Rick sat with his legs crossed, Abigail sitting in the middle of them, leaning back in his chest while watching him carve. A rather awkward position, a rather comforting position. A strange blend, a blend the two didn’t put any focus on as they were immersed in their own world of carving. A world were their dark little room didn’t matter, a world were boredom didn’t exist, a world were quiet was comforting.

Though Rick still found himself frustrated, frustrated and quite annoyed. For he had made another statue, another statue filled with nothing, no passion, no emotion, no willingness or reason to imbue it with life. Rick stared at it with contempt, with a simmering anger.

When Rick looked at it, he saw nothing that stood out, nothing that told Rick of what this statue was. Yes, it had the appearance of a robed man, muscles hiding underneath his robed clothing. Carved with the vain hope that hiding its true nature from himself, he’d be able to fool himself into thinking that it was strong. Thinking it a man of great power. But it didn’t feel like that, it lacked the nuances, the eye for detail, the feeling of power. It was blank in other words.

The feeling of failure frustrated Rick beyond belief, an emotion expressed by tensing his body, an emotion Abigail seemed to unconsciously pick up on even if she didn’t understand why. Rick started carving harder, firmer, and less controlled. His emotions taking over and forcing Rick to do something unspeakable, something unbearably embarrassing. He slipped, carving to hard and cutting off the right arm of the statue.

Rick stopped mid carve, looking down on it, eyes shot open, quickly drawn downwards to look at Abigail. His failure just in front of her eyes, an open invitation for laughter, for mockery, for tomfoolery. The humanity, the failure, the shame. A simple mistake made by a simple act of frustration. Such a simple thing not to do. And yet, he had done it, in front of his only crowd, his only admirer. How would he ever live it down? How would he ever explain it? How would he ever save her if he’d continue getting worse and worse at carving with each passing day?

But Abigail’s laughter didn’t erupt. Her voice didn’t raise. Her face didn’t look up to watch him with mockery. No, she did none of that. Instead, she sat with her head faced forward, staring at the broken statue, her face hidden from view as Rick tried gazing down at her, trying to see her expression. He felt like a child trying to decipher their parents' mood after accidentally spilling food all over the floor, like a worker dropping an hour-worth of work and breaking it. And then Abigail spoke, two words that cut into his spirit, a deep wound that oozed with shame and embarrassment.

“It’s broken.”

She simply stated, her body slightly raising from her leaning position, moving away from his chest. Two simple words that were struck down upon Rick like the hammer of a god, bringing justice down upon their world. Rick cringed, slowly moving the statue away from view, thoughts on throwing it away, thoughts on throwing it into the pile of failures, adding onto the already growing pile.

But his hands were stopped, stopped by Abigail as she held a gentle hand on his, the other reaching for the broken statue. Her movements slow, like a mother embracing their child, moving with such elegance that a dancer would feel envy. Then she touched it, touched the statue with such grace and softness that one would think the statue frailer than a broken bone, than a wounded soldier, than a cute kitten.

She gently touched it, moved her hand over its body, then to the side, over to the broken part where its arm should be. She touched it, oh so gently, staying quiet as she watched it, focused on it, her owl eyes seeing everything, taking everything in. Rick also stared, but his stare was filled with surprise and confusion. Because with the way Abigail touched the statue, one would think it was her most precious possession, her most valued object, her dearest of friends.

Then Abigail turned around in his crossed legs, her hands moving away from the statue as she faced him, face full of wonder and amazement. Eyes pleading and hopeful, wondrous and happy. And she asked with a smile that threatened to cleave the heavens.

“Can I keep it?”

She asked, so softly that one would think she was asking for a puppy, for a kitten, for the nectar of gods. And Rick looked down at her, then up at the statue he still held. And he decided to really look, really watch, really search it. For obviously, he’d missed something, missed a detail that Abigail had seen. She’d seen worth where Rick had seen trash. She’d seen value where Rick had seen something broken.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

And Rick looked, he watched, and he searched. He did that for a long moment, enough for Abigail too start worrying. For an amount of time that stretched further and further, eyes narrowing with each passing moment. Narrowing until Rick could barely perceive anything. And in the next moment, they shot open. For he saw what she had seen, he assumed.

What he saw was a man hidden in a robe, face hidden, legs hidden, muscles taut against them, few details that would describe him. But underneath it all, hidden in the dark shadows of the robe, Rick felt something. He felt the robed man watching everything, waiting, patient and a cunning man. He saw a lost arm, not as something broken, but as a learning experience, an experience the robed man had got from a quest for wisdom.

