CW Room

He could feel the blisters and welts on his back bursting and oozing blood. A dark figure strolled behind him as he lay buckled down to the cold wooden log.  He couldn’t move his head, but it was easy to tell what was happening behind him under the pale, bright moonlight. 

Master had used a long, leather, oddly flexible, brown stick on his back the previous night. The most he could do was to grind his teeth and swallow his tongue to stop himself from making any noise. Screaming was against the rules, after all. He wanted to beg Master to stop, he won’t do it again, but he was too scared. He knew that would only lead to more of ‘This’ – Whatever ‘This’ was. 

‘This’ happened every time he was in the room when Master got angry. He didn’t quite understand what upset him every time, though. Sometimes, he thought Master would get upset at things that were out of his control. In the previous night, for example, he was busy with the task of shining Master’s shoes.

Master’s shoes were a type of moccasin he’d only seen when ‘They’ arrived in the village. It had a strong build made of a dark material that was stronger than leather, and an exceptionally long neck that usually rested on masters knees. During the night, he was busy applying the cleaning liquid to the Moccasins when the tamed wolf galloped into the room. The usually friendly animal took a look around the room, sniffed the long-necked moccasins, and began chewing the neck profusely.

The boy had spent enough nights cleaning these moccasins to know that the tamed wolf would heavily damage them. If they get damaged, he thought, Master would get angry. Master didn’t like it when the boy left marks on the long-neck moccasins.

Oftentimes, Master would return to his tent with mud, faeces, and blood staining the body of his long neck moccasins. The boy would have to return it to a new, clean state no matter how battered it was, “or else”.

On one occasion, he had had a particularly long day of chores, and forgot to clean the underside of the long-necked moccasins as Master had instructed him to. He spent the next three days doing extra chores on an empty stomach. Master had banned him from eating his daily bowl of Slop.

The boy was frantic. The tamed wolf’s sharp teeth would surely leave marks that were beyond the dark cleaning liquid’s capabilities. He lunged at Master’s moccasins and attempted to wrench them from the tamed wolf’s mouth.

A long growl escaped the wolf, and a scuffle ensued. The boy felt as though this was a struggle for his life. The tamed wolf, acting as a brutal monster from one of Gran-Gran’s tales, and the boy, trying desperately to escape the wrath of the demonic behemoth and retrieve the mythic prized moccasins worn by the legendary warriors of the mythic tribe of Asame.

The boy lunged forward, aiming for the moccasins but instead, landed on the beast’s snout. The beast pulled him with tremendous strength, slamming the boy into the wall of the tent. His hands were slipping. The boy attempted to pull himself closer to the beast, with his grip returning just in time to clutch the heel of the moccasins. The beast did not like that at all.

He seemed to take offence to the boy’s weakness. What the boy saw next was a tale he would have even told Gran-Gran herself, if he still could. The beast, its frame increasing in size seemingly tenfold, visibly mustered the energy in the room. It seemed to take on a dark aura that matched the intentions of this beast. He could have taken an oath stating that the plants in the room had wilted a little bit as the beast summoned the strength of the demonic behemoth of the waterfall mountains; another legend he had heard tales of at bedtime from Gran-Gran.

The beast paused, its dark yellow eyes slanting ever so slightly. Emitting a deep growl from its throat as a warning for the impending doom, it planted its clawed paws in the muddy floor of the tent, and launched at the boy, forcing him to twist his arm in an unnatural position and sprain it painfully. He attempted to keep hold of the prized warrior moccasins. He did, for a moment longer than he thought possible, but the pain took over and he had to let go of the famed mythical trophy. 

The sharp pang of pain hit him the moment his hand hit the floor. He had just realised what happened. The tent walls came back into view, and the light of the candles returned the shade of orange to the room. And yet, there was an extra red shadow that covered his eyes and all of his surroundings.

This happened before, he thought. He couldn’t see what his shoulder looked like, but he recognised the pain. All he had to do was ram his shoulder into a strong structure at the right angle. He looked around. It seemed as though he was blinded by tears and his eyes were flickering involuntarily. Even moving his neck sent excruciating waves of agony that reached every fiber of his being.

