Tired Of Death

Dreth jerked back to consciousness from the trance-like state he'd drifted in to. It was the closest he could come to sleep, and he'd slipped into it whilst waiting for Emerald. He blinked, more from habit than need, and frowned as he overheard the zombies talking.

"Green. Has to be green," Percy was saying.

"Oh no, blue ones are the best, for sure," Cuthbert replied.

"What are you two talking about?" he demanded, looking towards the village. There was no sign of Emerald.

The two turned to him. "What colour eyeballs are your favourite?" asked Cuthbert. "Percy thinks that green taste best, but I personally enjoy blue ones."

Dreth tapped his chin and thought about it. The zombies waited expectantly. "I would have to say… brown," he said eventually.

"Brown? No way!" Both undead chimed together.

"Come on! You can't be serious! Green ones are so… so…" Percy struggled to find the words.

"Piquant!" He kissed the ends of his fingers and made the 'mwah!' sound, in the universal gesture for 'wonderful taste'.

"Bah, you're both crazy. It's blue all the way. Their flavour is so delicate, so fragrant. Any true connoisseur would agree." Cuthbert licked where his lips should have been. "Mm mm, makes me hungry just thinking about it."

"Well, it's brown for me," said Dreth, un-swayed. "Mind you, there was once this albino wizard with pink eyes..."

"Really? What were they like then?" Cuthbert asked.

"Tasted a bit like chicken."

"Someone's coming," said Sprat, breaking into the culinary discussion.

"I can't remember what chicken tastes like," muttered Percy as the group ducked down behind the hedge they were using for cover. A dark figure on a horse thundered by, cloak flying out behind him.

Dreth looked after the horseman, frowning. "Where's Emerald? She should be back by now." He looked at the sky, which was showing signs of impending dawn. "It'll be light soon. I should never have let her go alone." Standing up, he contemplated the village. "If I go now, I'll still have the cover of the dark."

"No way! It's too dangerous! You'll be spotted," said Cuthbert.

"Mmm. Very well then, we'll just have to use cunning…"

~ * ~

Mikal closed the door to his small shack. He staggered against the wall, just managing to steady himself before he fell over. Chuckling, he stumbled backwards as he tried to remove his shoes.

That Jordan and his white spirit! What a batch the latest lot was too.

His head swimming, he managed to remove one shoe before something percolated through his alcohol sodden brain.

Who left the light on?

Frowning, he stood straighter and made a serious effort to see straight. Gazing around his small home, he attempting to locate anything out of place.

The stove was there, squatting to the side. Its black iron door slightly ajar allowing the dull red embers to heat the room. The table stood as it always did, against the wall, its surface scarred with knife marks and o.b.s.c.e.n.e carvings. The simple wooden bench, similarly treated, was drawn up against it to make room for his bunk, upon which the stranger was resting.

Ah.

The thin figure that had been sitting on his narrow bed stood up, his head nearly reached the ceiling.

"About time you returned. Do you realize what time it isss?"

Mikal's mouth opened and closed like a goldfish as he backed away, hands held in front of him.

"P… p… please…" he slurred. "Am just a simple farmer. Am not important nor nothing."

"I know," the intruder replied, stepping closer. "That's why I chose you. No one will misssss you, at least until it's too late."

"Miss me?" He was backed against the door now.

The stranger leant down, bringing his face close to the farmer's. Icy breath washed over Mikal.

"Yessss. Of course, if you had more than one set of robes, I could have just taken them. However you don't, and I'm in a hurry."

"I…I could just take them off," Mikal replied. A whole night of strong liquor fleeing before his terror.

The thin man shook his head slowly. "Sorry, too late. Now, how would you like it?"

"Like it?"

"Your death."

"In fifty years?"

"Ahh. Rare humour. How about…thisss?"

Mikal's mouth opened in silent scream as a cold intrusion entered his midriff. Pain lanced through his body, and he would have collapsed if the being hadn't held him up by wrapping bony fingers tightly about his throat.

There was a wet sound, like a cow giving birth, and the stranger held up a hand, something brown and dripping clenched in it.

"W…what's that?" Gasped the farmer.

"Your liver I think. Maybe a kidney."

"Oh."

"Thanks for the robes."

Mikal died before he could respond.