part 1 of Threshold
Motion freed Fran to find comfort, where her child's vocabulary did not match her thoughts.
Her sisters found Fran's wanderlust a cause for concern, today a cause for derision. Her pacing hindered their efforts to armour her. Fran was frightened. Every familiar face hid behind funereal paint.
They would do no good by spilling blood. Fran could not refuse the spear, tailored to her immature height.
The Archadians advanced, screened by false steel faces.
Fran could do nothing, disbelieving her abilities. She was the practical one. She should tear herself free from inaction, yet she could not be stirred.
The Archadians advanced. Nothing more personal had ever happened to Fran, for a bullet struck Fran's mother in the neck. The visual matched the wrench of anguish in Fran's throat. Motion freed Fran from inaction, but not from uselessness. She skipped pitifully to her mother's side.
Beloved eyes opened once, bloody mouth said the name. The ritual deathmask wept colour.
In her desperation Fran would have cast her armour after her spear, if such an action could have granted her authority. She made no attempt to join the fight, simply because she could not have ended it.
Only flies found virtue in spilled blood.
Continue to Chapter 2 →
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