However, he had known that the alternative was undergoing Master’s anger, and that was something far worse than the beast. He needed to return these long neck moccasins to their original state before Master returned. 

The boy’s eyes landed on the large wooden chest with a rounded lid that was placed against the edge of the tent. That should be heavy enough, he thought.

He hoped.

It was a particularly painful task that he had only done once before. He crawled to the chest, dragging his limp arm behind him. He channeled his entire life force into his legs, forcing himself to his knees to make his way to the chest. The closer he came, it seemed, the more out of reach his destination got.  His eyes went dark for a few moments, but he urged himself to push.

When he was an arm’s length away from the chest, he made for his feet. Unwelcome, sharp shivers ran through his body, and his legs almost gave out. He closed his eyes. A deep, long, slow breath in, and a slow, calm, balanced breath out. Several moments passed. He was able to stand, and his mind was focused on completing this task in order to stop the pain. 

He thought of Mother. Mother would call him into the home every night and run her fingers through his hair. She would tell him stories of a brave, strong boy and his exceptional willpower. Mother always smelled of chrysanthemums and warm nights.

He took a long, stable whiff and forced his eyes open. He clenched his teeth to muffle any signs of pain that may escape. He was a brave, strong man, he thought, as he threw himself back towards the chest. Time seemed to slow at this moment.

He saw the tent in front of him disappear as he tilted backward, and more of the ceiling came into view. A twinge of fear crept upon him, but there was no time to dwell on it. His shoulder landed on the rounded lid, and he heard it fit back into place. His head banged on the chest, and his back slammed against the box with great force.

He collapsed on the ground and lay there for a few minutes, trying to comprehend what had just happened. He didn’t hear anything but a slow ringing in his ears – a giant bell in the sky that seemingly got louder and louder. Sometimes his brain wandered to a place where he might start to think that his experiences were too cruel.

The boy pushed these thoughts out rapidly. He was a brave, strong man. His mind shuddered to think that he could be weak. He was never going to let his life get the better of him. The ringing slowly went away, but he stayed limp on the ground, filled with thoughts of strength and bravery. Yet, in his foolhardy attempt to keep his emotions in check, he did not notice Master’s deep, heavy voice shouting its way to the tent.

Master’s leg appeared through the entrance first, and the boy shot up quickly. He was a brave, strong man, as Mother told. As the rest of Master’s body appeared with a slashed, deeply bitten long-necked moccasin in hand, the boy was wiping his eyes profusely. Men don’t cry. 

Master was shouting in an angry tone that reminded the boy of all the times he had taken to causing the boy unfathomable pain. He wished he could explain to Master what had happened. The tamed dog was unrelenting, after all.

However, the boy was not able to speak to Master. Master spoke unfamiliar, harsh words that he had never before ‘They’ arrived. After all this time, he knew all too well that when Master spoke those words in that harsh tone, Master was angry. And when Master was angry, the boy’s strength, bravery, and willpower would be tested.

The boy considered telling Master the first few times ‘This’ happened. He thought he might feel less pain if he explained what had happened. Why something had gone wrong. But he had never been able to get his words through. Even if he could, though, he didn’t want to. He was a brave, strong man, as Mother told. He wouldn’t let Master deprive him of being what Mother knew he was. It was too late to change her mind now. After all, he would never see her again. 

He spent that night and the subsequent day in “the hole”. A well where he and his friends used to race towards to acquire some drinking water for many moons. He remembered a case when he and his friends had found an abandoned cat. A small kitten, of just a few weeks of age. She must not have seen a dry season before. The boy and his friends had seen six dry seasons by then. They knew exactly what to do.

The boy took charge, putting the small sickly kitten into his sleeve to shield it from the sun, and escorting it to the well. His friends pulled out a bucket of water and the kitten drank happily. Kitten followed them all around from that point onwards.

