And we're back! Today we get a look at the Ranger's life before her exile to Wraeclast, and I'll warn you up front - this one ends on a bit of a cliffhanger. Not to worry, though! It shall be resolved in the last one, where we'll meet the Witch and finish our intertwined tale. (also, no Templar pants in this one, sorry, just couldn't make it work)



Previous Stories:

Templar - https://www.pathofexile.com/forum/view-thread/1403133

Scion - https://www.pathofexile.com/forum/view-thread/1414654

Marauder - https://www.pathofexile.com/forum/view-thread/1419489

Duelist - https://www.pathofexile.com/forum/view-thread/1457891

Shadow - https://www.pathofexile.com/forum/view-thread/1488082







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No Man's Slave

---------------------





Breathe.



Draw.



Release.



Watch the arrow fly downrange. Watch skin pierce, blood flow, legs falter, then fall.



Exhale.



I lope through the underbrush, tanglevines and thornbush nothing more than momentary annoyances against my leather clad legs, and kneel next to my prey. A quick slash across the throat, life’s blood spraying hot and heavy against the forest floor, and it’s done. The deer kicks once, the last tremors of muscles cursed to move no more, and then falls still. I set to work, transmuting the corpse into something more portable.



Another week avoiding starvation.



-------------------------------------------------



My first memory was of the earth. Hazy shapes surround me, the blurry, oversized abstractions of childhood, but the smell remains vivid, as if I just encountered it for the first time this morning. Rich scents of dark soil and decaying plant matter, mixed with the sharp bite of autumn air, the cold not yet painful, but present in the stab of my nose and lungs whenever I take a breath. Underlying it, a subtler fragrance, the musky trail of... something. Something that fits with the earth and sky, yet stands apart; a part of the background, yet more.



Something alive.



Another scent intermingles with the rest, the acrid tinge of woodfire, death, sweat and hate.



Uncle.



-------------------------------------------------



My parents died before I knew to remember them. Mother in birth, her blood and child spilling out along with whatever she hoped to be in life. Father half a year before, executed for poaching, dancing at the end of a rope. It didn’t matter he had a pregnant wife, or that Lord Priapus had more deer running through his forest than the wolves could possibly cull. A man was caught taking what belonged to another man, and the laws were clear.



Uncle didn’t want to take me in at first, or so the women in the settlement said. I can’t say that I blame him. What would a huntsman in a shabby village, filled with farmers and loggers, want with a newborn babe? A child would contribute nothing to his hunts, nothing to his life. It would be like catching his own foot in a trip snare.



I wouldn’t have taken me.



Luckily, Uncle did take me in, for whatever reason, and so I had a home. It wasn’t much, a small hut near the edge of the forest, stinking tanning rack stretching from its eastern side like a miniature gallows, dirty smoke gathering underneath the brittle straw eaves in the winter, but it offered shelter from the elements, and Uncle provided food for us both once I weaned off the teat of Marlia, one of the farmers’ wives.



Sometimes a home only has to be better than nothing.



-------------------------------------------------



I was five when Uncle first brought me along on a hunt. A wild boar had maimed one of the farmers, crippling his leg while he was out in the fields. Soon thereafter, a delegate from the local lord, a pimple-faced youth wearing silk lined robes, rapped on the hut’s flimsy door, disturbing Uncle from his customary midafternoon nap. With a groan, he rolled off the feather filled pallet he called a bed and stood, his bulky frame nearly brushing up against the hut’s thatch ceiling. Several wisps of straw lay tangled in his close cropped black hair, giving him the appearance of a bear roused early from hibernation. He staggered over to the door.



“Yeh, what ye want?”



“Boar. Seems it’s developed a taste for blood. It needs to be tracked down and killed.”



“Pay?”



The delegate glanced at me, seated in the corner of the hut, and I tried to puff my chest out, squinting my features to appear brave. A stack of arrows lay in front of me, my fingers combing through the ragged fletchings and discarding the most unusable. Uncle firmly believed in the idea of everyone earning their keep. The delegate laughed, and turned back to Uncle.



