Ystal had reached the small river with no little difficulty; he had had to make his way between screaming and awkward soldiers in heavy armor, and pawing and desperate countrymen. Passing through the center of the village he had risked being run over by a horse, and found himself lying on the ground, while beside him a line of young women and young men passed, tied by the wrists and dragged by that animal and beast, his owner. He watched that pitiful scene with a surge of resentment in his soul, but the look of disgust the soldier gave him made him understand that he had to move.
He got up quickly, wiping the dust off his clothes, yet unable to get rid of the mud. Paying no heed to anything that was happening around him, he reached the west exit of the village, running to his destination. Reaching the shore, he put his hands in the cold and murky water; he doubted there were still fish, but he couldn't give up without even starting.
He looked sadly at what remained of the river; it was reduced to a small stream, almost marshy. The continuous rains had caused the banks to collapse, and these had irreversibly polluted the river.
The sensation of stepping into that dirty water made Ystal's back go by an annoyed shiver; accustomed as he was to misery, he hated the idea of soiling himself or his clothes. He took a deep breath, trying to get rid of the discomfort and, taking off his shoes -from simple pieces of fabric patched together- and rolling his breeches up to the thigh, dipped his legs in the water, trembling slightly from the sudden change in temperature.
The sensation was slimy, and some insects scurried past him, in some cases brushing against him and, in others, flaunting their carcass, carried by the river to unknown places.
As soon as his body got used to the temperature of the water, he also put his hands in, starting to search through the mud and pebbles. He wasn't sure it was the best way to fish, he had never done it before; but he wanted to help his parents, in any way.
-And then ... I didn't want to attend this Purge too.-
He sighed at that thought, never ceasing to dig through the scraps of what had been a good river.
Turning his back to the path that led to the village - and not having a well trained ear like the other men in the village, who have always been used to being on the alert in those territories - the child did not realize the figure that was observing him.
The man had leaned against a tree, after having felt its stability with his hand. He wore dark gloves, of an elegant and almost precious fabric. He had arrived shortly after the child, and had done nothing but follow his movements with curiosity. He wrapped his body in a cloak - bright green, of summer grass - and the hood was lowered to hide most of his face, showing clearly only the lips, now spread in a broad smile.
If Ystal had been trained, he would have noticed him. If he had been trained, he would have felt the shifting of the leaves and not blamed the wind; indeed he would have been alarmed and would have tried to escape.
Instead, as helpless and unaware as a rabbit in front of its prey, it slowly turned only to take a quick glance in the direction of the village, as if afraid of the arrival of armed soldiers ready to take it away.
The amazement that overtook him at seeing the same man he had glimpsed in his own house made him stagger for an instant, forcing him to take a step backward, staggering in the water.
"Good morning." the man greeted him, with a deep voice and slightly muffled by the clothes. Hearing him speak, however, the child found no strength to return that greeting, merely staring at him with reverential suspicion.