When they practiced the brave warrior art of sword fighting, she was there to cheer them on, and twist itself around their ankles when they took water breaks. It liked to be petted and scratched on the head. When they climbed the dangerous treetops of Massava as unofficial lookouts for their village, Kitten sat on their shoulders clinging on for dear life. She trusted them. She trusted him.

But as he sat in the dried-up well, alone, he knew he had failed her.

****

A shadowy movement on the dark muddy ground snatched the boy back to reality. The tight ropes scratched his broken, torn skin, holding him in place firmly against the thick log. The shadow got taller and he heard movement behind him. He didn’t dare to look. He knew better. Master’s arm must be rising into the air. He knew what was coming next. He braced himself, hardened his stomach, stiffened his back, and swallowed his tongue.

The next few moments were silent, filled with tense apprehension and a fear of the unknown. The silence was finally broken when the shadow of Master’s arm came hurtling down. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth in preparation.

the crack of the flexible stick reverberated in his ears, and then he felt it. The hot, searing flash of pain.  A flash of pain that he had gotten accustomed to, yet still felt worse every time. The burning agony almost made him welcome the sore ache of his shoulders from last night. But he had had worse. He’s been through too much to give in now. It has been a thousand days today. He had kept count.

He remembered everything. A thousand days of memories etched into his mind.

****

Tonight’s punishment had lasted longer than ever before. Master must have been very angry. Blasted tamed wolf, he thought, as he made his way to his sack. It was usually so friendly. He wondered whether it was intrigued by the smell of the long-necked moccasins.

He would find something to distract it if it decides to duel him again.

“Use your surroundings” he recalled the brave warrior, Dom, saying one time. “Your environment can help you get the upper hand on your opponent.”

Dom was a brave warrior that the boy admired. He often ran to the hunting grounds at the break of dawn to watch him cut down some heavy-set beasts, ride with his score back to the village, and announce a feast on that night for everyone willing to join.

The boy admired Dom greatly. So much so, that he had decided not to believe that Dom had fallen by the hands of whoever ‘They’ are. He must have gone out for a long hunt. That’s all. Sometimes those stubborn boars were very hard to track. Even for Dom. When he came back, ‘They’ would all be gone. He’d chase them away and announce a feast in celebration, and the boy would never feel the hollow and nauseating pain of an empty stomach again. That’s all he held onto. A sliver of hope that he knew was all but real. A hope that he would return to his old life. 

A pang of pain shook throughout his chest. Memories coursed through his mind. He reached for the thick iron bars around his sack to steady himself. He was unsure what this feeling was, but this one was worse than the rest. It hurt.

But it wasn’t a pain in his arms or his back. Or even his bones. He felt it deeper. It was the pain of lost memories and a hope that he knew was false. He quickly pushed the memories out of his mind and steadied himself, readily trying to catch his breath. He would focus on what he had.

Today has been the thousandth day, and tonight is the thousandth night. He owed her a visit. It has almost been a hundred days since the last time he had done so. She kept him anchored. He decided he would pay her a visit tonight. He had done it before under different conditions. His back unblistered and unbloodied, for example.

He also didn’t sleep behind Master’s tent in a metal cage. He strolled into his cage and sat on the floor next to his sack. It had rained today, he recalled. The drops of water had splashed onto his hair and shoulders while he was in the hole. As he sat on the muddy floor of his cage, he looked around, in denial of his fatigue. He couldn’t lie down on his back, nor did he want to. 

Sitting upright, looking over the hill where Master’s tent stood, he felt a tempered breeze graze his face. The moonlight shone brightly on what was once a vast field of bright, yellow chrysanthemum flowers. The air was heavy with the fresh smell of flowers. Mother would spend lots of time in these fields.

The boy recalled one of his favorite stories that his mom had told. He glimpsed in his mind’s eye a vision of young Mother and Father, strolling through the fields together with a small child between them. A child safe and happy. A child shielded from all the dark realities of this world.

He quickly shook his head and looked at the sad sight to distract himself. What sat now was not a beautiful field of never-ending flowers, but a plucked and plundered ground. Hints of browned petals and wilted stems sat on the ground, still and silent. It had been a thousand days, but the changes were still fresh. 

