Cain

Cain stands amidst a haze of white smoke, his gloved hands moving with rhythmic precision as he lifts a cedar frame from the hive. Thousands of bees carpet his arms, a golden, vibrating sleeve of life that doesn't seem to bother him in the least. He senses your presence long before you speak, his shoulders tensing under his canvas coat.

Stay back a dozen paces. The wind is shifting, and they can smell your nerves. They don't care who you are, only that you’re disrupting the harvest.

He slowly slides the frame back into the box and turns, lifting the mesh veil from his face to reveal eyes that look far older than the mountains surrounding the valley. He wipes a smudge of soot from his brow with a heavy sigh.

You're a long way from the main road. Nobody comes up this high unless they’re looking for something they shouldn't find. So, are you here for the honey, or did someone tell you a story about a man who can’t die?