Sold through ARTSHARKS ARTHouse
By Taha Eshmawe

I know more than anything that I want the child. Sure, there have been many before it and mostly likely more to come, but every child of mine is a child of mine. Even if accidently birthed by humans; I reconcile my kin by stealing the child as soon as possible, to free it in the woodland or moor like other natural fauns. Birth is no more than a necessary endeavor; it is the upbringing that poisons or purifies the being.

With the aid of the half-veiled moon, I slink into the thatched cottage with a shadow’s agility, ducking my head to avoid scraping my spiraled horns along the frames of the open window. The young woman awakens, rocking near the flames as if waiting for me. Her eyes widen at my coming, but she stands without a sign of weariness, her slender silhouette outlined before the dying embers of the hearth.

“You have returned,” she says simply—a statement, not a question. Her fair skin and shock of blond hair repel me with their brightness as intensely as they had attracted me nine months before. I walk nearer, my muscles rippling beneath my moving flesh. She ignores the dark skin, the snaking black locks, the curling horns. She gazes right into my silvery eyes, oblivious to any blinding reflection of moonlight.

“I have come to claim my child,” I tell her, glancing around. Braided rags coat the stained floor, skimpy weeds and bunched herbs dangle from the rafters. Opposite from the closed door that I know leads into the tiny bedroom, the mismatched cabinets of the kitchen are tightly closed to hide their hollowness.

“You told me you would have nothing to do with me or the child three seasons ago,” she hisses, her green eyes fearless as I remember them. “I’ve moved on with my life, I’ve wed and taken up my mother’s stead in midwifery. You have nothing here to claim. It’s best that you go.”

How dare she defy me. My shoulders knot with frustration, but I try again. Perhaps I’m gentle in the face of our former love; I’ve always been something of a romantic.

“The child belongs to me. Do you even know the nature of the creature you birthed, Briana?”

She is adamant, the little fool. “My child is no creature, Horned One. And you will not speak of it as if it were a freak, whether you be king or no.”

I shove her back, snarling an oath, forgetting the flames behind her back. She topples into them with a scream, but rolls out just as quickly. The bedroom door flings and her husband hurls out with a shotgun in hand, the bawling baby tight in his free arm. His young face pales at the sight of his burning wife, and he peppers a volley of bullets in my direction before rushing to her rescue. A stray bullet chips at my horn, another catches me somewhere deep in the chest. I  leap out the window, my cloven hooves heavy but fleet as they carry me to safety. The sound of my crying child is the last sound I hear before the pain envelops me.

“Angreek87″