Lo, his eyes unclosed within the chamber dim, as ever they did, heavy with cold and sorrow's weight. Hurt and weary was his heart, yet deep within he knew the road must needs be taken—forward ever, though the boy's spirit lay in quiet ache, yearning for mending.
Thus began again the turning of his days: the clash of steel in dawn's pale light, the humble study of lore, the steadfast walk of daily duty. Yet now he sought no longer those souls from whom fate had cruelly rent him asunder.
He wandered forth anew upon the path once blessed by mercy's tender hand—yet now no crimson stain did mark the earth, But this time, ere he was forced to spill his blood or endure cruel blows, through all suffering and hardship, he clung solely to the words his mother once did teach him.
"I am but human. They too are human. We be human—No beasts, nor monsters, But flesh and spirit alike. We do this, that we may survive."
The boy—no longer but a child in soul though burdened as a man in grief—forgot not the art of sorrow. Beneath the veil of night, when the stars stood cold and distant, and no voice but his own did echo within the hollow chambers of his heart, he wept
Aye, he did weep—deep and long—for sorrow laid its hand upon him, heavy as fate, and no blade could cleave it, nor shield cast it off.
When dawn broke, pale and without mercy, he rose. Not as the carefree rise, but as one who must. He clothed himself in quiet strength, as a warrior dons his mail—not to conquer, but to endure. His face bore the semblance of calm, though within him raged a storm unspoken.
Though in truth, around him, loneliness clung like mist to a forgotten moor. It was not the strength of sinew he lacked, but the nearness of souls, the warmth of a kindred hand.
And ere he might wither into naught but shadow and silence, there came a stirring in the dusk. A servant—loyal not to him but to the one from whom his first breath had come—crept silent as the moonbeam through the thorned wood. In secret she led him, under cover of gloom, to a chamber unseen.
There sat his mother, queen not of lands but of his life, and when his eyes beheld her form, he made no words. Nay, he went to her lap as in days of old, and there he did weep—not with the wrathful bellows he had loosed upon beasts in the blooded dark, but with a sound so soft, so broken and frail, it might scarce be called a voice.
The servant, stricken by that sacred sorrow, departed swiftly, leaving son and mother thus entwined.
And then began the telling.
He spoke—all of it, piece by piece—as though to confess not sins but wounds. And each time his eyes met hers, he saw her own were full, brimming yet unspilled. She wore grief as one wears armor: silent, proud, and shivering within.
Thus it came to pass, the rhythm of nights hence: the faithful servant, cloaked in secrecy, would return to fetch the boy. And each time, he went not for escape, nor for solace alone, but to be known—wholly, truly—by the one whose love still lived.
Yet even as he found his way back to the arms of his mother, the lad begged—aye, with the tremble of a child and the fire of one grown too soon—that she would send no more messengers.
"I prithee, let none be sent," quoth he, "lest they meet the same end as he who once stood at thy right hand."
For the shadow of that loyal man, now fallen, still lingered in the boy's eyes.
But of all his pleas, this she heeded not.
The mother—wise, burdened, and bound to her own storms—turned her ear to silence when he spoke that wish. And so the boy, though cherished, grew frightened. Not of beasts nor war, but of loss—of losing the one whose arms gave warmth, and the siblings who bore his blood, though time's chasm yawned wide between them. He was near to them, yet not; kin by flesh, but not by shared seasons.
Gone was the stillness he once carried in the light. Even the day—once a balm—brought no peace. For dread, like ivy, climbed through his thoughts, twisting 'round his heart.
And the black-hearted knave, whose soul bore no softness, had set a new hound upon him—a loyal dog with eyes like cold stone. That beast of a man watched the lad close and whispered all he saw to his master.
Then came the command:
" Slaughter the girl."
A girl no more than six or seven winters. But the boy, standing with sword drawn and heart torn, could not. The blade fell from his grip like a dying leaf from a frost-bitten branch.
Word fled swiftly to the dog's master, who—wrath boiling—struck the lad down with blows that cracked not just bone, but the soul. He beat the boy until breath was a prayer and standing was beyond him.
And still—when the lad rose days later, blood dried in the corners of his mouth—the knave did not ask with fury, but with something darker. Suspicion.
"Why didst thou stay thy hand?" he asked.
"Mine heart could not suffer the slaying of one so young."
The boy said, voice rough as gravel, soft as grief.
But the knave did not believe. "Thou hast slain a babe ere now—barely four seasons old—yet thou showest mercy to this one?" He mused.