“Twenty marks. From my father. Lord Priapus.”



Uncle spat on the dirt floor.



“Pah. Fer a boar, it be twenty five, and not a sliver less. Creatures ‘r dangerous.”



“Deal.”



Both Uncle and the delegate spat on their hands, then shook to seal the negotiation. The delegate looked over at me again.



“The brat do anything useful? Father is always looking for new toys. Some meat on her and she’d fill out nicely.”



Uncle paused, the youth’s hand still trapped in his massive grip, then the muscles on his forearm clenched, coarse black hair rippling. The youth’s face went white, and he gasped in pain.



“She’s a ranger, same as I. Ye tell his Lordship she ain’t fer sale. Now git ye gone, we’ve a boar t’ track.”



So speaking, he released the delegate’s hand. The youth clutched it to his chest, opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, then stumbled out the door instead, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. I stared up at Uncle, still standing by the door, a grim set to his mouth.



“What did he mean, ‘toys?’”



“Don’t ye worry ‘bout that. The arrows finished?”



I nodded, my hair momentarily falling across my eyes and glowing golden in the sunlight from the open door. I reached up to push it back and suddenly Uncle was kneeling in front of me, his face across from mine, his feet silent on the earth as always.



“That’ll get ye killed. Lose yer vision, lose yer life.”



He grabbed my hair with one hand, thin white scars crosshatching his skin, older, deeper scars running up and down his forearms - relics of a life before I was born. With his other hand, he pulled his hunting knife from his belt, its blade razor sharp. I swallowed, unable to take my eyes away from the length of metal.



“Cuttin’s easier. Won’t get caught in branches. Save ye from beasts, might save ye from men fer a while yet. Keep still, child.”



Two quick swipes later and a pile of blonde hair lay on the floor of the hut. The back of my neck felt strangely cold, air prickling skin used to a comforting weight. I reached up a hand to scratch instinctively. Uncle stood up in front of me, then walked back over to the door, pulling his oak longbow from its hanging perch on the wall. Below it loomed the squat black chest he never opened, a thick iron lock guarding whatever lay within. He looked at it briefly, then shook his head and stepped outside.



“Grab the arrows. It’s time ye started learning t’ hunt.”



Shivering, I bundled the arrows into a quiver and followed him out into the forest.



-------------------------------------------------



Wind rustled the broad fanned leaves around us, the soft noise reminding me of a gently flowing stream. Ahead, Uncle glided from tree to tree, making no more sound than the wind, pausing occasionally to examine a patch of dirt on the ground, or a broken branch. I tried to keep pace with him, my short legs moving almost at a run, but it felt like every part of the forest conspired against me. Vines clutched at my arms and legs, branches tried to snag my feet, and piles of dead leaves hid snake and rabbit holes, making my footing treacherous. Gradually, I fell further and further behind, until suddenly, I realized I couldn’t see Uncle anymore.



I froze, looking wildly in all directions, but nothing met my sight except gently swaying trees and bushes. Inside the quiver I carried, the arrows began rattling together, and with a start, I noticed my hands were shaking.



“U... Uncle?”



“Quiet, child,” a voice hissed next to my ear, and I nearly screamed. In the shadow of the tree beside me, seeming to blend into its very bark, stood Uncle, his bow strung and in hand. He motioned with his hand for the quiver, and I passed it to him, watching him drive two arrows into the ground at his feet and then nocking a third, its spike tipped point long and cruel.



“Ye need t’ learn t’ move with the forest, not through it, child. Let yerself become part of its skin, its bones. Claim it fer yer own, else it’ll claim ye. Now, ye see that clearin’ up ahead? Where half the tree’s been ripped off?”



Silently I nodded.



“Good. Go walk next t’ that stump in the middle.” He paused, looking me dead in the eyes, his expression fierce. “And when ye get there, ye breathe deep, and don’t ye dare move, no matter what happens. Now go.”



