Chapter #3Infanticide by: jraf   Bowan stared at the thing in his arms. Person, he tried to tell himself. It--he--was a person, right? In the dim, gray light of encroaching dawn, it seemed like the scales and silvery stripes faded into the soft, smooth skin of any normal newborn. But those eyes, and that seemingly angelic face as it--he--made a soft, mewling noise and yawned tiredly. The thing--his child--poked one of its miniature hands out from beneath the swaddling clothes again. This time, Bowan allowed the baby to grasp his finger with its--his--tight, infant grip. His baby, his son, looked so innocent and normal.
His son, the monstrous halfling.
How could Bowan have let his better judgment get away from him? It was all a mistake--walking into the tavern, meeting the voluptuous demon-woman, sleeping with her...especially the baby monster he held in his arms. The scales seemed to reappear, shining their iridescent, indigo glow in the dim light of the rising sun. What had Bowan created? What was this monstrosity? "You," he told it, escaping its fierce grip, "are not my son. I refuse it. You are a monster, and you ought to be eradicated!"
It gurgled contentedly, trying to grasp his finger again.
"No," he growled, setting the creature upon the ground. "I ought to do to you what I did to the others of...your kind." Bowan grasped the hilt of his sword and drew it from its sheath. The metallic ring as it withdrew from its leathery resting place was once a welcome sound of battle, a part of the invigorating excitement of fighting a monster. Now, it ran a chill down his spine. That ring was the death knell heralding the infanticide he must commit with this blade.
Bowan raised his muscled forearm over the miniature bundle. He didn't even have to put any force or effort into the killing; all he had to do was let the edge of his blade fall anywhere on the infant. The soft, young flesh would acquiesce to his weapon, pouring the infant's lifeblood out onto the ground beneath him.
He paused, hand trembling. Bowan would have to spill the blood of an innocent. None of the other killings had ever bothered him, he realized, but this...infanticide was a sin, especially if it was the murder of his own son. He could see again that the child appeared normal once more. Even if this thing was a monster, it was his son, irrevocably a part of him since the child's conception, and, consequently, a person in its own right, whether half-human or not.
Was he going soft now? The job had to be done. His weapon was poised and ready, craving the feel of hot, fresh blood staining its cold, smooth surface.  You have the following choice: 1. NEXT |
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