Today, the day Llewyn lost everything, and died.

Dead as a broken branch smothered in moss. The boy without a home, exiled for something he never chose, exiled by a family who never defended him. A world that took no time killing him. A few hours out of his village, stumbling steps trudged through ankle deep snow. Teeth chattered; the boy shivered under his cowskin coat. The pack slung over his back sunk him deeper. The wind whipped his face like an icy lash, frost clung to each of his eyelashes. Each breath burned his innards.

He screamed.

Furious at the snow, furious at the wind, why did his pack weigh so? Why did the twin moons see him ill-made? Why did they abandon him?

He fought through the snow, stamping, and screaming. Unaware his rage brought his downfall. Unaware that the bear heard his enraged shouts.

The snow gave way to a hardy patch of grass. Thin, stalky grass that clung to life under a pale sun. Llewyn fell. His knees sunk into freezing mud, squelching. He leaned on his hands. Numb already, gloves scant warmed.

If he could just get up.

His teeth stopped chattering. Seventeen years sitting in front of a hearth, enjoying warm meals and warm blankets. Seventeen years Llewyn spent thinking himself rugged. Weathered. A denizen of a frostbitten village on the edge of a warm kingdom.

Cold found him today.

Only hours before, the boy found acceptance, excitement. The gifts of the twin-moons finally would manifest. Like all the others. Like every one else. The boy fancied himself a disciple of perseverance, useful for one living in a hardy town at the edge of the world. How long could he march in the cold? How long could he till a field? How many houses could he build with a power like that?

His pack slid off.

He cursed, pulling it out of the snow behind. His legs burned. The air burned. He slung the pack over his shoulder and screamed. Screamed as he pushed himself further. Clawing with his hands up the grassy knoll. The sun sank behind the Golem’s Fingers till only a lid of light shone over its white peaks. He cursed at the shadow the mountains casted over him. He needed a fire. Climbing to the top of the knoll an ocean of grey, patchy dirt surrounded him. Broken only by the mountains ahead. He dropped his pack and sank to the ground. A wreath upon his head, only hours before. A ceremony. The town flanking him on either side. His chest puffed up and proud. The elder stood in the square, wreathed in a grey robe, his cloudy eyes regarded Llewellyn with concern. He winced as the wind picked up. A pair of shrubs accompanied him. Their branches, his rescue. Fire, warmth. He crawled over. His body stopped shaking. He snapped twigs and leaves off the shrubs. Too much time it took. Time Llewyn didn’t have. Fingers no longer moved; legs wouldn’t obey him.Oil, a little oil, and fire. Warmth. That’s all that mattered.He shoved his hands into his pack retrieving the mug, lifting it slowly, gently, carefully.

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The elder lifted his hand silencing the crowd.

Only hours before.

His leathery face frowned. The boy’s proud chest deflated, sinking under the old man’s gaze. His

bloodless lips moved. Ill-made.

The oil slipped.

Llewyn cursed, spinning around.

The oil bounced down the grassy knoll, bounced over the snow and laid at a pair of paws with two

massive claws.

Its hump like a black mound, its fur shimmered clear, one could see through it. It’s maw wide and dark.

Teeth longer than the boy’s neck. Two white pricks shone in the dark, it’s eyes. It’s breathing soundless as the wind blowed.

The boy and the bear stared.

The wind blew.

Maul. The only thought in the boy’s head. Maul. Only a story, only a folk tale.

The beast flew up the mound. It’s feet never touched the ground.

It slammed into Llewyn’s body, pinned him into the mud. It’s breath haggard and quick, it stunk of moss

and old meat. The boy held his arms over his head. A massive clear claw rended his chest. Blood splashed over the creature’s stomach. It’s glinting eyes widened like the twin moons in the black sky.

Llewyn gasped, his chest burning and wet. Another claw sliced his arm, it wouldn’t move, teeth sunk into his other. Bones crunched. The mud around him turned crimson. Not even time to scream, it flipped him onto his back. Claws opened his skin and lashed his back. His vision turned blurry and red. His back burned; a searing iron of pain that sent him mad with screams.

Yet the boy commanded.

As the fell Maul opened the boy up, he commanded.

His pack flipped open, and his father’s dagger shot out. A father who exiled his son without looking him

in the eyes. Only slipping him an iron dagger with a wooden hilt.

That little dagger flew at the beast, because Llewyn commanded it to. At that time, only madness and

pain filled his head. And yet he commanded.

The dagger burst through the creature like an arrow. Spraying its glowing blood over the snow below. It

flipped around and shot through it again. More blood erupted from its side. The beast roared, it’s howl carried on the wind for many leagues.

Someone heard it.

Llewyn gasped for breath. Kill.

The only thought in his mind.

Kill. Kill.

The dagger zig zagged through the beast’s body in an instant, puncturing it, punching holes in it like a

needle through cloth. Froth dribbled out of its mouth. The dagger entered its back and travelled up and out of its throat. Exploding blood over the gasping boy.

The beast twitched and gurgled; it fell forward.

And landed on the boy. Its weight crushed him down into the mud, he struggled to suck in a breath. Arms of darkness swallowed his vision.

The dagger rested gentled in front of his face. The wood and iron red.