Fungal Halo

If the hand on my shoulder belonged to a lookout I missed, someone come for revenge on the hunter who slew their kin, right now I’d let them have it. I find myself unable to muster relief that the hand belongs to Carmen instead.

Carmen seems more withdrawn than before after sharing that story, as though even she was caught by surprise that those memories still have some power over her. A little fun in bed helps distract her for a moment, but I get the feeling she also uses it to distract me from the topic.

The way Carmen looks deep into my eyes, it’s like she sees all the way down to the depths of my soul, like she already knows all there is to know about me, and it’s just a matter of being willing to confess the truth and thereby earn her trust.

The man shouting at me imagines himself to be someone important. Though I barely pay attention to his ranting and raving, I gather that my error has not only inconvenienced him, it is but the first domino in a chain reaction that will end with his company collapsing, people losing their jobs, and the entire United States economy falling into ruin, all because I neglected the extra shot of espresso in his extra large caramel turtle mocha.

A man kneels on a stone floor, coughing blood. His face is a battleground of despair versus anger, and he clenches his fists in a futile gesture of resistance.

“If it helps, I’m sorry in my own way. I’d hoped to let you live, but I cannot do that if you will not play your role in this story.” A figure, cloaked in darkness, circles the dying man like a vulture.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I wake up pain-free.

I also seem to be completely naked in an unfamiliar bed with someone else’s arms around me. I feel and smell filthy. With a groan of disgust, I try to regain my bearings. Memories of what happened yesterday slowly drift back to me as though from a great distance away.

I know when my Goddess returns by the way the whole palace comes alive in Her presence. The floor, the walls, even the very air carries a subtle vibration of Her power when She, the beating heart of our home, steps foot inside. My legs buoyed with renewed energy, the anticipation of laying eyes upon Her again carries me onward with quickened steps.

A bolt of light streaks through the air, faster than the human eye can track, aimed unerringly for my servant’s heart. A blur of motion intercepts it, and with a sharp crack of sound, the magically charged arrow is deflected to the side.

Good puppet. Well done.