Jealousy burned in Tor’s heart like a furnace. It was love, or was it? It stung into his soul, more painful than the soldier’s beatings that week. Sometimes, between thoughts of loneliness and yearning, he felt hatred and despair.

He walked up through the forest and sat with his back against a pine, overlooking the creek.

But Tor was angry. Since that day she had protected him, Alana had become the most important person in the whole world; her voice had become the stuff of dreams, as had her shining hair and bright blue eyes. For an instant, he had thought she cared enough for him to share a heart and love, but she had not hesitated embracing Kassius.

Kassius, how he hated him. As much as he had saved his life, he had taken away something more important.

Those were strange times, but Tor realized he had nothing else to hold on to. So much had happened in the past few days, that it seemed like he had been snatched away into another life. He sighed, then stared into the cold creek and saw himself. He saw his downtrodden face, ruffled dark hair, bruised lips, and tired blue eyes. He had been skinny before, but now, his eyes were surrounded by shadows and his face looked like a fruit that had been let out to dry in the sun. His cheekbones were even more pronounced, and the shadows under his eyes made him look a bit like a skeleton, and his arms had become frail like branches. Why did life have to be that way?

In the depths of his soul he demanded Alana to stand by his side, but… that could not be… After all, he was just a mute boy. She had cared for him out of pity, nothing else. How he wished he were tall and strong, that he could sway her away with his qualities, and above all, that he could avenge his dead father, and the hell his mother was going through. But no, he had to run away and be hunted down like a rabbit, only to have Kassius save him. If he could only be like he wanted.

Tor stood up, his teeth clenched. He thought he had been playing games for too long, he should maybe go back and care for his mother. Yes, she definitely needed him.

He stared at his reflection again. Who was he really, and who was he bound to be? He had to bring the best of himself. His anger still pulsated within, but he knew what to do. That anger had to be put in place and cooled down. Hot anger was uncontrollable and could hurt him quickly, like a fire in the woods. Cold anger could be directed slowly and efficiently.

“Hey, you!” a voice called behind him.

Tor turned swiftly and stood in a fright as a man walked toward him, with a sword on his belt and a fishing cane leaning on his shoulder. Tor’s few seconds of stillness turned into a rushed escapade.

“Stop!” the man yelled, unsheathing his short sword and chasing after the boy.

Tor jumped into the water. A blow of coldness bruised his skin. He stretched his arm and felt a cramp engulf his feet. He staggered in pain, and his knees recoiled. He started swimming with his arms, but soon, a hand caught his leg and dragged him back to the river bank.

Tor tried to break free as his body came out of the water, shaking uncontrollably.

“Here you are, you vermin,” the man said, letting him go, but holding on to his sword. Tor looked at him defiantly, water dripping from his hair.

“You’re that little worm, aren’t you?”

Tor stood up, glaring at the soldier and trying to hide his tremors. His stomach turned inside him, and he felt vulnerable and alone. He wished Alana was there to help him, even Kassius. How foolish of him to have left the sword at the camp.

“Now you better behave,” the soldier said, frowning with his thick black eyebrows. “We’ve got to bring you back. Now what’s your name?”

Tor stood still, his eyes fixed on the man. The soldier lunged toward him and grabbed him by the wrist.

“Come on, you little fool. Speak to me.”

Tor raised his jaw, but before he could respond with signs, the man smacked him in the face and threw him to the floor. The man sheathed his sword.

Tor gasped, clenching his fist. He lifted his head. He could not call their names, but aside from the soldier and he, there was no sound in the dark woods, no one could come to his aid. He had to fight alone, and Alana’s example burned in his soul. What should he do to fight back? He looked up as the man reached for his short hair and pulled.

“Ready to have your flesh torn from your bone? Cause’ that’s what you’ll get, you stinking partisan!”

The soldier pulled him by the hair harder, Tor couldn’t help but let out an anguished scream.

“Now, are you gonna talk or not?” the soldier asked.

Tor frowned, he gathered his muck and spat on the soldier’s face.

The soldier grimaced as he wiped it from his brow. “You son of a...”

In that instant, Tor reached for the soldier’s belt and removed the sword. It glimmered heavily. He was already accustomed to the weight and balance of a gladius. He grasped it in two hands and quickly smote it against the soldier’s side. The horrified soldier took a step back as the blood descended from around his ribs.

