the loose bricks that were making the day’s cooking precarious.
Now, stomach full for the morning, Roz stretched back, hands under his head, and ticked off a mental list of chores that lie ahead of him. Milk the goats, harvest vegetables to dry under the sun for winter. The starberries were ripe and Fraale wanted to get to her jam-making soon, so he needed to pick a basket of those. He also needed to mend the fence in the southern pasture before the goats broke it down and ran amok.
With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet. The sooner he got busy, the sooner he’d get done. As he stood there, the morning light glinting off his waist-length hair that coiled down his back, a shadow cast across him from a nearby tree. A sudden chill raced up his spine and he let out low growl, dropping into a crouch, squatting as he scanned the horizon for any sign of movement. But the only signs of life were the insects and birds that filled the meadow, and the raggle-taggle herd of goats that had followed him up from the lower pastures. Frowning, he eased himself back to his feet.
“It can’t be him,” Roz whispered, trying to reassure himself. “It can’t be Dredge. Not in daylight. Not at sunrise.”
The last time he’d felt this same, sudden fear, he’d still been on the hunt and his instincts had been keen. At times, Rozurial feared that life with Fraale had blunted them—that withdrawing from the relentless pursuit of the vampire who had killed his entire family had been a mistake. But most of the time now, he was happy. And when the memories swept down to fill his nightmares, Fraale was there to wake him up and hold him until he could breathe again.
He scanned the horizon again. Nothing.
Roz exhaled slowly. Fear was dangerous. Fear was more dangerous than the adversary you were afraid of. Fear could kill.
When his pulse had stopped racing, he closed his eyes and listened. There were no silences in the bird song, there was no sudden cessation of insects thrumming. The wind felt the same—no sudden shifts, no scents other than what should be there. Finally, he opened his eyes and glanced down as one of the goats ran over to nuzzle his side. He patted her head. Trika stared up at him, then followed him as he started down off the slope.
“You’d think by now I could let the past go. It was long ago and far away...but I still hear them screaming. I still hear my mother begging Dredge to leave my sisters alone.” He pressed his lips together into a thin line, then forced himself to take another deep breath. “You know, Trika, sometimes the monsters of the world turn our memories into monsters on their own. Sometimes, the worst way to hurt someone is to make their entire life a living nightmare that won’t recede.”
Trika let out a bleat, as if answering him.
“You bugger, you. Go on with you, get to the herd and fill your belly.” He shooed
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