Frightened, I turned and started making my way to the clearing, wondering why Uncle had said what he did. Another root threatened to trip me, and I almost fell, grabbing a branch at the last minute to halt my descent. Small thorns on the leafy twig bit into my skin, and I pulled my hand away, shaking it to try and ease the pain. Small droplets of blood pattered onto the forest floor, and then I emerged into the clearing.



Tall grass, nearly chest high on me, covered the open area, and sunlight lanced in from above, sending dappled shadows shifting across the swaying stalks. I pushed my way out to the middle, my eyes on the broken tree stump Uncle had given me as a landmark, grass crackling under my feet, then stumbled to a halt, fear tightening my throat.



Across from me, shouldering its way out from between two saplings, was the red eyed glare of a wild boar, nearly twice as tall as me at its shoulder, and close to eight feet long. Tusks like sabers jutted up from its lower lip, and it snuffled at the air, slowly turning its head from side to side. Suddenly, it took in a deep breath, then looked directly at me and grunted, pawing at the ground. I could see the bristly hairs standing almost straight out from its toughened hide, strands of saliva drooling from its narrow chin, and with a peculiar lassitude, I realized I was going to die. It grunted again, lowered its head, then charged, trotters tearing up great clods of dark loam. Time itself seemed to slow as I watched it close the distance between us, but I couldn’t move, held fast by Uncle’s dire warning. The air lay thick around me, and with an effort of will, I sucked in a shuddering breath.



The first arrow tore past my right ear, ripping the air with its passage, and buried itself in the boar’s left eye, blood spraying out from the edges of the wound. Nearly simultaneously, the second arrow whipped past my left ear, taking the boar’s remaining eye in another crimson flood. The boar lifted its head and began a squealing scream, still bearing down on where I stood, and then a third arrow hissed past my left ear again, smashing almost its entire length into and through the roof of the boar’s mouth, piercing up into its brain. The boar crumpled, sliding to a halt not two feet in front of me, the mountain of its heaving sides now still and dead.



That was when my own legs gave out, and I fell to the earth, trying not to vomit, the stink of the dead animal’s voided bowels wafting along the breeze.



-------------------------------------------------



“Ye did good, child. Not many men can say they’ve stood fast ‘gainst a boar’s charge.”



I sat in silence, watching Uncle prepare the carcass for transport back to the hut, my legs still shaking. The boar’s bloody hide lay splayed across the grass, like some ghoulish rug, and with a quick slice, Uncle separated another thick chunk of meat and placed it on the pile atop the skin, then looked over at me.



“Come, child.”



He beckoned with a blood drenched fist, and I tottered over to stand next to him. Silently, he reached into the boar’s belly, his arm muscles clenching, then withdrew a dark red object, its surface smooth and dripping.



“Here. ‘S heart. Ye’ve earned it.”



Trying not to shudder, I took the glistening mass of muscle into my hands, startled at its weight. I looked at him, confused. He laughed.



“Ye take a bite. No better source of life than a fresh killed heart. Make its vitality yer own.”



He must have seen the fear in my eyes, because he scowled.



“Listen, child. Ye lived. Remember that fear, what ye felt when it bore down on ye, when ye thought ye were gonna die, and remember that the boar’s dead, and yer not.” A red stained finger prodded my chest, not roughly, but not gently either. “Ye take that fear, and ye turn it into rage, make it so any creature that thinks of doin’ t’ ye what that boar wanted to do ends its life the same way. If ye let fear consume ye, yer as good as dead, no matter where ye might be. Ye breathe, and then ye shoot. That’ll keep ye alive, and naught else.”



I nodded, and raised the heart to my lips, fighting down the roiling sensation in my belly. A quick flash of teeth, and I tore off a hunk of the chewy material, the hot, salty tang of iron blooming on my tongue. I grimaced and chewed, thinking back to the utter helplessness I felt in the clearing. Suddenly, anger surged through me - anger at the boar for trying to kill me, anger at myself for standing there, useless and afraid - and I vowed never to feel that way again. Snarling, I tore off another chunk of the heart, worrying at it viciously. Uncle’s mouth turned up in a grim smile.



