Let me tell you a tale. A rather tragic one at that, if I do say so myself. Many years ago there was a young child… a happy child.

He lived in large two story house with two loving parents. The mother was a housewife, whilst the father worked as a high ranking officer in the city guards. The father was a man full of justice, a man full of kindness and a man with an empathetic heart… yes, he was a very good man.

The details somewhat allude me these days, but from what I recall, he was a tall man, standing at 6ft5, with a strong build. He always used to carry quite the intimidating atmosphere, with his dark hair always neatly combed back and his deep blue eyes seemingly able to pierce right through you. And yet numerous wrinkles suggesting a man full of smiles and laughter were ever present on his face. It really is quite strange to be able to remember him in so much detail after so many years.

Now onto his wife, the woman always supporting this good man. She, with her long chestnut coloured hair and large dark brown eyes, was quite the beauty. A woman who dedicated her everything to her family and who would do anything to protect it.

The good man had many enemies. The criminals whose business he interfered with, and the other officers whose actions were always overshadowed by his dedication to his job. It should be no surprise that all their jealousy and hate eventually reached the tipping point.

To put it simply, the good man was found guilty of accepting bribes and even assisting some criminal organisations, staging the feats he had accomplished in career in collaboration with them. Of course, he was framed.

In the end nobody wanted to damage the trust the citizens had in the guards and kept the matter discreet. The kind man was exempt from imprisonment and was heavily fined instead. Now that I think about it, this fate seems somewhat crueler than just imprisonment.

Although the details of the incident were not widely known, very few wished to hire what they could only assume was a man with a questionable character. He could also not leave his family alone in the city to work as a mercenary, due to the fear of his enemies taking action.

Despite all this, the good man kept working hard for his family and to pay off the fines thrust upon him. He worked day and night, accepting any job requiring physical labour to keep his family’s lives comfortable. Then one day he died; exhaustion had killed him. Both the wife and child cried day and night mourning the death of that good man.

The heartbroken wife sold the house, and moved to a poorer district with the child, where they would continue their lives. Unfortunately, things weren’t so simple. After all, the good man was gone, and yet there were still some who felt wronged by this good man.

The outcome should be quite obvious. Let me paint you a picture:

Outside of the newly bought house sat a child of 6 or 7 years of age. He sat there on the ground lifelessly like a puppet with its strings cut. His dark hair neatly combed back just like his late father and his large dark brown eyes full of tears.

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The sun was quickly setting, but that child didn’t move from his spot. He just continued to gaze for hours at what lay before him. It was as if his brain couldn’t process what his eyes were seeing. In front of that child of the good man and dedicated wife lay a body. Mottled bruises were spread across all limbs and on the skin showing through the ripped fabric of the dress the body wore. It was an act of cruelty to let a child see his mother in such a state. Of course she was long dead, I mean how could one be alive despite the numerous bleeding gashes on her once fair and unmarked skin? How could one still be alive despite their limbs being twisted at such angles? Would one even want to be alive after experiencing such brutality of both a physical, and evident of the ripped clothes, a sexual nature?

Despite those clearly lifeless eyes, the child kept sobbing the same thing over and over:

“Mom, please don’t go. Wake up! Please wake up! You can’t leave me to!”

The child was in hysterics. His eyes were a deep red, tears streaming down his face. He kept repeating the same thing between heart wrenching sobs.

“Wake up!” “Wake up!” “Wake up!” “Wake up!” “Wake up!”

Unfortunately nothing can wake up the dead. The once happy child was now sad, and oh so very alone. Eventually he was taken away from the corpse by the neighbours despite his incessant cries that she would wake up any moment.

The sad child was now an orphan. Days later a sister of the church came to take him away. To take him to the orphanage where he would learn about the so called wonders of God and begin his new life, at least according to the endless blabbering of the sister. As she led the gloomy child to the church orphanage, she realised she’d forgotten something; she didn’t even know the child’s name. Turning around and crouching down to his level, she asked the child.

“What’s your name?”

“Cyne, Cyne Wight”, responded the child, with an empty voice.

“Well Cyne don’t look so down, soon you’ll be learning about and embracing the love of our god, Sol”, she said.

She had a somewhat unnerving, fanatical gleam in her eyes as she attempted to cheer up the sad child. But how could such words truly clear the murkiness in his heart. Despite the pain of losing his mother and before that his father, he put on a smile. The sad child smiled to hide his broken heart, he smiled at the unfairness of life and he smiled at what he can only assume is a bleak and empty future.

I can tell you that he still wears that smile to this day while his true emotions remain hidden, and while his true character remains unknown. Yes, it’s true; after those events so many years ago… I never stopped smiling.