Bloodthirst

On a foggy night, when the Sun hid behind the bloodthirsty curtain of black clouds, a hideous child had been born. The merry mother had given all of her energy to him, leaving for herself only so much that she would survive the crimson birth. The proud father had a smile stuck on his face, one that would disappear as soon as he heard words from the outside. Peasants and lords, all came to his isolated fortress to warn him of the signs.

“The milk of the cows has turned blue!” screamed a woman holding a glass of deep lapis.

“The river has changed its curse!” cried a man, grabbing his middle. “We are breaking our backs fixing the watermills.”

“Spiders are invading every room, our children look like they have smallpox!”

Someone pushed forward a little girl, covered with red dots of different sizes.

The father, the prince of the region, was horrified. The crowd started advancing, the guards could no longer hold their anger and desperation.

Men were demanding the child to be killed, a sacrifice to be made in order to restore whatever had gone wrong. Faith would not help, the priests had all died when the blasted curse had been made public.

Back then, the people had been hopeful of the arrival of the heir to the title, however, the deranged one had made his warning: had the child reached his first year, terror would conquer the land. Now, the people were pleading for their joy in monotony, their peace.

The mother noticed a familiar face in the crowd of lords, one who wore the same eyes, nose and hopefulness on himself as her. His posture resembled a hunter's, striking hand ready at his side. He had come for the small thing as well, he could not see how wrong that had been, at least that is what the mother thought.

The father tried reconciling with his subjects, negotiating for the life of his child, nevertheless, the people wanted one thing, and only one.

A glimmer had appeared outside the window, reflecting the light of the disappearing Sun, painting the sky bloody. The time had come, an arrow leaving nothing but a breathless infant behind.

The crowd cheered as tears ran down on the faces of the broken parents, a light red stained the covers’ pure white. The father lowered his head, seeking peace in his soul in order to keep his crown, however, anger had got the best of him. He grabbed his grandfather's sword which was hanging on the wall and stepped out of the room, ready to seek revenge. And thus, the curse took hold.

Fülöp Csenge XII. H