Alistair sprawled on the ground in the forest, tears running, blurring his vision. He watched the ants crawl aimlessly about on a leaf; a dragonfly flitted from flower to flower. Sounds in the forest were no longer terror-infiltrated. Now, they receded and grew silent. Exhaustion had swept over him, physical and emotional. A wave of dizziness had washed over him, and the ground tilted beneath. The world shrank down to a small pinprick of light that faded to black.
With a jolt, he woke up, his body painfully rattled by the kicks of the soldiers. He groaned and rolled over, trying to sit up. The sun was setting: orange, red, and purple hues painted the sky. The light of dusk dimmed upon the forest, making it shrink in on itself as the cool air grew crisp and biting.
With trembling hands, Alistair grabbed his sword and tied it at his waist using a piece of torn cloth. Grief enveloped him as he started walking; he was marked with sorrow on his face. He reached the edge of the forest and found a beautiful sunset unfolding before him. The sky turned ablaze with colors, and he felt that this color was in contrast with the emptiness he had inside. Tears streamed down his face as he watched colors bleed across the sky.
"What for?" he croaked out in a hoarse voice. "Were there survivors-a few only-but me? I am left all alone. All are dead....my dear parents, my father, my mother....do they watch up there?" He pushed on, across a great plain, with a small lake shining white in the distance, and A wave of determination washed over him, replacing the despair that threatened to consume him.
"This is life," he said to himself, his voice gathering some new resolve. "Loss is part of it and we have to learn how to grow without anyone else." He squinted up at the sky. A flicker of defiance lit up those hollows still occupied by his fear. "Does something like this happen as a test, as some game the gods play? But I will survive! I won't let them break me!"
His stomach growled, a sharp reminder of the long hours since his last meal. The once vibrant sun was now dipping below the horizon, and a chill wind swept across the land. It was in this smoky air that the first snowflakes began falling, swirling down in a silent dance.
Peer up to the falling snow, Alistair rubbed his tears dry with newfound resolve. "Not for crying or whining," he muttered to himself as his voice grew with each word. "I shall learn to survive and become a fighter one day. And I'll get back to my parents! All wicked people in this world who took them away from me. I'll make them pay!"
Anger blazed in his eyes, a burning ember of defiance. Then reality set in, and the anger burned away, leaving only a steely determination. He shivered. The cold bit through his thin clothes and sank deep. His legs, aching heavy, with fatigue and chill, refused to carry him on.
He had to stand up against the ache. Vision blurred out of the edges. He must find shelter somewhere, someplace to withdraw, and restore strength. The night promised just bone-chilling cold, and he wouldn't stand for too long in the elements.
He pressed on, fueled by a burning desire to survive and a deep well of anger. Every step was a struggle, but he refused to give in. Images of his parents, their faces etched with love and pride, flashed in his mind. They would have wanted him to fight, to never give up. And fight he would.
As darkness began to fall, Alistair came across a rocky outcropping. It wasn't much, but it at least offered some shelter from the wind and blowing snow. He huddled beneath the overhang and tried to preserve the last shreds of body heat. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, but he could do nothing about that now.
Power was strong upon his resolve at the desperate will to live, and he stumbled forward filled with anger. His legs protested painfully with every step, heavy and numb with exhaustion in them; hunger gnawing in his stomach but survival demanded all his focus. Images of parents whose faces were filled with love fed his determination; they would want him to fight on.
Shivering uncontrollably, he saw on the horizon a small clump of trees. Not much, but it was a glimpse of hope. As he pulled himself closer, his thin, soaked-through-with-the-snow boots hardly could keep at bay the biting cold that was piercing through. What had once been a soft carpet of pine needles and damp earth had suddenly turned nasty - a hurrying mix of snow and ice. He breathed laboriously, and with each shaky breath, a cloud of white mist escaped his lips; his energy was in short supply. His legs were heavy and numb, giving him no early warning as he buckled beneath him and crashed to the unforgiving surface.
Pain shot through his hand like a sickening jolt that ripped down through his arm and shoulder. He winced, his eyesight starting to blur with the rush of agony that instantly became apparent. It wasn't just from the cold anymore.
The kicks from the soldiers throbbed with fresh intensity, reminding him constantly of the brutality of what had been done to him. Tears welled into his eyes, hot and stinging against the icy wind. Despair threatened to overwhelm a suffocating wave that choked back his breath.
