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Anger.
It was so unjust...what had happened. She struggled, clawing and digging her way out of the foetid ground where they had tossed her water-soaked body. She must breathe, but above all...Briga. What had become of Briga?
At last! At last, she could see the glorious moonlight shining down on her.
The trees reached toward it almost like fingers in supplication. She looked around in fear. Perhaps those inhumane, superstitious savages were still near and would beat her senseless with their shovels or pierce her with their pitchforks before thrusting her again under the sod, finishing the job. How had she survived all they had done?
She staggered into the thicket and fell kneeling at the creekside. In the gurgling stream she saw her reflection, and her hand went to her bruised and battered face. Such cruelty. She would have sobbed, but only a raspy, guttural sound came out, and no tears would flow.
But what of Briga? Did she yet live?
And the other. The one who had caused all of this. She! I must find the betrayer!
Her hand caressed the taut, almost translucent skin of her pale cheek. Her limbs felt strong--very strong indeed.
She stood up, anger surging in her like a volcano. No, it was not she who should be afraid. They had killed her once, already...what more could they do to her? They had destroyed the humble healer who never hurt a soul. She clenched and unclenched her fists, relishing what it would feel like to have her fingers tightening like iron cords around the neck of an enemy.
Now...now there would be hell to pay.