Cal held his arm out. Fox, then Gage pressed their scored wrists down to his. “
Brothers in spirit, in mind. Brothers in blood for all time.”
As they stood, clouds shivered over the fat moon, misted over the bright stars. Their mixed blood
dripped and fell onto the burnt ground.
The wind exploded with a voice like a raging scream. The little campfire spewed up flame in a
spearing tower. The three of them were lifted off their feet as if a hand gripped them, tossed them.
Light burst as if the stars had shattered.
Blood Brothers
Brothers in spirit, in mind. Brothers in blood for all time.”
As they stood, clouds shivered over the fat moon, misted over the bright stars. Their mixed blood
dripped and fell onto the burnt ground.
The wind exploded with a voice like a raging scream. The little campfire spewed up flame in a
spearing tower. The three of them were lifted off their feet as if a hand gripped them, tossed them.
Light burst as if the stars had shattered.
Blood Brothers
____________________
Whenever I listen to this music I crave the Amazing Sign of Seven Trilogy...
Oh, misty eye
of the mountain below
Keep careful
watch of my brothers' souls
And should
the sky be filled with fire and smoke
Keep watching
over Durin's sons
If this is to
end in fire
Then we
should all burn together
Watch the
flames climb high into the night
____________________
At the farm, Brian held his wife’s hand as hundreds of people stood in his fields staring at the sky. “Jesus, Jo, Jesus. The woods are on fire. Hawkins Woods.”
“It’s not fire. Not just fire,” she said as her throat throbbed. “It’s . . . something else.”
At the Pagan Stone, the rain turned to fire, and the fire turned to light. Those sparks of light struck the black to sizzle, to smoke. Its eyes began to wheel now, not in hunger or pleasure, but in shock, in pain, and in fury.
“He’s doing it,” Cybil murmured. “He’s killing it.” Even through her grief, she felt stunning pride. “Hold on to him. We have to hold on to him. We can bring him back.”
The Pagan Stone
“It’s not fire. Not just fire,” she said as her throat throbbed. “It’s . . . something else.”
At the Pagan Stone, the rain turned to fire, and the fire turned to light. Those sparks of light struck the black to sizzle, to smoke. Its eyes began to wheel now, not in hunger or pleasure, but in shock, in pain, and in fury.
“He’s doing it,” Cybil murmured. “He’s killing it.” Even through her grief, she felt stunning pride. “Hold on to him. We have to hold on to him. We can bring him back.”
The Pagan Stone