My boys are gone.
I had left them earlier today with my friend, Hyacinth, at the hostel and went off to work my regular shift at the local tavern. But when I returned, I found her lying in a pool of debris and blood, dead. Her wide, glazed eyes stared up at me, in shock, horror and pleading. Her dignity had clearly been removed, her legs splayed and bare. There was broken glass sprinkled everywhere as I crunched through the terrifying mess, feeling faint. The shared cradle.
It was tipped over and empty.
I can’t think of a day I had cried more.
Regaining my sense, I went away to speak to the landlord and he rushed to my aid. He looked around our apartment with horror. He called for men immediately, who covered and took the body of Hyacinth out to the morgue.
He said he would compensate my losses, fix up my place and provide a funeral service for Hyacinth.
I asked him regarding my children.
All he did was shake his head sadly and walk away, muttering something about slavers under his breath.
I miss them so, and wondered if they too are dead.
If only Crion had listened.
If only he’d come away with me from that den of hyenas. For the children. But no. He had to go and die. To those beasts! I want to cave in and hide away.
Dig my own grave and lie there until Death comes and claims me.
I have no-one and nowhere to turn.
But I cannot give up on my boys.
I think I shall move from place to place, see if I find word of them. Though doubt fills my mind, somewhere in my heart I believe they are alive. and if they are alive:
I cannot die on them, like their father died on me.