“That’s the spirit, child. You kill it before it kills you. ‘S the only law in the forest. The only law that counts anywhere, fer that matter.” He sliced off another slab, the pale bone of ribs peeking between layers of fat and muscle, and tossed it on the pile. “Now, why d’ ye think I sent ye t’ the clearing?”



I wiped my face with the back of my arm, smearing crimson along its length, and tried to think. Uncle had been checking the ground constantly on the way there, along with the trees, and a longbow was only useful if the target was some distance away...



“You knew it was there. You used me as bait to lure it out into the clearing, where you’d have a clear shot.”



“Good, child. Good.”



“But what if it killed me?”



“When ye hunt, ye use what’s available t’ end the hunt, else ye be courtin’ death,” he pointed at my legs, “an’ ye still walk like yer feet are trapped in buckets. If ye moved, ye would’ve died, but ye didn’t. That means I can train ye. Now go look at the tree, the one with the shredded trunk. Tell me what ye see.”



I looked around the clearing, spotting the tree Uncle had pointed out earlier, the pale flesh of its exposed inner core stark against the dark skins of its companions, and walked over to it, absent-mindedly taking another bite from the heart in my right hand and trying not to make any noise with my steps.



Up close, the splintered surface of the tree appeared to have been gouged by some sort of weapon, deep grooves overlapping each other almost higher than I could reach. In the depths of the grooves, bristly hairs lay lodged like miniature saplings, and a pungent aroma emanated from the tree’s base, most of the grass trampled into the surrounding dirt. I returned to Uncle and told him what I’d seen.



“Ye mark that close, fer it’s boar sign. The beast likes to warn other beasts away from its den, and that’s how it does. Scratching trees with it’s tusks, ‘n markin’ the base with scent.” Uncle tapped his head, then wiped his knife clean with a fistful of grass and sheathed it. “One of the things ye need to learn is signs of all the different beasts, and what each means. Boar, bear, hart, hound an’ more - ye learn ‘em, or ye die. Now help me wrap up the meat.”



I grabbed the rear legs of the skin, and brought them up to Uncle, who quickly tied them into a knot with the front legs, turning the whole mess into a giant bag filled with boar flesh. Behind us, flies buzzed around the butchered corpse. Grunting, he clasped a thick fist around the knot and swung the hide over his shoulder, and we began to make our way back to the hut.



So ended my first hunt.



-------------------------------------------------



Seven years passed under Uncle’s tutelage, seven years of learning how to make myself part of the forest instead of an interloper. We hunted more boars and the occasional bear for Lord Priapus, foxes and rabbits for the stewpot, birds for the spit, and very rarely, a deer for ourselves, but only when no other option presented itself. I can still remember Uncle’s words the first time we set out for one, the two of us ghosting through the twilight dusk of the forest.



“Ye listen close, child. Takin’ a deer and gettin’ caught be worth yer life, as yer father learnt. The gamekeepers track ‘em close, an’ if they be better than ye, ye’ll dance a rope necklace by day’s end. Ye only take a deer if ye’ve no other choice, if it’s between ye and starvin’, an’ ye make sure ye take ‘em where none can see.” He paused, staring intently at me. “An’ if there be someone t’ see, ye make a choice of yer life or theirs. Remember the law.”



I nodded soberly, my tied-back hair brushing against the shortbow slung along my back. I had no love for anyone not family, and his words made sense. The rumbling pangs of hunger in my stomach gave his words an added urgency, and silently I cursed Lord Priapus’ youngest son, the pimple-faced youth, now barely turned a man, who acted as emissary between Uncle and the Lord. Lately he’d been having us hunt night and day to set the table for his lavish parties, and game was becoming harder and harder to find, driving us into our illicit excursion. The stupid man didn’t understand the necessity of striking a balance, of taking only what was necessary.