The boy sat lost in thought until, suddenly, as though a wisp of hope blew by, Masters candle had been put out, and the tent went dark. The fire in his heart burned bright. This would be the right time to make his way out.

The master would definitely not wake up until the morning now. The boy got to his feet. He thought he should have lain on his stomach while he waited, but quickly dispelled that thought. What a preposterous thought that was. He was better than that. He was stronger than that. He shook his head as he inched open the barred metal door and tip-toed away into the night.

He wondered whether his friends would accuse him of being a coward for sneaking around. Argus would surely try to make fun of him. Argus had always boasted about seeing eight cold seasons. That was one more than the boy and his friends. He wished he could tell him that he had now seen 2 more cold seasons, which is one more than Argus. He hadn’t seen Argus in a thousand days, though. He shook his head again. The memories would accompany throughout the night, apparently. 

He wondered how many dry seasons he’s seen since ‘They’ came. Cold seasons were easy to understand. When the wind sent unrelenting shivers down his body that caused his arm to develop lasting small, flesh-colored bumps, it was the cold season. He always found it harder to move his fingers in the cold season and he tried to avoid getting his feet wet at all costs, because it made it difficult to feel warm. That was hardly possible, but he made the effort anyway. However, try as he might, he had stopped being able to recognize the dry season a thousand days ago. 

Every dry season, he, Mother, and Father had a ritual. Mother would send him and Father on an adventure to the Ruby Forest. He and Father were to bring back fruits for her to create a plate of food that smelled and tasted like warmth, and the three of them would sit by the fire, eating and exchanging stories of their days.

On the adventure to Ruby Forest, Father would tell him stories of battles and raids that he had embarked on. Father was, in the boy’s opinion, the second strongest warrior in all the land. Dom was the first, of course, but it was okay. He loved Father enough to overlook this discrepancy.

He and Father made their way to the forest that sat just before the waterfall mountains. It was a full day’s walk from the village. However, the boy could make it in less than half a day if he ran. The forest was deep, vast, and it was beautiful enough to stir up the boy’s excitement for every dry season to approach rapidly. The boy marked the dry season by seeing the red fruits dangling from the trees.

Father called them Apfels. Apfels were sweet, crunchy, full fruits that dangled from trees like rubies. ‘They’ must not have liked the apfel taste very much, the boy always thought, because the forest had been burned down to ashes when ‘They’ discovered it.

After it was burned, there were no more trees to grow the apfels, and he was unable to recognize the dry season. He wished he could tell though, as his name day was in the dry season. All he knew now was that the rivers ran dry, and the forest had been burned.  A memory of a stolen and burnt place is all that lay before him now.

His train of thought was interrupted suddenly by a loud, shrill, desperate scream. His head rotated suddenly to face the source. Between a mix of smoke clouds and fire flecks emitting from a nearby crackling bonfire, he glimpsed a woman with streaks of tears running down her face.

Her face was blood red and she looked to be sweating. Her hair was long, black, and braided. She must have been a warrior, he thought. The screams continued as large, hairy hands appeared from inside the tent and pulled her behind the closed curtains.

His ears rung as he watched her hopeless despair-filled face disappear, still emitting a high-pitched cry of help that stopped soon after, and the fluttering of the curtains in the breeze and evil laughter soon took the place of the screams.

He thought about making his way across the fire circle to help the woman. The tent was much like a cave, he thought. A small cave had swallowed the person inside, and had enchanted him so as to pull more people inside for the cave to swallow. 

Prey.

But the boy refused to be a prey tonight. The boy would not allow the cave to swallow him. He frowned at the small cave, turned back to his trail, with his head held high, and marched on.

He would not be seen, and he would not be discovered off guard again. The boy descended the hill and slipped through the shadows to make his way out of the village. He crouched, ran quietly, slipped underneath, and hid behind objects to allow himself to remain undetected.

The boy was proud of himself. He knew he could have made a great assassin if he had wanted to be. He was set on becoming a brave warrior, but he was glad he also had a natural talent for sneaking. His footsteps were light as a feather, and quick as a flash of lightning, he looked to his feet and couldn’t see his toes as he ran crouched between two tents. 

