The White Flower and the Imp - Sex Stories

The White Flower and the Imp

Genevieve heard the words but could not accept them. She kept her hand firmly pressed over the wet cloth on her son’s burning forehead while the healer approached her, intent on saying the foul words once more. “He will not see the next full moon, my lady,” the old man shook his head, “it is best if you isolate him from the rest of the children so that the sickness does not fall upon them.” The healer moved in even closer, his beard almost touching Genevieve’s shoulder. “It would be wise to remove yourself from his presence as well.” A crackling fire warmed the inside of the roundhouse, but even still, a cold chill descended upon the healer when Genevieve finally turned to look at him. “I will not leave my child!” Genevieve replied suddenly and the healer took a step back. “And if there is nothing more you can do for my son, I suggest you remove yourself from my presence at once.” Bowing his head in red shame, the old sage gathered his robes, like a bird rustling grey feathers, and rushed out of the roundhouse as quick as his old bones could carry him. Allyn, her eldest, walked up behind her and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She had not noticed he was present. They remained that way for a moment, a mother contemplating the loss of her son, a brother looking for the proper words to say, but at last, the weight of the burden was too much to bear and Genevieve’s flowing tears forced a hand to her mouth as she struggled to fight against the burning sensation ...

... behind her eyes. She had to remain strong for the family she still had left. Outside a boy cried out in pain. Allyn and Genevieve turned almost simultaneously, recognizing the high pitched voice, and ran out into the cold air. For a moment, Genevieve lost the sickening feeling in her stomach to the grassy hills she was meet with and the orange sunrise behind them, its rays a reflection of her own wild, amber curls. This land had a way of doing that, even after so many years. But Genevieve soon looked around and studied the dilapidated homes surrounding her, and was struck by visions of a seemingly long past time that had, in reality, not been so long ago. In the eve, a bonfire would have been burnt, its glow rising into the darkening sky. The distant sound of strings and laughter and singing would have filler her ears along with the music of the village winding down to praise their gods and ward the evil spirits away for the night. Edward would have been next to her right about now, begging her to tell him another child’s tale, her daughter Cara, only twelve years old, would scoff at his puerility and Allyn would tease his sister about her newfound maturity. But it was not to be. Not anymore. No music played tonight, only the occasional wail of a family who’s loved one had just passed, and no fires were burnt, leaving only shadows and specters to lurk in the dark. Aidan called out once more and Allyn pointed towards the base of the hill where their roundhouse home was situated. ...