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Who she was

by NonAnalogue

NonAnalogue And what she did
Eudora Weaver trudged across the snowy fields of Lycus. For a while, the crunching of her footfalls was the only noise she could hear. It was rhythmic - her steps pounded a persistent, though unconscious, beat into her head. After the tree she had made camp under disappeared behind her over the horizon, a stiff wind began pulling at the edges of her tunic. It was a Lycus wind for sure - cold and piercing. It whistled in time with the beat. Her eventual destination was the village of Virna. When she arrived, she couldn't explain what the tune she was humming was, nor could she pick out where it came from. It was catchy, though. She was pleased.

Eudora Weaver wordlessly brought her battleaxe down in a wide arc. The troll let out a cry as it struggled to deflect her blow; in the process, it slid off the rocky cliff behind it. She heard one cry, then two, then a third. Good, then - there were three ledges it could have hit on the way down. She exhaled and sat down, her back pressed against the rock. Despite the elevation, it was still quite warm, and the faint tang of blueberries lingered in her mouth from the snack the troll had interrupted. Right before she nodded off, she caught a glimpse of a silvery-grey bird, its head smooth and featureless, perched on a boulder and staring at her. She was concerned.

Eudora Weaver ran her hand across the squelching surface, whispering calming nothings under her breath. It wasn't what she said that was important - rather, the way in which she said it would make all the difference. The creature that lay in front of her looked quite a lot like a giant hand, albeit a giant hand made of some slime-like material. Its eyes were closed, and it looked vaguely contented. Once it started to sleep, she backed away quietly. She was running late.

Eudora Weaver wrapped the fur coat tightly around her. The blizzard was raging on, and there was no shelter in sight. The coat was the only thing she had left of her father, but regardless, she kept it with her. She was cold.

Eudora Weaver struggled against her bonds in the attic, fresh bruises crying out in pain as they pressed against the rope. She was twelve.

Eudora Weaver clung to her father's leg as the silhouette in the long white coat backed away. The injection had hurt. She was seven.

Eudora Weaver had been given that name on the day she was found. Her father never knew where she came from. She was three.

Charley Hunter sobbed in her crib. She had no idea what was going on - all bright lights and sharp noises. She was in pain.

Charley Hunter disappeared from her home in broad daylight one autumn day. She was never seen again.