"I can't… I can't move anymore," he choked out, his voice barely a whisper.
Defeat gnawed at him, whispering insidious lies of surrender. But a flicker of his parents' faces, their love and strength a beacon in his memory, pushed back the darkness. He had to keep going. For them. For himself. Just a little further. Only a little bit more.
The wind began to pick up, whistling through the trees and nipping at exposed skin. Alistair knew he couldn't stay there. A groan, and he forced himself onto his hands and knees. The world around him swam before his eyes, morphing into a dizzying blur, but he crawled on, his body fueled by that simple instinct: live or die.
He stumbled to the trees and fell on the hollow side of the rough bark, breathing for air. Every movement ripped open wounds pulsing with pain in his hands. "Can't. I can't," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper.
The wind wailed a pitiful keening through the winter wild. Alistair's eyes closed, his body mutinous against his will. For a brief instant, he slept, while visions of his parents danced their way before him with fuzzy vision and fuzzy faces. Then something inside him flared into life, a faint spark of determination. He sat up, squinting through the snow. There was a wisp of smoke rising in the distance. His heart leapt inside him. Adrenaline started pumping. There, among the trees, was a small cottage.
Gathering his remaining strength, Alistair pushed himself to his feet. Each step was a battle against the biting cold and his screaming muscles. The cottage grew larger with every agonizing step, a beacon of warmth and hope in the desolate landscape.
Just as he reached the edge of the clearing, his legs gave way once more. He fell backward, the snow swirling around him. Exhaustion and despair threatened to pull him into an abyss of sleep.
"No… I can't sleep," he mumbled, his voice thick with fatigue. But his eyelids fluttered, betraying his will.
His vision blurred, the snow-covered world dissolving into a sea of white. Just before darkness consumed him.
A few minutes passed. The Darkness started to fade and the blurriness was Gone, Soon Alistair opened his eyes and wiped his eyes and tried to wake up A faint voice echoed in the distance."Are you awake already, Alistair?"
The voice cut through the fog clouding his mind. Alistair's eyes fluttered open. He saw himself in a warm room lit by a flickering fire. He lay on a bed of straw, a rough cloth on his body. When he had just enough strength to open his eyes wide enough to be seen, he spotted an elderly man tending the fire, his face deeply etched with concern.
"Who … who are you?" he stammered, the voice rough from disuse. The man turned, a gentle smile etching across the creases of her eyes.
"Don't worry, Alistair," he said. "You're all right now. But you scared the living hell out of me falling out here in this rain." Alistair stared at him, trying to make sense of things. There was another man. He lived. And, for the first time since the soldiers stormed upon his village and killed many of its people, a tinge of hope flickered into being in his heart.
He instinctively felt around for the hilt of his sword at his waist, for he was wrapped in thick blankets for warmth; that weapon was nowhere to be seen under the thick duvet. A wrinkled man in a simple villager's dress stepped forth from the shadows. His face, with all the creasing of life on the land, was old. His snow-white, cut short and round, sharply contrasted with darker clothes. A half-moon mustache, just white, was placed upon his lips, and warm hazel eyes crinkled at the corners from the slight smile.
"Are you feeling any better now, Alistair?" the old man inquired, his gaze filled with concern.
Alistair, still disoriented, stammered, "Who? Who are you?"
The old man chuckled, a warm sound that filled the room. "Well, Alistair," he said, "You're Talthon Wilder's son, aren't you?"
A jolt of surprise ran through Alistair. "How do you know that?"
He straightened his back a little, with the smallest flicker of pride in his eyes. "You see, Alistair," he said with a hearty laugh, "I'm a Farmer who sells vegetables and runs a huge poultry farm as a business, and I am your father's best friend. We knew each other since we were just boys ourselves who used to run about these fields. Back then, your father was always the Stronger one, who stood up for underdogs. And that strength never left him.".
I remember the day he saved me like it was yesterday. A band of soldiers looking for mischief rode into our village. They are ransacking houses, stealing food, and harassing women. Your father, bless his heart, could not just sit and see them play out. He rallied a group of us men and fought off the soldiers. It was a fierce battle, but the courage of your father inspired us all. We drove them out of our village, and they never bothered us again.