A harsh, loud man’s voice rippled through the peace of the assassin’s footsteps. His neck shivered. This voice was close. Too close. The boy dove underneath a wheelbarrow filled with metal cages that had just come into sight.

He hoped with all his heart and mind that the man had not spotted him. He was an assassin on a mission. Cloaked in determination, he was confident that he narrowly escaped discovery, but the slight sliver of doubt made beads of perspiration roll down his face and get in his eyes.

Moments had passed. Moments without any silence whatsoever. As soon as the boy dove underneath the wheelbarrow, he heard heavy footsteps similar to those of the men who wore the long-necked moccasins. The footsteps were quick, sure-footed, and angry. There were exactly three of them, then a scream, the sound of a skewer, gargling, then another three footsteps in the opposite direction. A few moments had passed since he dove under the wheelbarrow, and only now the silence had started. 

This time, he couldn’t resist. He had to see what had happened. He lowered his body to the ground, placing his torso on the mud, trying not to think of the way all this arching and bending was stretching and squeezing all his wounds. 

He scanned the clearing for long-necked moccasins. Ahead of him were only bases of nets and a wooden, platform-like structure with its foundation buried into the ground. As he turned his head to scan the clearing, he saw tents, a fire, and a trail of blood.

The trail led to a pair of grounded knees clothed in a fabric from shoulder to ankle similar to the boy’s. He had to do it. He got closer underneath the wheelbarrow and popped his head out to get a full view of the person. The man sat on his knees covered in blood.

His tunic had started off white, just like the boy’s. Through hard work, the tunic had greyed and collected various colors from various chores. There were green, red, brown, and black stains on this man’s tunic. It had now almost fully been covered in blood. The boy scanned slowly as his eyes made their way higher.

When he glimpsed the man’s head, it was disfigured and mangled by a spear that ran clean through one of his eyes and out the other end of his head. The man was frozen in a position of helplessness. He had his arms on the ground behind him, tilting him backward, while his head was held into place by the spear having dug into the ground and stopped him from falling backward.

The sight was so heinous, that all forms of innocent imagination left the boy’s head, and all he could do is look away in disgust as he felt the urge to throw up. 

Just as he thought he was safe looking in the direction of the platform, he saw what it was carrying. The platform sat flat a few heads above the ground. On top of the platform, there were two posts holding a pole horizontally between them. On the pole, hanging by five ropes that were tied to their necks, were five different people. The bodies on either side of the row, clearly burnt, were black and red all over.

Their faces were unrecognizable. The three bodies in the middle were not burned, but they were unrecognizable for different, similarly horrific reasons.  He couldn’t hold it in any longer.

Helpless, he felt his insides rising from his stomach into his throat. But all that served to do is give a reminder of his desperation; he had nothing to throw up except warm salty acid that brought water to his eyes.

The boy looked to the ground. It’s not as though he hadn’t seen these sights before. However, he didn’t realize that it was possible to enjoy these activities as decoration. ‘They’ seemed to do stuff like ‘This’ as a pastime and use the leftovers as art pieces.

The warriors in Massava, to his recollection, had never done that. They took pride in their strength, they braved through battles and fought tough wars, but they never paraded people’s remains around like jewelry. The boy retreated underneath the wheelbarrow lowering his gaze so as not to worsen his predicament.

Continuing to stare at the ground, he found solace in the way the mud flowed. Even when it had been disturbed, mud found a way to be smooth and put together. He drew inspiration from the mud as he recalled the bravery and strength of the Massava warriors.

For Mother, he remained a strong, brave man. He gathered himself, put what he had just seen out of his mind, ignored the throbbing pain in his back, and dashed out from underneath the wheelbarrow. 

The wind brushed his skin as he ran into the outskirts of what used to be his village. He galloped into the wind as it filled his lungs and filled him with life. This is what he loved. Running through the forest, feeling the wind. It meant he was free.

