The Man Without a Face
The man without a face couldn’t find the right word. And it made him uglier. His withered face, remnant of a once handsome face ravaged by the plague, was twisted into concentration.
He couldn’t find the right word that he knew succinctly described the beautiful creature frolicking naked by the river. Those infernal priests and their Latin! He cursed. The creature was a boy child of about eight summers or so. The boy was breathtakingly beautiful. Golden locks which were naturally curled on their ends. Skin almost as pure as snow. And the eyes. They were the bluest eyes he had ever seen.