Writer in the Depths

Nestled in the highest tree, holding his breath as tears slipped down his face, the boy watched as the armed men shouted and jeered for him to come out of his hiding spot. Every yell, every stab in the brush made him flinch, but his hands clung tight to the branches despite the freezing cold. Any movement, any sound would be his death and he had so much to live for. 

A locket dangled from his neck, twinkling in the moonlight. Taking a deep breath, the boy released one hand from the tree and quickly shoved the locket under his clothes. It would be safe there underneath layers of coats and scarves, so long as the chain didn’t snap with his movements. 

The boy’s tears eventually froze on his face as the chill permeated his skin, turning his lips blue and his nose bright red. With the dropping temperature as the moon rose higher in the sky, the boy narrowed his eyes and focused on the troops below him. They weren’t that powerful; the only reason they managed to wipe the boy’s regiment from existence were the sheer numbers in which they attacked. 

Well. At least his friends managed to thin their numbers by a small bit. Maybe he could win this.

The boy looked to the sky, whispered, “Goddess save me,” and took a final breath. 

Power coursed through his body as he held his hand out, aiming at the lantern bearer. Take out the light and maybe he’d have an advantage. An arrow of light shot from the boy’s hand and pierced the army man holding a shining lantern. The man tumbled to the ground and the lantern rolled away as the rest of the men took their stances. 

“Little fucker!” one of the men shouted, scrambling for the lantern even as its flame flickered and died on the wind. 

If any of them had the sense to look up, they would have noticed the boy’s shining eyes as he surveyed the landscape, but the men were too busy with their ignorance to look above them. The boy singled out the leader, barking orders at the others as he held his sword in front of him and wildly spun back and forth, and sent his next arrow of light straight for the man’s heart. 

One by one, the army men fell to his arrows. Once the boy was satisfied that none of them would be able to chase after him, he slowly descended the tree and jumped to the ground. The men who were still alive groaned and writhed as the boy stepped around them, but one managed to grab the boy’s ankle. 

“Southern scum,” the man hissed, blood spittle flying from his lips. “Why? Why kill us?”

The boy raised his hand, light coalescing above it. He had no time for these men or their thoughts about his blood; he certainly had no time to explain why he killed a bunch of men tracking him down to no doubt do the same to him. 

Those men wanted him dead. All because of his Southern blood. Northerners. Always thinking the worst of those who were different from them. They wiped out his friends with no mercy, so why would he show them any kindness? It was easier to kill. 

Now that he was sure none of them could follow him, the boy began to run. He could hear the voices of his friends, his brother, all his comrades who died so he could escape. He knew he needed to run, to get out of this cursed forest before the North sent reinforcements. They’d find the bodies and know that someone escaped, that the boy’s regiment wasn’t fully wiped out. 

Was it an order? Did the North know they were there? Or did they happen to patrol this area and just find them by chance? Was anyone still alive?

Every question on his mind drove him crazy. There was no saving anyone other than himself, so he needed to run and get as far away from his regiment’s camp as possible. He knew there was a village nearby, but interacting with Northerners was risky enough, especially after he killed so many of their army men. 

No choice. With no food, no allies, and no real shelter, the boy needed to find a place to rest. 

Trudging along the forest path, shivering in the cold, the boy walked on and on.