“It was all so good,” Tristan sighed, into his drink “before you lot got involved.”
The bodies didn’t talk back. They never talked back.
“You know,” he said, reaching over the bar and pulling a bottle from under the shelf, “I really wish that time magic was a thing. That I could go back to being little old Tristan De Beur, in his farmhouse, with his wife.”
The bartender stared at him in mute silence. They tended to do that when Tristan killed people.
“I mean,” Tristan said, pouring himself a glass, “does anyone here know time magic?”
He swung around to the faces of horrified onlookers.
“Or you?” Tristan said to the two bodies on the floor, “you got anything to say?”
The bodies stared up him, bloodied and mute.
“Silence, as always,” Tristan sighed, “at least you can go and speak to your precious Gods now. See if they really care about my wife being a witch.”
He spat at the bodies, turning back to the bar and knocking back his drink in one. They would come for him, the Guards would have been notified by now. Then he’d escape, and go onto the next town, to find the next two in the gang who had set his house on fire.
And on. And on.
Until they were all dead.
“You mind?” Tristan asked, as he poured himself another drink.
Gods, he wished he knew time magic. Then, perhaps, he could bring Elsemerda back to life.
But until then, he would just have to settle for revenge.
Featured Image by Alice Hampson on Unsplash
First Posted in 2020.