The smell of blood was heavy in the air. The sounds of roaring, people yelling were permeating the atmosphere. This was all a small boy could tell from his spot inside a chest.

He was afraid, his adopted father had shoved him into this chest while yelling loudly about some kind of monster horde. Frightened, he curled further into himself within the chest and put his hands against his ears, wishing that he could ignore the gruesome happenings around him.

Alas, his own heritage betrayed him. For the wolf ears that gave him a heads up on the adults of the mercenary band when he was sneaking food now gave him every detail of a man’s dying scream, of flesh being flayed from the body and of bodies hitting the ground. The child can already picture what was happening outside. He has seen plenty of monsters getting butchered by the mercenary when they made their way into the Unknown for the extermination task. He remembered the sound orc and goblin flesh made when cut and smashed by blunt weapons. Yet the thing that scared him more than the screaming was the sound of flesh ripping that he did not recognize. And the nose that helped him know when food was being cooked to get in line first was now feeding him the smell of blood and burned flesh. This time he had a clearer and more gruesome picture. He knew what human blood smelled like from the spars that managed to draw blood. That same smell was hitting his nose now.

Both noise and sound painted a picture in blood, one that got worse the more he thought on it. One that continued to burn itself into his retina even as the tears flowed out, trying in vain to wash the image away. The torture of listening to, and imagining a picture to go with, the cacophony of death continued for what seemed like forever, until the lid of the chest opened up.

Hope was shining down upon the boy again. The smells and sounds he received earlier were only from the monsters, everyone would be okay, and they would continue on like they always have been. He would get sword practice like every day with everyone gathering around helping and laughing. He would try to get first servings but then be shoved out the old man. He would refuse to sleep early and sneak out to hear the adults drink and talk. He would see them all laughing as they took turns guessing what his [blessing] would be when he manifests it in half a year’s time.

But reality was cruel. He would not get any of those things. The scene he opened his eyes to was to remain with him forever. Bodies, more monsters’ than humans’, were strewn about, some lay flat on the ground, others impaled on weapons, some intact, some missing body parts and others no more than piles of flesh and bones. From what was a division of the Mercenary Union with more than a hundred members were reduced to only four, his old man Thomas, the head, and three of the lieutenants.

As the boy was removed from the chest, tail down and ears drooped, he gave the ones standing a once over. They all had a tired look in their eyes, Thomas especially.

Once he was on the ground again, they started moving through camp to pick out whatever supplies they can get their hands on from rations to tents that were undamaged in the carnage. Their preparations made, the group moved out, but they seemed to have left their souls behind.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

The trip to civilization was a week long. Week of walking during the day and camping during the night. A week without talking as everyone was too focused on staring into space.

Around sunset on the eighth day, Central Aurora finally came into view. The great fortress city that was the middle point of the Aurora Line, the border between humans and the Unknown, a place teeming with monsters that threatened to spill forth over the rest of the continent.  

As they reached the gates, the adults were questioned for identification. And when they gave their identification, questions were asked again as to what happened to the rest and how was the monster extermination to prevent a horde from forming. Every one of the adults tensed up as the mention of the monsters by the guards. Thomas then stepped up and ground out .

“We were late. But we’ve taken care of your hide. Now let us through.”

A young guard was about ask some more questions when an older one stepped in and let the five men and child through. Passing the gates, the four lieutenant separated from Thomas and the boy, and headed for a nearby bar. With the other four leaving him, the boy started to fidget and glance around every now and then, seemingly searching for something. Noticing his behavior, the older man spoke up.

“Look, I’m not going to leave you like them ok. So stop looking for a place where I might dump you. We’re just heading to the inn so I can rest for a bit. I’ll figure out what we are going to do from now on at the inn.”

Upon arriving at the inn, the man booked a room with two beds and ushered the boy along with himself up the stairs. Once inside, the man sat down on his bed and stared at the boy. After a long minute to consider something, he spoke up.

“I promised your parents that would take care of you when they passed away. And I intend to keep that promise. Though I will not be a good parent from now on. Are you ok with this?”

A shy nod was his reply.

“Good, I’ll go sign up for an adventurer card tomorrow to support us. Now just get some rest alright. We have been sad for long enough. It’s time to move on. So, good night Taryn.”

His piece said, Thomas plopped down on his bed and slept while Taryn moved over to his.

Staring at the mattress for a moment, he decided to take the old man’s advice and try to rest. Though trying did him little good. The images of the corpses still swam freely in his mind. Unable to rest, the boy looked around himself for something to do to past the time.

Eyes landing on the sheathed scimitar Thomas dropped as he got on the bed, the boy made his way quietly over to the weapon, ears perked for any minute change in the room’s older occupant. Making it to the blade that was almost as tall as he was, the boy gently unsheathed the deadly weapon.

Only to put it down and make away from the bed with the sheath. Getting into a basic stance, he started swinging the sheath like his old wooden sword, the bad memories faded away and there was only him and the ‘blade’ in his hands.

As he went through the swings, other memories, much more pleasant than the previous one, floated to the surface. Scenes of him doing each of the swings incorrectly, getting corrected and then being laughed at for still failing for every swing set he finished.

An hour went by, yet the boy still swung, ever chasing the far away past. Only to stumble as he finished what must have been the hundredth set after his body ran out of energy to fuel his futile efforts. Putting the sheath back onto the scimitar, the boy reached a conclusion with his limited cognitive abilities.

He just needed to swing the sword and things would be okay.