Wolves that feast in summer starve in winter.



I slipped through a copse of short ash saplings, following the trail of our prey. A half-visible hoofprint in dried mud here, small tufts of fur on a branch there, a not yet dry pile of spoor under a broad fern - all signs that we were closing in. My feet glided silently along the forest floor, encased in supple leather boots, avoiding any treacherous twigs or dry leaves that could give us away. A slight breeze prickled against my face, always from the front. Uncle had made it clear that staying downwind of a deer was essential.



A bush rustled up ahead and I froze, letting my body sink into the rhythm of the forest. A branch swayed gently next to me... or was that my arm? A sigh of air danced through the canopy overhead... or was that my breath? Moonlight glinted off two pairs of eyes - mine and the deer’s? Or just mine alone, from two separate vantages?



Sap pulsed long mile journeys through my veins, and I slowly (oh so slowly) unslung my bow, its curved length barely five hands tall. The deer and I continued to lock gazes, the bulk of his body hidden by the thicket in which he stood, pale antlers like skeletal hands clutching towards the star-speckled night sky above us. I nocked an arrow, my fingers trembling slightly.



“Breathe.” Uncle’s voice murmured into my ear, the unseen weight of his body hovering just behind me. Slowly (oh so slowly), I inhaled, feeling muscles imperceptibly relax and loosen, then exhaled, the deliberate flow of air through nose and mouth. I breathed in once more, and held it. My fingers stilled.



“Draw.”



Wrist, then forearm, then shoulder, then back, my bowstring calmly stretching to rest next to my cheek, the barest hint of a tickle on my skin from the arrow’s fletching. In front of me, the stag’s eyes like midnight pools, drowning my gaze in their depths.



“Release.”



Without thought, without desire, simply as an action that must be, my fingers loosed their grip on the arrow. Wood blurred through the moon dappled air, gut-twisted bowstring slapped against my wrist bracer, and with a shocking suddenness, the stag crashed to the ground, kicking and bleating.



“Ye finish it quick, child. Hurry.”



I grabbed Uncle’s razor sharp hunting knife from his outstretched hand, and loped over to the thicket. Lying half in and half out was the thrashing form of the stag, his eyes rolling in pain, my arrow sunk halfway into his chest. Arterial blood, appearing black in the darkness, oozed out around the shaft and pooled in the dark soil below. I reached down, grabbing his antler rack to steady his head, and drew the blade across his throat in one smooth motion, taut skin peeling back to release a torrent of crimson life. One final twitch, and the stag lay still, head heavy in my hand, eyes dull and clouded.



I exhaled, sinking back into a crouch, my sense of the forest fading with my breath. I felt... empty, drained of some connection, but not upset. Simply resigned, accepting a world that could only be what it was. Uncle came up beside me, and my stomach rumbled, reminding me of why we were here.



“Ye did good. No sense in lettin’ a creature suffer unjustly. Now quick, help with the dressing. No telling if a gamekeeper be sniffin’ around this night.”



Uncle threw a rope net on the ground next to the deer and then went to work on its body, separating the legs and flanks into more portable sections. As he finished each one, I grabbed it and placed it in the middle of the net, until all of the easily accessible meat was piled up, then I brought the corners together and tied them off, transforming it into a sack. Uncle slung it over his shoulder, and we began the long walk back home, leaving behind the hastily dismembered carcass of what had been a proud creature not half an hour before.



“What happens if they find the deer?”



Uncle spat.



“They’ll know it were poached, but not by who. ‘S why we use the net, and only take what we can carry. Dragging the whole beast back would lead ‘em right t’ our door. Forest’ll make use of what we left, don’t ye worry ‘bout that. Something dies so others might live.”