Yes, for in the robed man, Rick saw wisdom. Wisdom hemmed from experience rather than intelligence. This robed man wasn’t wearing a robe for protection, he wasn’t muscled for the sake of strength; he wasn’t wounded because of a failure. No, Rick saw everything as accumulations of experience and wisdom, learned on the quest for knowledge even though his starting point was uninspiring.

This profound insight lit a fire within Rick. An ember that touched the barest hint of oil, oil that stretched like a snake into the largest bonfire. A bonfire that had been gathering wood upon wood upon wood, gathering so large that it blotted out the sun. With the slightest ember lightning the barest of oil, it cascaded into the largest fire the world had ever seen. A fire that was Rick’s dying passion, a passion relit as he finally saw what his statues were lacking.

He immediately reached for the knife, bringing the statue close as he searched the robed man’s body. Quickly, he found a suitable place. Abigail watched, turning quickly to look at the statue as her features turned from surprise into heightened confusion.

Rick swiftly carving the rune of uruz onto it, hiding it, for it would fit the robed man’s nature. And as he finished, he put the knife away, gently grasping the robed man in between two hands. Hands calloused and bruised, meager and slightly weak.

The wound in his stomach still seeping strength from the rest of his body, a wound taking longer to fully heal than his other wounds. And as Rick held the robed man, he closed his eyes, reaching within, searching for the life within. Seeing a vast ocean of never-ending waves, an ocean stretching further than the stars at night. The sight didn’t surprise Rick, he’d seen it before, before when he had given the warrior life. But it still confused him, for how could he have such a vast amount of life?

He didn’t dwell on it, his mind focused on the task at hand. Reaching down, Rick collected the life, life that flowed through him and into the statue. A flow all consuming and never ending. So vast and swift, so quick and enormous that Rick knew that only a few seconds of this would normally kill him. But as it was now, it was like a drop in the bucket, like one piece of bread to the masses, like a piece of steak to a monster.

Rick didn’t see as the statue lit up into the strongest red, the deepest red, a red that one could easily drown in if one let themselves. Drown in the vast depths of the red. Something that Abigail saw with bated breath, her hands reaching for her mouth, her body leaning forward, inching closer to the statue. She couldn’t put a word on it, but that red, the depth of it, it drew her, dragged her, caressed her. It was as if it spoke to her, wanted her, whispered to her. Then the next second, it was gone. As if it had never existed. Rick feeling the flowing of life cutting off abruptly. He opened his eyes to see the result.

The two staring expectantly. One not knowing why, the other waiting for the robed man to move. And move he did, raising his robed face, a face shrouded in darkness. Abigail jumped back in surprise, her eyes comically large, hands holding onto Rick’s arms. Rick was humoured by the reaction, waving at the robed man. The robed man raising his head further to watch, seeing Rick wave, then waving back.

Abigail gasping at the sight, eyes growing even larger. She then pointed and looked back at Rick, mouth flapping open and shut in a vain attempt at speaking. The robed man turned his head towards Abigail, stopping his wave as he change it into a pointing finger gesture, pointing back at Abigail. Abigail turning back, seeing it, and letting out yet another gasp, this one louder and more surprising. She turned to look up at Rick, back down to look at the robed man, seeing him imitating her actions.

She looked back and forth, so did the robed man. The two in a dance of imitations, Abigail looking from one to the other quicker and quicker. The robed man doing the same. Abigail eventually stopping as she looked up to Rick. Her mouth hanging open in a wide smile.

“You’re-

Abigail started saying, but her voice was cut off by another voice, another who finished her sentence for her. A male voice, one the two of them knew quite well. A voice that was barely audible, barely spoken, but held gravitas that one could not miss. A statement rather than words.

“-the toymaker.”

Rick turned quickly, Abigail pushed away in the process. Rick seeing Noah standing by the stairs, one foot on the stairs, one on the floor beneath. He held two stews in hand, and bread delicately balanced on his forearm. As Rick’s eyes continued upwards, they stopped with mild freight. For in Noah’s face, he saw surprise, alarm and fear. Fear that spoke of recognition and realization. But what scared Rick the most, was the eyes, eyes that stared at Rick as if seeing a monster. Eyes Rick knew quite well.

The two staring at one another in complete silence, silence that reigned like an absolute tyrant. Silence stopped with the smattering of bowls and bread on the ground, smattering caused by Noah’s panicked flight as he ran up the stairs, slamming the door shut behind him. And Rick felt his own panic rising, for he knew it to be only a matter of time before something would happen.

Something bad happening.