Day Five Hundred: In Foramine Mundi, Part Nine

A man stands alone. He, too, is in the rain, drenched and cold. Even his hands, so recently blazing, are now chilled.

He doesn't notice this. He only notices what's left of his little girl. Or what he thought was his little girl. 

It is propped on one ear, partially buried in mud, in an emptied field. There is no blood on the stump of a neck, and he realizes, dimly, that its shorn hair has grown back. Hair that was so recently cut by an executioner's axe. An axe wielded…

Wielded by…

"Eve…?"

He speaks to a head. The head should not react. But he know it will, because something is not right here, something is very, very wrong, and this suspicion is confirmed when the head's white, staring eyes roll towards him. The mouth, so sweet and gentle in life, twitches into a sick, sheepish grin.

"Hi," it says, its voice now old, masculine, and wise. There is no hint of a little girl. "I suppose you caught me."

The man shudders. "What… what are you…?"

The head chuckles. "I'm your daughter. Eve. Obviously. I thought I did a great job of acting her out. Weren't you impressed? You must have been - you bought it for months."

The man's stomach burbles. He wretches and collapses to one knee. Visions of so many happy times fill his head, and all of them, he realizes, are fake. Shared with a stranger.

"Whoa!" The head grimaces. "Quite a reaction. I'm sorry. I'll admit, this isn't how I'd planned on, erm, 'outing' myself. Not quite sure what I'd planned, but… well. Anyway."

The man falls back on his rear. He stares at the head, dimly aware that somebody, something, is now standing behind him. He doesn't care who or what it is.

The head smiles. "My name is Iko. I've been hoping to meet you for almost a year, Dragomir. There are… things… we need to discuss."

"So discuss," the man mumbles. His voice sounds small, tired, and frightened to his own ears.

"Ahh, not here." The head clucks its tongue. "No. In person. Face-to-face. I live on the other side of the world, I'm afraid, so it will be quite a trek… but trust me, the revelations will be worth the trip. And, hey, I sent a guide along to ease your path. That is you, back there, isn't it, Plato?"

An affirmative quack. A heavy hand falls on the man's shoulder. He flinches away from it. The platypus disgusts him.

The head tuts. "Don't be so harsh, Dragomir. Plato's a good lad. You can trust him. Though I do wonder what's come of his companions."

The man doesn't care about this. It's all fluff, all insubstantial bullshit. "And what if I don't wanna see you?"

The head leers and laughs, rolling merrily in the mud. "Trust me, you do. That weapon of yours? That crimson thing hiding in your hands? I can show you how to use it. And once you've learned…"

The head pauses, eyes narrowing, grin small and mean. "… you can use it to kill me for imitating your daughter. And I know you want to kill me."

This is true. The man feels murder boiling in his chest.

Eyes flash, one white, one green. As the light ebbs, life slips away. The head crumbles to dust. 

The man does not notice, long though he lingers, but there are matchsticks stuck into the mud.