Wednesday has come around again, and I’m happy to present this week’s flash fiction.
Cold seeped through Arlobin’s worn trousers. His palm pressed firmly against the rough stone and felt the chill equally. Even so, he knelt, tracing and retracing the runes in chalk.
Mumbling to himself, Arlobin scrapped his finger over the stone until blood appeared. Moving quickly, he pressed his blood against the lines and raised his voice.
Nothing happened.
Rising from his crouch, Arlobin rubbed his hands warming them for a moment. Appraising his lines, he searched for this time’s error.
There had to be an error. It would have worked elsewise. She’d be here.
Footsteps echoed distantly, the rhythmic treed dividing his focus.
No. Arlobin scowled at the pattern. There was always an error.
His gaze caught on an arc farthest from him. Too flat. Grabbing the pail, he sloshed slushy water over the pattern, washing his imperfections away.
Arlobin couldn’t wait for the ground to dry. She’d waited too long. Wiping the water with his sleeve, he began the pattern anew.
The footsteps neared. “Arlobin,” Vellaen said quietly.
Ignoring her, he continued scrawling. He had to work. Had to be perfect.
“Arlobin.” She knelt beside him. “Come inside, Father.”
“Can’t,” he snapped.
“I miss mother too, but this…” Her soft voice might as well have been a knife. Snapping his head sideways, he glowered at her and her threatening tears. “Arlobin.”
He blinked. Turned back to the pattern. The pattern that would return her. But only if perfect. He had to be perfect. Shaking Vellaen away, he scrawled again.
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