“You dirty...” the soldier muttered, and he brought his hand to his face and coughed blood. He stared at it in shock.

Tor opened his mouth and delivered a loud acute shriek. He strode forward and impaled the sword in the soldier’s abdomen as the man tried, in vain, to grab the blade and pull it out of his body. Tor’s anger emerged, and he turned it into a scream of fury. He pushed forth, striding like an athlete, as tears stung the corners of his tired eyes and descended through his cheeks.

He kept pushing and the dead body dropped to the ground, face up, with blood pouring and the sword impaled in his stomach, sticking up like a tree planted in an empty garden.

Tor had done it. He had slain one of his enemies. But he felt empty.

That man wanted to hurt him, yes, but he did not know him. He did not know whether he had a wife, children, dreams. Tor’s eyes were open wide. There was no pride in his action, just existence and wrath.

And he broke down, crying his heart out. He was not proud, nor repentant, he was horrified of what life had brought him to. The only thing he yearned for was his father’s embrace, his mother’s care, and a normal life, with hot stew, warm goat’s milk, and barley drinks. Holy days in a yurt, with seed-smoke engulfing the atmosphere and making everyone smile.

But he was cold, alone, and with blood on his hands. For an instant, he thought even killing them would not fix it.

Stolen story; please report.

Not even if he killed them all.

He knelt, the tears kept flowing, and he wiped his cheeks. He just wanted his parents by him. And Alana. And…

Suddenly, he heard rushed strides behind him, along with the sound of clanking metal.

“Stay still!” a voice said. “Hands up.”

Tor obeyed reluctantly, his back still toward the source of the voice. The steps drew nearer, and he saw a hand, wrists encased in leather, take away the gladius on the ground.

“You murdering scum,” the other voice said. Tor then turned and met with the eyes of two armoured soldiers.

“Is this the one?”

“This is the small one,” the other soldier responded. “The one who disappeared in the woods.”

“By Jupiter, look at what he did to that guy. Did you know him?”

“That guy is from Catotidus’ company. The fisherman.”

“Poor guy, this kid is finally going to get what he deserves.”

One of the soldiers kicked Tor’s ribs with his heavy boots. He gasped and put his hand over it, fearing it had ruptured his skin. He felt no blood, but the pain pulsated through the area and made him moan.

“Come on, march on,” said one of them, forcing him to stand up and making him advance into the woods, westward, where the village’s smoke still floated through the treetops.

And then, Tor’s mind went blank. It was as if he had taken refuge in a dark void that grew wider and deeper with every step. They pushed him through the woodland, and soon they entered the village, more desolate than ever. A few people saw him and hid their glances. He knew them, of course, but they seemed reluctant to be seen with a wanted criminal and would hopefully avoid humiliating him further.

“Come on, you scum,” the soldier kept snapping at him, but the words seemed to dissolve in the air around him.

The old chieftain’s house was still in place, a round cylinder of gray bricks, a wide window on the front. The triangular flag of the Dragon had been replaced by an Imperial Eagle. Two soldiers sat at the doorstep, helmets off, their spears leaning on the wall. Tor noticed they were playing cards. When they saw him, the guards sneered and laughed at him, as his escorts pushed the door open and him inside.

The window cast light into the walls. A man awaited seated in front of a simple table. He was old, short in stature and with white hair. He was still wearing the segmented armour, which was rusty and barely fit him.

“Let’s see,” he stood up. “What are you bringing here today?”

“We’ve come to deliver this nasty rascal and demand the reward,” said one of the soldiers.

“Alright, what do we have here?” The old soldier in charge frowned, examining Tor with his venomous eyes.

“This is the rat that killed the old Polux. We found him killing a soldier from Catótidus’ company. On the river bank.”

“How do you know it’s him?” the secretary asked, palms upward.

“He’s mute.”

“Ah, is he?” The old man kept staring at him with his reddened green eyes, his voice was so loud it made his eyes ring. “Now talk, will ya?”

Tor kept his eyes up, defiant.

“Have you pushed him to talk?”

“Emm, no.”

“Well, deliver him to the boys down there. If he responds well, we’ll get you your reward on Friday.”