"And from that day on, I regarded your father as a hero. He's a real man, Alistair, and you must be proud to think him so." The old man's voice went low, and a tinge of sadness crept into his words. "It cuts me that I see you sitting here, alone and sore. But I swear you I shall do my best to help you stand back on your feet again."
Alistair could not make sense of the whole thing. He looked at the old man with suspicion mixed with relief. "Thanks for saving me," he mumbled, the words scratching his parched throat.
"I know you're surprised, seeing me here for the first time," the old man said with a smile. "But I've seen you many times playing with your friends. I just haven't had the chance to meet you properly. I usually leave for work very early. But I've been watching you grow since the day you were born. You were a cute baby, and you still are in your way."
Alistair considered the old man's words, a swirl of emotions battling within him. Was this man a genuine ally, or could he be another enemy in disguise? He couldn't forget his objective; vengeance for his family fueled his resolve to keep moving forward.
"Are you alright, Alistair?" the old man gently repeated.
Alistair shook himself out of his thoughts. "Ah… Yes," he said, a plan forming in his mind. "Mister, thank you very much for the clothes, the warm blanket, and for helping me."
The old man boomed a hearty laugh. "Haha, no worries, young man! No need for thanks at all." He cast a concerned look at Alistair. "You seem troubled, Alistair. You have a heavy sadness in your eyes, and I noticed those nasty bruises on your back earlier. You were lying unconscious in the snow when I was on my way to collect firewood. Were you hurt? Is everything alright?"
Alistair stared back with a mix of suspicion and a flicker of hope. "My village…" he started, then stopped abruptly. Had the old man not witnessed the attack? Was he truly unaware of the devastation? Or was he playing some elaborate game?
"Oh no, no," Alistair stammered, backtracking. "I mean, no, nothing's wrong. Just a little tired, that's all. Thank you for everything, kind sir."
The old man's brow furrowed slightly. "Hey, Alistair! Are you with me?" he asked, his voice laced with a hint of concern.
Alistair, flustered by his near slip-up, stammered, "Ah, yes, yes… of course! Just... nothing, sir. Nothing at all. Thank you for everything, truly."
The old man studied Alistair for a moment, a flicker of suspicion crossing his eyes. But then he smiled. "Well, in that case, here's some food. Eat up!"
Alistair's stomach growled, betraying his uncertainty. The flames in the fire, the softness of the bed, and the kindly face of the old man all seemed to argue for trusting him. Yet the last few days still swirled in his mind like a never-ending reminder of what waited outside these walls.
He took the spoon lying on the table, his hand unsteady. Before him, steaming, was a bowl that had such a very simple dish; it was inviting: rice, a whole fish head, and mixed vegetables. He made a tentative bite. Alistair's eyes opened with surprise at the cresting flavor in the mouth-it was so unlike the bitter taste of fear and despair.
"Wow!" he exclaimed, breaking into a genuine smile after the tension. He devoured the food hungrily, and the warmth spread through him with each mouthful.
The old man smiled in apparent satisfaction as he watched. "Want some more?" he asked.
Alistair pushed the bowl aside with a contented sigh. "No, thank you, sir," he said, his belly full. Gratitude was at war inside him with something else that refused to settle. He stood, fire in his eye. "Thank you, mister," he said, his voice full of the truth of his words. "I thank you dearly. But I must go now. It has to do with a kind of mission."
The old man, taken aback by Alistair's sudden announcement, frowned. "Wait, Alistair!" he exclaimed. "It's freezing outside! Stay here for the night at least. And your mother and father…"
Alistair's face drained of color. The mention of his parents triggered a surge of grief and anger. He clenched his fists, his voice a low growl. "There's no point," he muttered, his head bowed.
"Nonsense!" he cried out, his voice thick with anxiety. "They're worried sick about you! I'll send word that you're all right, here with me. Let them know you're all right!"
He lifted his eyes up in a flicker of hope battling with the despair in them. Then he squared his shoulders and his gaze hardened to determination. "But, please, sir, I must go," he said emphatically. "Thank you for your kindness, the food, the warmth. You have made incredible generosity for me. But I really mustn't stay. I have things to do."
But deeper furrows carved his brow as he gazed at Alistair. Something about the youth's attitude, the raw pain and resolve etched across his face, sent a shiver scuttling down his own spine. There was a tale there, a tale of pain and loss, and he felt a sense of anguish in not knowing. Some blazing purpose kept him back.