I thought back to the stag, my vision locked with his, and a curious sensation crawled through my stomach, my connection to the forest reasserting itself. He was dead, so that I might live, and living was all the sweeter for that knowledge. One day, I would be on the other side of the arrow, and the forest would make use of me as well, but that day was not yet at hand. Even the strongest animal grows old, and none can stop time’s passing. Until that day, I would fight to keep my place, keep my life.



Life is nothing without death.



-------------------------------------------------



More years passed, and I found myself changing from a girl into a woman. Uncle had one of the farmwives teach me about my monthly cycle, what to prepare for, but it was still a shock the first time it happened. The shock faded though, and quickly turned into nothing more than an annoyance, much like the strips of linen I now had to use to keep my breasts bound to my chest. Running through the forest was hard enough without flopping udders getting in my way like some milk cow. I worried that Uncle would say something, declare me unfit to be a ranger anymore, but he stayed the same terse enigma he’d always been, his only concern teaching me to be the best ranger I could possibly manage.



It was late one night, both of us sitting by the fire in the hut, that I asked the question that would change my life forever.



“Uncle.”



He put down the jug of firewine he’d been sipping, his nightly ritual, and looked over at me.



“What, child?”



“Where did you learn to hunt so well? There’s no one in the village better, and we’ve never failed to track down what you’ve wanted to find. The farmwives say if you had taken that deer and not Father, he’d still be alive.”



Uncle leaned back on his cot and stared at the roof.



“Aye, and if the damn fool hadn’t been so proud and asked me t’ take it, he’d still be alive. What’s it t’ ye t’ be askin’ such questions?”



“I just want to know.”



“Knowing’s a dangerous thing, child. There’s many things I wish I didn’t know, but I do, an’ the knowing’ll never leave.”



“Huh?”



He reached for the jug of firewine and took a longer sip, more like a gulp. Maybe it was because of the drink, maybe it was because he finally felt like he could speak to me as an adult, but for whatever reason, instead of retreating into himself like normal, he started talking.



“Ye know I’m yer mother’s brother, right?”



“Of course. Why?”



“We grew up far from here, the two of us, deeper in the wilds of Oriath. Our parents were farmers and gatherers, living off the land like theirs before them, but then one day, they died. Disease. T’was just me and yer mother, barely as old as ye are now.”



He took another drink.



“We tried t’ get by, but we weren’t strong enough. Couldn’t make the farm work, not by ourselves. I knew how t’ hunt, even back then, enough to catch rabbits, and that kept us alive, but only barely. Then yer mother fell sick. I didn’t know what else t’ do, so I carried her into town, near three days away. When I got there, the doctor said he’d fix her if I could pay.”



Uncle laughed bitterly, firewine sloshing inside the jug.



“‘Course, we didn’t have any money. We were children from the wilds, tryin’ t’ stay alive. I begged him, but he wouldn’t budge. No money, no cure. I didn’t know what t’ do.”



His eyes lost focus, then, fading into memory.



“That’s when I saw the recruiter walkin’ down the street, all gleaming black armor and shiny gold. I asked him if he had any money, and he grinned at me. ‘Son,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you ten marks on the spot if you sign up t’ join the Ebony Legion. We’re always lookin’ fer new Blackguards, and you look like you’ll do well.’”



“The Ebony Legion? You were in the army?”



“Aye. I told him yes, a’course. Otherwise she would’ve died, and I was done losin’ family. He gave me the marks, I paid the doctor, and then I left fer the capitol t’ serve, hopin’ yer mother would survive while I was gone.”



“What happened? In the army?”



“They found I had a talent, and they honed it. Stalkin’ a man’s not much different than stalkin’ a rabbit. Bit easier, t’ be honest. Rabbit’s got better hearing. Anyway, I learnt what they taught, and I must’ve learnt it well, because it weren’t long before I met the General. Gravicius.”



“Gravicius?”



“Aye, a snake on two legs, that one. Him and his master both.”



“Who’s his master?”



“Dominus.”



“You met the High Templar?”



Uncle tilted the jug back again.