“Friday?” The soldiers looked at each other. “Can we get an advance?”

“Advance? What am I, father Saturnalia? This is not how things work down here. Besides, if you’re here, what do you need that money for?”

The two frowned.

“Well, actually, our leave is coming up this week and we need...”

“Friday, I said.”

“But our leave will almost be over by then, come on,” the soldier pleaded.

“That’s how it’s done. Appeal for a swap.”

The soldiers frowned, one of them comforted the other by placing a hand softly over his shoulder.

“It’s alright, Tarus. We will manage.”

The old guard coughed and spat in a bucket by his feet.

“Now, don’t waste any more time and get this bad boy to the dungeon.”

“To the dungeon,” they said, marching Tor down.

A sudden burst of laughter came from within him. Why was life so ironic. He was about to face the worst destiny he could imagine, and those two were whining about not being able to pay for their leave.

“What are you laughing at, skunk?” one of them asked.

“Oh, we forgot you cannot talk,” said the other, with his soft voice. “Or can you?”

Tor felt as his spirit slowly disconnected from his body, as they marched him through a dark room where rats roamed about, as if the place had been built specially for them. And he saw silhouettes around him. He could not look to his sides, for the shock would be too great. He heard the sobbing of a few children and women. He noticed they were all chained to the walls.

Another guard stood by, a fat man with a red moustache.

“Newcomer,” said the two, as they delivered him.

“This is supposed to be a mute, and he killed two people.”

“He killed two? What a beast. And he looks no older than twelve.”

“I bet the bastard was killing them in their sleep or something. So dishonourable,” Julian stated with disdain.

“Well, we’ll teach you to behave before your execution,” the guard said, his moustache was so large it looked as if he didn’t move his lips. He ended his words with a loud laugh.

Soon enough, Tor was chained to the wall with rusty shackles and the two soldiers left covering their noses. Tor remained still. For some strange reason, he felt calm. As if it was going to be over soon. And it would.

The old guard rushed to the other exit and opened the door.

“Hey…” The guard clapped, addressing someone else. “Come on, boy, it’s getting dirty again. Go clean up. That lady in the second set of chains has got serious stomach problems.”

“Yes, yes,” the mysterious man behind the door responded. He walked out. It was a young man, his hair was cut like a normal civilized Itruschian, short. His skin was tanned, and he was not wearing a shirt.

He walked down the stairs, bucket and shovel in hand, with an expression of disgust. Tor noticed the still fresh scars of a whip crossing his back.

So that was his destiny, Tor thought.

After a few minutes, his arms started to ache, and so did his fingertips. He feared that the pain would become unbearable.

The young cleaner walked by him.

“New here, huh? My gods, you’re just a boy, what did you do?”

Tor shook his head.

“No? No, what?” the man asked again.

Tor made a sign with two fingers pointing downward, indicating a person, then straightened his hand, imitating a sword cutting through something.

“You killed somebody?”

Tor nodded.

“A soldier? My gods,” the man said, then proceeded to chuckle. “I wish I could say don’t worry, but you see how it is. Hope you last for a longer time,” he said, and Tor realized he was trying not to imply his imminent death. “They say they’re bringing cells and building a decent prison. You know, at least not to be hanging like this.”

The man turned around without a word and went to the corner of the room, proceeding to clean up.

“How are you doing Raxana?” he asked a woman Tor hadn’t seen.

The woman responded with a moan.

“Is it today?” she asked faintly, her voice was so mournful and pained it gave Tor chills. The desire for revenge he had felt earlier was soon overshadowed by the cloudy feeling of helplessness.

“Tomorrow, hang on.”

Was he referring to her execution? A tear slid down from Tor’s eyes. Not for him, but for the others, how they had been through greater pain than he had.

Soon, when the man was finished, he walked back to the stairs, casually peering at Tor.

He walked on.

“Sorry, I don’t have anyone to talk to here. I mean, no one that doesn’t just yell. I’m sorry, I’m one of them. Yes, I’m part of this machine, I’m a monster too.”

Tor didn’t say anything, just stared.

“My name is Felix,” the shirtless man introduced himself. “Don’t need to say your name. And please, tell them what they need to know. If not, they’ll be very rough.”