"But now, wait, hear me!" cried the old man in protest, and agitation. He threw out a detaining hand as if to check Alistair but that young fellow rushed out of the door.
Ignoring the old man's pleas, Alistair stepped outside. The harsh wind had died down and now coated the landscape with soft, white snow. He walked out toward the forest, the black depths leading him away from his village.
"Alistair, wait!" the old man shouted, growing more and more frantic. "It's cold out there! Where are you going? Your village is that way!"
But Alistair, bent on his course, plodded along. "I told you I am on a mission!" he shouted back in a voice that was half intransigence and half desperation. "Leave me alone!"
He cannot intervene, but he can only stay there and watch the old man as Alistair disappears into the forest.
A deep worry settles within his stomach. There is something wrong with the young man's pain in his eyes-the urgency in his voice and it does not settle well with him. Alistair is not some boy looking for shelter from the fall of the snow. He is a boy burdened by a heavyweight, a weight that speaks of loss and a burning desire for vengeance. He shouted one last time, with a final plea which dangled in the frosty air. "Hey, Alistair! Give my regards to Mr. Talthon… and tell him Dravean was inquiring after him, also!"
Alistair vanished into the depths of the forest, the weight of Dravean's words echoing in his mind. The old man's kindness had sparked a flicker of hope, but the scars of betrayal ran deep.
"Can't trust anyone," he muttered, his voice laced with suspicion.
Perhaps Draven was an accomplice, a cunning pawn in King Thassalor's cruel game.
But the mention of his father, Talthon, had planted a seed of doubt. Could Draven truly know his father?
He pushed through the snow, his black coat gift from Dravean leaving bits of snow to be flung off with every step, offering some aid against the biting cold. The wind whistled through the trees, a keening loneliness that echoed the tumult within him. He went finally to a huge oak and fell beneath its spreads, so caught up in exhaustion.
Under the tree, Alistair curled up, wrestling with his thoughts.
Gruffness of the Dravean, the warmth of the fire, savory food… all felt to be a cruel trick. "Perhaps he's just stalling," he thought, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword, hidden under his coat. "Waiting for the right moment to strike. But I believe him he is a nice guy no bad person would ever give me shelter and food so I believe him."
A shiver of coldness ran down his spine, and he reached out, instinctively touching his sword. An owl hooted in the distance, its mournful cry echoing through the silent forest. Alistair closed his eyes, the exhaustion finally winning over his suspicion.
The morning was creeping over, and the snow-covered land was dressed in hues of gold. Alistair woke up and to his mind, the experiences of the previous day were almost a dream. With stiff muscles, he stretched his body and got up from his bed, shaking off the clinging snow on his clothing. Now with new determination, he began the journey forward with an unknown destination but a very clear purpose: revenge and path to Freedom.
In the sacked village, chaos reigned. General Ecolier, a hard man and a commander of King Thassalor, was bellowing orders as if he had been born to give them. Soldiers were running about gathering the villagers like cattle, and among them were Alistair's parents. They had faces full of despair and resignation.
And before all this, a rush at the edge of the crowd. An old man, his face white with shock, Continuously called Talthon's Name and rushed towards Talthon, Alistair's father. It was Dravean.
"Mr. Talthon!" he wheezed, puffing and taking a great draught of air and falling alongside him. "What. what is all this? Why are you and your wife? and all the villagers? tied up?"
He met Talthon's eyes with a wearied smile. "Dravean?" he croaked. "We are slaves to King Thassalor now."
She looked at him stared agog at her. "But why?" he stuttered. "I was. I was worried about Alistair when."
His mother gasped, breaking her voice into pieces. "Alistair? Is he… is he alive?"
Dravean, forgetting about his dread for a moment, looked at her worried. "Ah, yes," he stammered on how to explain what had just happened between him and Alistair the night before.
And just then, a soldier bellowed his voice full of suspicion. "Hey! All of you, and who are you? Are you a member of this village who escaped?" He drew his sword whose cold gleam is a menacing threat.
The commotion caught General Ecolier's attention near the edge of the crowd. He stepped forward, his gigantic frame casting his long shadow across the ground, so he squinted rather than seeing for a moment. Then he saw the o