“Aye, I served under him, though it gives me no pleasure t’ say. I was in the first group he took into the madness. Into Wraeclast.”



I felt surprise shoot through my veins. Wraeclast was forbidden, the nightmare to warn children with when they misbehaved, and Uncle had actually been there?



“You went to Wraeclast? Really?”



“I just said it, didn’t I? Maybe yer not old enough t’ hear this, yet.”



“I am!”



“Very well. Grab me the other jug. Ye may want t’ hear it, but it’s no easy story t’ tell.”



I hurried to the shelf to fetch Uncle his drink. He continued talking, his voice somber.



“It all started in Oriath. Dominus believed he’d found something in Wraeclast, something long thought lost, and he wanted t’ get it back. Wanted t’ get its power, so he told Gravicius to put together a battalion of his finest soldiers. Just my luck, I was one of those he picked. They bundled us all onto boats, told us we were on a ‘special mission,’ and then next thing I knew, I was walkin’ the ruins of the Empire.”



“The Empire?”



“Them what came before us. Voll, the Purity Rebellion, Chitus and the like. Something bad happened in Wraeclast, any fool could tell, and we were there to pick through its bones, Dominus guidin’ our steps. ‘Cataclysm’ is what they called it.”



Uncle twisted the top off the jug with one of his scarred hands, fingers trembling slightly, then took another drink.



“We lost five men the first night, dragged into the trees by walking corpses, flesh all withered and torn. Swords barely bothered ‘em, and arrows just stuck in their flesh. Next night was worse. We saw things... things no one should be meant t’ see. Ice ripping through air and men from cackling skeletons, giant spiders there one minute and gone the next, pale green ghosts consuming entire squads and leavin’ only their screams.”



I can still remember the way Uncle looked when he said his next words, like he was trapped in a nightmare he’d been trying his whole life to escape.



“We were there fer what felt like years.”



He raised the jug to his lips, and kept it there for several seconds. When he put it back down, his eyes seemed even more unfocused.



“Ye ask how I learnt t’ hunt so well. Tis simple, child. I learnt in the forests of Wraeclast, in the streets, in the mountains and the swamps. I learnt from from watchin’ my friends die, and killin’ the monsters that took ‘em.” He pointed a finger at me, his dirt-grimed nail unwavering. “Kill or be killed. There’s no other choice. Those of us who made it back learnt that lesson t’ our bones. Ye use what ye have, no matter what the price of that usin’ be, and ye try yer best t’ forget it after.”



He glanced over near the door and shuddered, then closed his eyes and rolled over on his side.



“Once we found what Dominus sought, he led us back t' Oriath, preparin' an even larger expedition. Not scoutin' this time. Invasion. They wanted me t' stay, but I chose t' leave, and tracked yer mother down. She’d met yer father by then, the two of them livin’ out here in this village, and I joined ‘em. Rest of it, ye know.”



I should have left it there, should have let him drift off to sleep, but I had to ask. Curse me for a fool, but I did. I knew what he was looking at, the one thing in the hut that never seemed to fit, like the sense of an intruder in the forest I sometimes got when wandering the trees and a gamekeeper was on patrol, slipping through the undergrowth.



“Is that why you never open the trunk under your bow? The black one, with the iron lock? Because it reminds you of the army?”



His eyes sprang back into focus and he tilted his neck over, looking at me sharply, but when he spoke, it was with the voice of a wild animal caught in a snare, gnawing at its own limb to escape.



“There ain’t nothing in that trunk but bad memories and pain, child. Pray there never comes a day when we need it. Now get t’ bed. It’s late, and we’ve spent too much time on the past.”



Curiosity unsatiated, I did as he said, but even as I drifted off to sleep, I knew that I needed to know what was in the trunk. What was in it that could scare the most unshakeable person I’d ever known.



I soon learned the price of that knowledge, and to this day, I regret it.



------------------------------------------------- Last bumped on Mar 31, 2016, 5:56:45 PM