~ Agatha Christie, The Hound of Death

A hush falls over the small village as night descends. Birdsong falls silent, only to be replaced by the eerie calls of owls. The darkness creeps from the shadows cast in daytime, spills into the streets, and engulfs the village. A cool mist from the earlier rain clings to the earth like a blanket. One by one the lamps in the houses extinguish as the humans within join the world in sleep. All becomes still—dead—like the calm before the plague-carrying wind from the distant mountains sweeps through the village.

Heavy footfalls pierce the night as a cloaked figure runs swiftly along the main road. She leaps and weaves over and around hay and other debris, as if what chases her were nipping at her heels. Her face is hidden beneath the deep hood of a heavy, black cloak flowing behind her like angel wings as she runs and bounds along the sleeping street. In her arms she carries a bundle of cloth, concealing what lay beneath it but tucked close to her like a treasure.

Behind her there’s an angry shout, then another, then more. Lights extinguished before now flare to life again, following in a sequence as she makes her way to the village’s edge. As more villagers rouse and stumble from their homes in confusion, the shouting mixes with the cacophony of many footsteps pounding the dirt in chase. Relentless, she keeps her gaze forward.

She doesn’t dare to look back and try to identify the speaker. Instead, she steals a glance down at her treasure—a baby, miraculously sound asleep in all the noise and fuss. Her breath, falling in heavy pants due to exertion, hitches before her eyes cloud with tears that roll down her cheeks.

“I can’t stop, I won’t! They’ll kill you if I do. I won’t let you die, not like this!” She thinks to herself—despite the painful burn in her legs, unused to running this hard and long.

Finally, she reaches the edge of the village, not wasting a moment before crossing the threshold into the surrounding grasslands. She’s made it halfway to her goal. There’s nothing to act as cover here outside of the darkness, but she knows without a doubt that at least some of her pursuers will stall or give up. The villagers are very superstitious—believers in wives’ tales of goblins and stray demons attacking and eating those who venture too far outside of safety. She also knows many of the men would continue their pursuit of her anyway. After all, human hatred runs deep; she understands this now.

At last, she reaches her destination—a small stone structure, many centuries old. A circle of six small pillars with rounded tops surrounding a flat, circular stone in the middle. Though the relentless forces of nature have worn down the rocks over time, even a mere human like her can still feel the immense elven power that radiates from the ancient stones. As she gives herself a moment to catch her breath, she considers what she has to do. He had taught her some things, but the rest of it is information gleaned from reading books—including the basics of how to even use the necessary magic. There’s doubt that the ritual she needs to perform will even work—but she can’t allow herself to despair. This will work! An innocent life is at stake!

Steeling her resolve, she gently lays her baby on top of the smooth surface of the central rock. Its face—perfectly human looking—is now uncovered, though still fast asleep except for the soft burble as it shifts on the new surface. She can’t waste any more time, but she still allows herself a moment to gently run the back of her finger against its little cheek.

“My child,” she whispers, kneeling onto the soft earth next to the rock, “I know not where this portal will take you, and you may not remember this place, but if you do, please—don’t return here. Please, don’t let him find you! Live long and happy, for both of us.”

She stands quickly to place the palms of her hands on the pillars nearest to her, facing the central stone. Closing her eyes, she begins to mumble the chant—ancient elvish words that no one knows the meaning of anymore. The chant is short and not overly complicated, meant only to activate the magic sleeping within the stones. As the last syllable is frantically rushed out, precious seconds pass by with only stillness settling over them. For a terrifying moment, she thinks the ritual a failure. The angry shouts on the wind remind her what awaits them in that case.

Suddenly, a bright flash of light engulfs the area immediately around the central stone. It startles her into opening her eyes but just as quickly forces them shut again; she raises one arm in feeble defense. When the light subsides, darkness once more envelops the area and when her eyes readjust to look upon the stone, her baby is gone.

Her relief is short-lived as the sound of heavy footsteps and anger finally reach her, stopping some ways behind her kneeling form. She inhales deeply, sitting up straighter though not turning to look at the people she once thought she knew.

“Wench,” hisses one of the burly men, “where’s the demon spawn?”

“How could you do this to us?!”

“Sorcery! He tempted her with sorcery!” A woman cries from somewhere in the back.

She remains silent, though the accusations cause her fists to clench in her lap. With another deep breath she finally stands to face her hunters, head held high as she regards them all, finding a few familiar faces.

“My child has nothing to do with you or your—”

“Don’t speak lies!” A hard fist slams into her face, knocking her down on her side, her head barely missing one of the stone pillars.

The sharp taste of blood forms in her mouth and spills over, running down her chin. She glares up at the man as she wipes away the trail of blood.

“You had one job and what did you do with it?! You only had to live with him, not become his whore too! Now look what you’ve done!”

“You’ve cursed us!”

“We’ll only be safe again if the abomination dies!”

A murmur of fear sweeps through the assembled crowd, many muttering agreements with that reasoning.

“This wasn’t part of the deal!”

“He shouldn’t be trusted!”

“Shouldn’t we kill both?”

“It happened once, it’ll happen again.”

“It only takes one time.”

The man who assaulted her motions vaguely towards those who spoke, and the crowd presses closer. So close now that she can feel the fire of their torches even through her cloak.

Due to the closeness of the flames she can now clearly see the face of the man threatening her, his eyes full of nothing but hatred. A familiar face, one she had seen all her life and knew well, yet the man before her now is unrecognizable—no hint of love left for his daughter. Once, confronting him was unthinkable. She was docile back then, but now…

“Not here. Perhaps if you were to chance upon an elf you might be able to find out,” she says, meeting his glare with equal fire.

The man’s eye twitches in rage, his teeth visible as he grinds them. A few villagers in the crowd begin to wave their torches around, threateningly close. They were getting impatient and growing angrier by the second.

“Think you’re clever do you, girl? Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough. This is what you get for consorting with demons!”

Like a pack of wolves they descend upon her, weapons in hand. Torches burn her, pitchforks tear at her cloak and clothes, and others beat her with clubs, rocks or fists. Her mind swims through haze, barely holding on to consciousness long enough to weakly reach out to the central stone; the tips of her fingers barely graze it. No words come to her mind and it’s with one more swift kick to the back of her head that she finally succumbs to eternal darkness.