Annalynne Tuckle had nothing but the stars above her, a dead Corkscrew Willow tree at her back, and a fireglow before her that seeped into the vast, invisible expanse that made up night on the Thriving Wastes.
Little Shithead, her loyal friend and only cat, was dead. There weren't nothing to be done for it either. No deals with great forces dark or otherwise. No miraculous cure for the all too common malady that all but the miraculous suffer from. Little Shithead was old. Little Shithead is dead.
It seemed a shame to throw out the rat jerky that her miserable cat enjoyed so much and so Annalynne tears pieces off and lets the salt and submerged juices flood her mouth. Surprisingly good, she thinks. She should have believed him.
Movement catches her eye at the edge of the fire's glow. She draws her pistol with the speed of frightened lightning and points it deadly at a form she can barely discern.
"Step on outta there and get yerself close, less you demand a chimney in your belly."
A young pale boy steps forward. His eyes large but drained of the energy native to the young. Clothes are dirty, feet bare, but not a bruise or scratch on him.
"And who might you be, little one?" Annalynne puts away her pistol and tears off another piece of jerky.
"A boy.""Yeh don't say. And what brings a boy in the dead center of fucking nowhere?"
"My family. I'm supposed to bring them safe."
"And where's this family?"
"With me."
"Don't see 'em. Where you bringing them?"
The boy reaches into his pocket, "Mission's Mercy. They're right here."
The boy pulls out a glowing orange orb. Its light is soft and there are what appear to be tiny shadows moving within it; tiny shadows in the shapes of women, men, and small children.
"You know where you're going?" It's a stupid question. Annalynne knows damn well the boy is tethered to his destination by ancient and forbidden Familial Sorcery. Of course the boy knows. He has no choice but to know. She just needed a bit of space in the exchange, so stupid question launched.
"I know."
"Yeah. Figger'd as much. I'm Annalynne Tuckle. Your welcome to my fire for as long as you can resist the pull of where you're going.""Thank you. I'm...my name is..."
"You're a Lonely Boy. You ain't got no name no more. That part of you died the day your family decided to sacrifice you to expedite their cowardly journey to safety."
The Lonely Boy is silent for a moment as he steps closer to the fire and holds his palms out. No amount of fire will ever warm him again, Annalynne thinks. He's a child courier of "love" and "duty" with naught but oblivion in his future.
"I have to go now," he says.
"Safe journey, Lonely Boy. As if you have a choice."
And then Annalynne does something that is very much not like Annalynne Tuckle at all. She shoves her jerky and blanket in a sack and stands up, "I'll wander with you a spell."
The Lonely Boy is not grateful nor is he annoyed. The Lonely Boy feels nothing as he walks back into shadow.Little Shithead would have talked her out of this pointless distraction. He'd have told her that there weren't nothing to be done for a Lonely Boy. Once a family performs the ritual the child is little more than a husk, a mockery of life. And then Annalynne would counter with the fact that the same was said of Death Sheriffs and it is a fact most certified that they can indeed come back from the pull of mindlessness. Then Little Shithead would delay her with more arguments and the trail of the Lonely Boy would be lost.
But Little Shithead is dead. All she has are her memories of him.
And so she slings the sack over her shoulder and sets off in the footsteps of the animated memory of a child.
