Children, thou shalt not fear.
Brin crouches gently over the woman, her clothes soiled from his perhaps over-rough dragging. At least she was off
the street. He hears the sound of a scuffle from around the corner, but manages to block it out, as he places his hand
on the forehead of the comatose woman he knelt over.
A bluish glow seems to pervade throughout the limp body, and it is over.
He stands, and gazes down at himself. From where he stands, he can see the cleanly sliced wooden staff that had served
him so well, its now useless pieces dropped where they had fallen. Brin curses his negligence.
o 0 ( ...I had a clear shot. Yet I used the staff, against a sword. What was I thinking?... )
He stares down at the reattached holster, and the pistol it now holds. He feels the cold metal of the back of the cylinder,
and runs his finger along the metal back of the handle. He nearly died tonight. And it is because of lack of confidence.
He sighs. o 0 ( ...Again. Perhaps it is best that I now must use this... )
He draws the pistol, and spins the barrel round, its frantic clicking breaking the silence of the alley.
o 0 ( ...And of course, it _is_ the better weapon... ) he bites his lip, and turns.
The woman has regained consciousness, and is cowering in the gutter, her eyes wide and white against the moonlight.
"Please.....please...don't kill me..."
Brin starts, shocked to the bone that she would believe he would...kill...an innocent person? His arm falls to his side,
and he stares sadly down at the woman. His eyes glaze over.
o 0 ( ...now I remember. Regardless of the wearer, people fear guns... )
...And people fear Etones because of that. And now, people fear me.
To be a subject of fear? Some people kill for it. Right now, it is the last thing Brin wants. He snaps back to reality, and
the woman is gone.
Even though he hears the sounds of a scuffle from around the corner, Brin hears nothing now. He replaces his pistol, falls
to his knees, and weeps bitterly for his sins.