He would run all the time in Massava. He ran with his friends, he ran with Kitten, and he ran towards mother. He ran from Gran-Gran when he knew he had done something to annoy her, and he ran races against his father to prove he was a capable warrior. He loved to run. So, he ran. Out of the village, he had no worries, burdens, or fears. He inhaled the cool scent of wet grass, and exhaled the scalding heat of his pain. 

****

He ran for so long that the outskirts forest had started to thin out behind him. He ran along the coast of the ocean where ‘They’ had arrived for the first time. He saw their ships when he ran that night. The memory always hurt him strongly. He kept running. Running would fix it.

He made his way past the coast and ran into the field between the coast and the Ruby Forest. As he ran through the field, he prepared himself for disappointment once more. He would search the Ruby Forest for apfels once more, but he would not expect anything.

The young boy in him wanted to think that maybe he could find an unburnt apple in the ruined forest and reminisce about the old days, but he knew that that expectation would only make him sad. Yet try as he might, he couldn’t rid himself of that glimmer of hope.

As the forest came into view, he slowed down. Everytime he came to visit her, he stopped here first. If only he could find an apfel, he would know that it was the dry season. His name day would pass, then by the cold season came around, he would know that he had finally aged to see eight seasons. That’s how it worked, he thought to himself.

He can’t stay seven forever. Once he grew to be a big, strong warrior, he would show them. ‘They’ won’t know what hit them. He would take back Massava, find Dom, help the people in the small cave, and prevent the long-necked mocassin wearers from putting spears through people.

He would rid the village of all the horrific decorations, and most importantly, he would use the long flexible stick on Master’s back. He only needed to grow older. Not that he had kept count, but a thousand days without a dry season must be a little out of the ordinary. Still, he hoped a sighting of a red apfel would turn the tides.

He entered the forest and scanned the premises. It was a vast forest, but it was easy to see the vast land from one spot. While all the forests he had run through up until now were excessively thinned out, this forest was burned to ashes.

If there was a tree, it was blackened and bruised, only carrying a few wilted leaves. Leftovers. He scanned the view and could only see ashes, mud, and a waterfall mountain very far away. His destination. That’s where she was. 

He couldn’t help feeling sad despite the fact that he had braced himself for this outcome. No apfels, and one more visit with no signs of aging. If only he could become older than 7 years of age. He turned to focus on the task at hand. He would put it out of his mind and run to the faraway waterfall mountains. He inhaled, exhaled, gathered energy into his feet, and made for the wind. 

****

As he arrived at the top of the mountain, he breathed heavily to refill his lungs. His back was taking a heavy toll on him, and his stamina had depleted from what he had undergone earlier that night. Though he didn’t want to admit it, he needed a few moments to recompose. He lay on his stomach catching his breath. His head tilted towards the vast pinnacle of the mountain. 

As he lay on the ground, unable to move and a feeling of defeat taking over him, these words reverberated in his mind. The words were etched into the rock. He had hammered them in with a metal shard that he stole from Master the first time he came to visit her.

He remembered vividly where he had heard each quote. It was all on that day. On that day, he had heard a loud battle horn sound through the village. He looked to the sky in time to see a plethora of flaming arrows make their way towards one concentrated section of the village. 

He remembered how, as he ran to his tent through the chaos that had quickly ensued, he passed Dom. Dom was holding back three of them the day ‘They’ arrived. The boy remembered rushing past him as he struck one of them down with the blunt edge of his sword, smiling as he always was.

The words of encouragement that Dom had yelled to him that day were unforgettable. He yelled at him to keep fighting. He reassured him of the strength he held. Those words were why he wouldn’t look back. He didn’t see his friends, but he knew they were brave warriors like him. That’s why he had to run home. They would need his help, he thought, he would protect them. 

He remembered seeing the villagers entwined in duels as the battle raged on under the roaring night sky. Blood was splattered on the grass, tents had been set aflame, and smoke rapidly covered the sky, blocking any rays of moonlight that found their way through the thick stormy wall of clouds. While speeding through the scene, his face struck a hard surface, and the boy fell backward.

