one-roomed abode

The posse had lost him, below the last pass, with speed stealth and cunning he'd slipped them at last. Now pushing through snow-bank now hacking through brush, our man reached the valley to which he'd just rushed. Therein stood a cottage, a one-roomed abode, with a well-made ceiling and outside commode. He paused for a moment, before going in, and called up to Mercy, but deaf to his cries, she'd just stepped outside, so great was his sin. Forgive me, forgive me, he cried out aloud, consumed now by memory's blackening shroud. A goddess she heard him, and sped there forthwith, to sample his essence and read of his shrift. This mortal is guilty, his path ends tonight, said Nuuzstathena, her countenance bright; his death will be painless, I'll do it alone, by morning his lifeblood will pool on the stone. She watched as he entered and tidied the room, then showered his essence with feelings of doom. My life it is over, he said without fright; for just as my victims I shan't see next light. He worked up a fire, and took off his clothes, and bathed himself fully from forehead to toes; then dressed himself lightly and strapped on his sword, then put out the fire and made for a peak, to prove himself to be a man of his word. As if he'd been flown there he climbed to a ledge, an outcrop of granite, a perilous edge. He stood there defiant and out came his blade, at which point a beam of light pierced through the shade, and blinded and dazzled and clawed at his eyes, the last glimpse of sunlight to brighten the skies. And just then sang Nuuzstathena her song, to rob him of feeling and see him along. With nary a whimper and barely a thud, he mangled his body and poured out his blood, and soon came to rest on the rocks far below, made free of his torment, consumed by the snow.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