Then something—cold and strange—whispered through him.
A daughter. His daughter.
She, too, was but six years of age. A ghost of innocence he scarcely knew.
"How doth he feel such mercy for one he ne'er hath met?"
the knave thought.
But the truth slithered in, unbidden and unwelcome: the boy was changing, and it was not festival cheer or hollow mercy that wrought it. No—something else had kindled a flicker of light in him.
Without pause, without word, the dark man stormed toward the edge of that desolate land, where shadows lived and silence reigned. There, hidden for peace's sake between two ancient foes, dwelt his stammering son, his unwanted wife, and the daughter—born only to preserve a brittle truce.
He found them there.
And with a fury born not of justice but of fear, he seized the little girl by her hair.
"Nay touch her not"
The mother cried out and threw herself between, arms like wings, shielding the child from the wrath of a father whose heart had long since turned to stone.
*** Vecillious groaned low—a sound torn not from throat alone, but from soul. His voice was faint, wearied as a windless sail, and broken by hunger and the cruel hand of torment.
Acheros, who had begun to speak—unfolding a tale heavy with sorrow and survival—halted his words, for he saw the boy could bear no more. The story, left unfinished, would wait. For now, kindness must speak louder.
He rose, slow and steady, and reached forth his hand.
"Come, lad," his eyes seemed to say, though his mouth held still.
Vecillious only stared, unsure—silent in his distrust. The wind, restless and without grace, danced through his unkempt hair, tangling it further. Acheros, quiet and near, stepped forth. He untied a ribbon from his own arm—once tied there perhaps in idle habit or quiet memory—and gently gathered the boy's hair, binding it back with care.
Then, shedding his own coat from beneath the robe he wore, he wrapped it round the trembling lad's shoulders.
"Come," he spake, soft and low as falling snow, "Let us go hence—to warmth and bread. I mean thee no harm. Only take my hand, if thou wouldst walk further."
Hesitation danced in Vecillious' eyes like a flickering candle. He feared the flame that once burned might burn again. Yet—by some small grace—he reached out, and took the hand.
So the two went together, toward the hum of the world: toward crowds and kitchens, where bread steamed and broth soothed weary bones. Acheros, in his quiet way, gave the boy laughter—not forced, but offered freely, as one gives sunlight to a flower long in shade.
By the hour of midnight, something in Vecillious had eased—if only a little. Not joy, nor trust entire, but a soft relief, as if the chains around his heart had loosened.
As they wandered back toward the alleyway, a man near collided with the lad, swift and unaware. But Acheros pulled him close, hand to arm, shielding him without thought.
Perhaps, in that breath of a moment, Vecillious felt safe—for the first time.
And when they reached the alley, Acheros looked down and asked in gentle tone:
"Whither wouldst thou go now, young one?"
Vecillious said naught at first. He stood still, eyes to earth, then lifted his face just enough to whisper:
"Is the young lad still alive?"
Acheros smiled—a soft, small thing—for he saw in that question a sign: the boy had heard his tale after all.
"Aye," he replied. "Alive and strong still."
Vecillious, after a pause, asked again:
"What... what should I do now?"
"Thou shouldst go back," Acheros said.
"I–I..."
"I shall be by thy side," the older boy spoke again, placing his hand upon the lad's shoulder. "Now go—and rise."
He laughed then, awkward and boyish, as if the words had come too noble from his own mouth.
Yet Vecillious, hearing them, felt a strange comfort, but understood what it meant not.
"I... I know not the way back," he admitted, the fear still hiding in his voice.
He did not wish to lean on others—fearful that any hand that held him would one day strike.
Yet he spoke still.
"I will take thee home," said Acheros, "but thou must promise—forget me not."
"A-alright..." the lad whispered.
And so Acheros led him through the winding dark, back to that place long abandoned—a palace hushed and hollow, where echoes outnumbered voices.
As they stood once more in the cold hush of stone, Vecillious reached for the ribbon in his hair, intending to return it.
But Acheros held out only his hand for the coat.
"Keep it," he said. "The ribbon is a vesture of camaraderie It is precious. Guard it well."
Then he turned to go.
"Fare thee well!"
Vecillious called after him, stumbling on the words:
"Uh... p–please, tell me the rest of the tale... another time."
Acheros laughed, warm and clear.
"Aye—another time, then. Fare thee well!"
"Farewell..."
And thus the night parted—two souls no longer strangers, no longer alone beneath the stars.
.....To be continued