He blinked twice and looked up. He didn’t have time for this. They could be in trouble. A man turned slowly to face him. His face was different. His expression was happy, hungry. This man looked to have found a treasure. He looked down at the boy like he had struck gold.

The boy looked into the blood-thirsty man’s empty eyes. It felt as though several moments had passed while the boy drowned in this man’s eyes, anchored by fear and apprehension. Suddenly, an axe pierced the man’s chest and splatters of blood came flying at the boy. 

The man collapsed and the boy crawled backward to avoid being crushed by the armor lathered corpse. As the invader’s body struck the ground, the boy heard a familiar voice ask him about Mother. Father was here.

Father was fighting, but he was breathing heavy. The image of Father, kneeling in front of him urging him to find and protect his mom was one of the worse pains his memory could have put him through. He remembered Father’s light going out.

He saw his eyes drift steadily to a close. He heard Father’s last words. He would live a life to be proud of. He shed a tear over Father’s body. He didn’t care if Angus saw. He didn’t care what anyone thought anymore.

He stayed there for a moment longer, a moment seemingly frozen in time, as he touched the cold blood-spattered cheeks of his dad’s corpse. His lips were curved into a small smile. He died a warrior. The boy knew enough about war to know that his father had died a proud death.

He remembered having to run home to protect them. He remembered streaks of tears falling off his cheeks and clouding his eyes as he ran. The tent was visible from a distance, and all that was left was to run fast. He saw Gran-Gran being held to spear-point and he shouted her name.

Gran-Gran’s last words told him to be free, and do what he willed himself to do. He understood what she meant. He took these words to heart. He couldn’t save her, but he was able to cherish her words one more time. He wouldn’t be able to hear her legendary bedtime stories anymore, but he would use her last words to write his own tale; He promised himself that in a mix of desperation and helplessness.

He ran home, and as he entered the tent he saw the back of a man with long-necked moccasins. The man held a long sword that he was ready to plunge at a moment’s notice. The boy did not stop to think. Not Mother. Not her. Please not her. He gripped a bowl and rammed it onto the man’s head. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the man fell to his knees with a loud thud, Mother scampered sideways to allow the man to fall forwards onto the ground, unconscious. Mother was alright. 

He remembered her getting to her knees and calling out his name. She hugged him and thanked him for saving her life. The moment lasted for a short while. He wanted to urge Mother to get up and flee with him. Run to safety. But she didn’t move. He remembered mothers’ warmth as she embraced him lovingly. Her heart was beating quickly, but she smelled like chrysanthemums and warm nights. He felt a drop of water splash against his shoulder and roll down his back. Mother sniffed, chuckled, and held his shoulders. Gripping them and squeezing them tightly, she smiled and looked into his eyes. Her smile was beautiful. It made him feel safe. It made him feel loved. It made him feel at home.

And then she spoke her last words.

She reassured him that there was a future to see. She gave him hope and reminded him to be brave. She urged him never to give up. She told him to become a great brave man. She told him that he was her brave, strong man. She told him this, and then told him to run.

Run as fast and as far as he can. She told him to stay alive. She told him to live to see another day. Mother bid him farewell and pushed him out of the tent. He was reluctant to leave Mother, but she seemed adamant in her decision. He trusted her. He had always trusted her.

So he ran. He ran towards the forest, ignoring much of the chaos that was taking place, and avoiding the rest of it. Almost at the forest, he was stopped in his tracks by a sight he never wanted to see. He had never in his worst nightmares thought it possible. He couldn’t understand how this could be. She couldn’t even have been fighting. 

It dawned on him once more that he had to run. He quickly scooped her up into his sleeve and ran. He ran through the thick outskirts and avoided detection from whoever ‘They’ are by running through bushes and behind trees. He ran to the coast and saw a fleet of ships launching arrows in the direction of the village.

He ran through the field, unsure whether to stop, but going on to avoid thinking of what he had just seen. He ran through the Ruby Forest and hoped Mother was okay. He ran to the waterfall mountains and slowed. But this wasn’t the end of the path. He didn’t want to stop here. He climbed the mountain, ensuring that she remained fastened in his sleeve, with no way out. He had already let her down once. Not again.

