PROLOGUE

COWARDS DIE OLD, THE BRAVE DIE YOUNG. WHAT DO YOU CHOOSE?

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Lysander

Amidst the ashes, rubble, and blood, the people of Lysander's village, Slirick, sang songs of survival. Amidst dancing and laughter, women hugged children, holding back sobs of sorrow for a dead husband, child, brother... There could have been so many reasons. In Slirick, everyone had known each other, and they had all been like family.

Amidst the crowd, Lysander spotted his aunt Diana—his mother’s sister. She was hugging O’rityon. Lysander shrank into his chair; he did not want to be seen. He had hidden among the crowd of strangers who had helped them and who had used the power to heal his hand, though it was still tied up.

Everyone seemed to be in the square, although Lysander had not yet seen them, and he was scared to even check. What would his father think of him? Lysander was no man; he was something less. He stared into his good hand, the left one.

His vision focused so much that everything seemed to fall into a dim, blurry colour, leaving only his hands. A mug of rum was dropped into his palm. He yelped and tried to get a good grip on the mug, his focus obliterated. He looked to the side to find the culprit and saw the man who had saved him.

He hadn’t been brave enough to ask his name, but he had managed to hear what they called him.

“What have you been up to, Scythe?” asked the bulky man sitting next to Lysander. He had placed Lysander at his side after Scythe handed him over. “You’ve vanished ever since we arrived here. Are you done with your business?”

“Yeah…” said Scythe. His voice was light, lacking the bass you’d expect in a man this type of men would respect, but Lysander had seen the man fight and...

“Little boy!” Scythe said, his voice raised, although not so much that the crowd would notice, but it still managed to startle Lysander, who had been so lost inward.

“Sir,” he answered in fright. His hand began to shake. He tried hiding it, forgetting the mug in his hand, and all he managed to do was get himself wet. “Ah!” he exclaimed.

Lysander’s mind froze for a moment, trying to think of what to do, not to do, and how to remain unseen. His fear grew even more, and his shaking grew more insistent. Once again, all he could hear was that pumping sound. To him, his blood seemed quite loud. Before he could spiral further out of reality, Scythe held his shoulder and squeezed hard. From the squeeze, Lysander felt a bit of bravery, like he could stand more firmly.

“What is your name, boy?” Scythe asked in a very kind voice. Lysander trembled. He looked up from the ground for the very first time that day and saw the dark-haired man, who looked eerily familiar, looking at him with such care that Lysander began to cry.

Wasn’t this what he wanted? Someone to whom he could confess his faults, someone who would either agree with his self hatred or tell him he had done the right thing.

“L-Lysander,” he forced out the words through sobs.

“I am here for you, Lysander. You can cry on my shoulder and tell me what’s wrong, okay?” Scythe said, ruffling Lysander’s hair. “I might be new here, but you can rely on me today.”

“I ran,” Lysander said in a small voice, his eyes on the ground once again. He didn’t wait for an answer and kept going. His chest seemed a bit less heavy from that one word. “A man protects, that is how it should be… I ran, not only breaking the duty of a man but also a promise.”

Lysander continued, “But…”

Lysander could not make himself say more.

“But what, Lysander? It’s okay to say. I’m all ears. A man should always let his heart out every once in a while,” said Scythe kindly.

“I saw my neighbour, Mister… I saw him get bitten in half…” Lysander shuddered, and his sobs got deeper. “He was a big man, bigger than you, but he got bitten just like that…”

What could I have done? I'm no man… I'm just a boy.

“How old are you, Lysander?” asked Scythe slowly.

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“Twelve,” said Lysander.

“Then you've got nothing to fear since you could still be made a man yet,” Scythe said, clapping Lysander on the back. “I've got a question for you. Do you think that you could live with yourself as you are now?”

“Yes,” answered Lysander, sinking further into the chair.

“Now, the real question that matters: Do you want to live with yourself this way?” asked Scythe.

Seconds passed, and Lysander couldn't find an answer. Scythe spoke again.

“You see, Sander—that's what I'll be calling you from now on, by the way—you see, everything in life is a choice. This is a question to help you pick a choice: to be a coward or to be brave, to live with self-loathing or self-acceptance and pride, to pick the destructive comfort of who you are now or wanting something new and different.

“So I'll ask again, Sander, what do you want?”

What do I want? Lysander did not know. Would he still be alive if he hadn't run? Is his family still alive? They weren't looking for him if they were, but he knew one thing, and it was the one fact present in him at that moment. Lysander could live with himself like this, a coward, but he knew he would not because he did not want to; he wanted to be more than a coward and more of a man.

“I do not want to live with myself this way,” said Lysander, his tears running uncontrolled.

“Then what do you want? Definitely not cowardice, then. Is it bravery?” Scythe continued asking his questions like a cobbled path through the chaotic jungle that Lysander's mind had become.

“I don't know,” Lysander said, shaking his head.

“Well, take this example: Cowards die old and alone, the brave die young, but with companions. What do you choose?”

Lysander felt something was off with the question.

“None,” said Lysander, who didn't want to be brave. Lysander did not like the idea though, staring at the ash-covered ground of the town square. Lysander was sure he did not like any of those.

Scythe burst into laughter. Lysander wanted to see the man smile, but he couldn't raise his head.

“Lardy, Lardy,

Bard of Wamun,

Ran from twenty,

Caught by one,

The rest were lost,

And Lardy, Lardy,

Once called coward,

Laughed the last laugh.

For cowardice was a tool

To Lardy, Lardy.

“Do you get the point, Sander?” asked Scythe.

Lysander felt like he did. Yes, he didn't want to be a coward, but that didn't mean he'll have to forget about running away as it could be a weapon too, and bravery could prevail as well in the end.

“I think I do.”

“Nice, nice. Not everyone can be brave, and not everyone wants to be brave like the heroes sang and written about. Some just want a little courage, a little more sense, and just a little wit, for the women, that is, if you get my meaning.” Scythe paused, most likely looking at Lysander. He continued when Lysander didn't laugh or seem to get his joke.

“What I'm saying is: Every man is parchment, and like a story, he is made up of the little things written on the parchment. Know this, and you can write a story that fits you just fine. Although the world moves your hand more than I can possibly describe, sometimes we turn out to be so different from what we intended, but always remember this. change what you want, and never forget how to change, because more than anything, change is the core of a strong human.”

Lysander knew that those words would dictate his life from this day henceforth as he felt a deep connection to everything Scythe had said. He looked from the ground to his palm, and the shaking had stopped. He squeezed his hands into fists and could feel something change within himself.

“Thank you,” he said to Scythe in a low voice when he realised what he felt changing. It was acceptance, because of the knowledge imparted onto him by Scythe he had accepted himself for who he was and is. Change, I-I can change.

“Now look up, Lysander, and make your first change. The ground doesn't make one feel any better,” said Scythe as he lifted Lysander up into the air and onto his shoulders. Then he stood up and jumped on top of the table with a wild laugh.

The world exploded with both colour and sound as the quiet contemplation that had consumed Lysander was washed away by a tide of loud laughter, shouts, and a bard's song. Where were the cries? The night underneath the cloud was bright with torches and imprinted orbs of golden, green, and pink lights. How is it so bright? Where was the blood? Lysander saw old man Lut hugging Tiana, his young lover, and his aunt Diana and O’rition dancing with his uncle Manun and smiling like…

But then Lysander saw them, and a smile blossomed on his lips as for the first time in what felt like forever, he felt his heart lightening and joy rushed through his body making himself burst into tears of a different kind and he called.