At the top of the mountain, he stopped in his tracks. He considered running farther, but he felt familiarity in this spot. He felt the memories flooding back. He hoped his friends were alright. He paused, looking down at the smooth, grey, rock ground. He tried to breathe in, but was interrupted by a loud sob that escaped him.

He sat in that spot, crying, sobbing, gasping for air. He had never cried like this before. Tears escaped him as he had lost all control of his emotion. The tears ran warm down his cheeks, wetting his face like a waterfall. His breaths caught in his throat like olive pits and his nose ran quickly. He remembered it dawning on him. For the first time in his life, at the top of the mountain, he felt it.

He was alone.

He sat crying for hours before his eyes ran dry and his head was pounding in pain. The day had become evening and he could see the smoke in the distance against the golden evening sky. He was not ready for any of this, but he certainly was not ready for what he was about to do.

He took her out of his sleeve and put her on the muddy ground by the rocks. Kitten looked so peaceful. She was lying on the ground, motionless. He had no tears left to give, but his head pounded harder in sorrow, and his heartfelt punctured with grief. He wouldn’t leave her to rot like this.

After he buried Kitten, he sat next to her until nightfall. He wondered if Mother was okay. He wondered if his friends had fought back. His strength and bravery were being tested. He decided he would return to the village to check on everyone.

At full moon, he ran back to the village. From the outskirts, he could see the true bloodshed and destruction that ‘They’ have inflicted. Massava was brutalized. Everything he had known since the day he gained sense, was all burnt into the ground. He didn’t understand why they did this, but he knew that he didn’t have time. He had to look for Mother.

He remembered it didn’t take long to find her. He had decided he’d start at home, and there she was. He saw her body lying just behind the tent. She was lying face down in a puddle of ruby red liquid. He remembered being frozen. He remembered being numb. He remembered uttering the words “Mama?”, as he inched towards her.

Dom, Father, Gran-Gran, Kitten, and now Mother. He remembered kneeling down next to her. Her skin pale and cold, her eyes, wide and glassy. He remembered staying there for several minutes, minutes that eventually turned into hours, and hours that seemed to go on endlessly.

He remembered forcing his hand forward, his fingers shaking and covered with blood. He remembered brushing her hair out of her face. He remembered realizing she was gone.

That was the second time in his life that he felt alone.

The next thing he knew, he was waking up in a stone cage with a few unfamiliar villagers that he was not allowed to speak to, and a thousand days of hell soon followed.

****

All of these memories ran vividly through his mind. He tried to put them out most of the time, but visiting Kitten always brought them back. Reading the words on her stone always forced him to relive those memories. They were hard for him to think about, but he was not going to let that stop him.

Kitten deserved to know. He felt tears streaking down his cheeks and wondered if mama and papa would be disappointed in him. Would they be sad to see their brave strong man cry? Could they see him right now?

He breathed again, seized his tears, and got to his feet. He took a few steps and sat next to Kitten’s grave. One long look at the landscape. The village was far off into the distance. He could only see it because the forests had been plundered and burned.

Still, he couldn’t make out too much of it. From here, it looked as though the tents were made of little stones, and the people were invisible. He chuckled to himself, breathed, and then launched into a story about what Kitten had missed since the last time he visited. 

****

It was almost dusk. He could see the sky glowing brighter every moment. The hill was empty as everyone was asleep at this time of day. He strolled quietly back to his sack, well-aware that he’s about to face a new day filled with the same challenges and cruelty.

He knew that he would only find pain and loss, as long as ‘They’ were around. More of ‘This’ was yet to come, he was sure of it. He closed his cage door, and lay on his stomach on top of his sack.

He had promised Mother he would be brave. He couldn’t abandon the last image she had in mind for him. He knew all about what was yet to come. A thousand days had ensured that ‘This’ wouldn’t be changing anytime soon. He was sure of it. He closed his eyes, and cleared his mind. He didn’t mind, though. He could take it.

After all, this was all he knew now. 

The End…