A branch scratched his face. Rusuf abruptly stopped running and paused, wiping the blood from his cheek with the rough fabric of his sleeve. Instead of wiping it away, he only smeared it further across his face. Around him, it was pitch dark. The forests were unbelievably cold at night. The warm feeling of the blood was almost comforting. He kept running. He didn't exactly know where he was going, nor how much longer he could keep running. The only thing that mattered was to get farther from the village. Farther from his mother. Farther from the funeral. Towards his father. He picked up the pace.
The forest was dense, and visibility was extremely poor. Despite this, Rusuf skillfully leapt over bushes and exposed roots, rarely stumbling. In the rare instances when he caught his foot on something, he didn't allow himself to lose momentum. He would quickly regain his footing and continue dashing through the maze of trees. His thoughts were in chaos; he moved instinctively, like a fox. He still couldn't believe what had happened to his father. He refused to believe it. Somehow, he expected his father to appear in the village at any moment, rosy-cheeked and smiling as always. Or maybe waiting for the perfect opportunity to make a dramatic entrance at his own funeral. Yes… that would be just like him. The hunters who had gone with him hadn't managed to retrieve his body. If young Rusuf had physical proof of his father's death, he might not be in this situation.
"FATHER," Rusuf called. No response. "FATHER!" his voice echoed through the silent forest.
As if the forest had been cut with a knife, the trees abruptly disappeared, and Rusuf burst onto the shore. The sea mirrored the sky, dark and star-speckled, with waves reflecting the starlight. On the beach, close to the water, a solitary figure sat. Rusuf didn't notice it immediately. Like the sea, like the sky, the stranger was dressed in black. The figure turned its head toward Rusuf and gestured for him to approach. Rusuf glanced back at the forest. "I should probably go back home…" he thought. The boy gritted his teeth and shook his head. He approached.
The stranger in black moved. Until now, he had been sitting upright, hugging his knees. Now, he knelt and began to write in the sand with his finger. Rusuf stood in front of him, reading the letters upside-down: "A-T-E-R." The stranger pointed to his chest. "Ater? Ater? Is that you, Ater?" Ater nodded. "Can you talk?" Ater shrugged. Ater… the name seemed familiar to Rusuf from somewhere. His mind was in too much chaos to focus.
Only then did the boy get a better look at the stranger's face. White bandages were wrapped around his eyes and mouth. A long, hooked, black nose was the only thing visible on his face. Rusuf shivered. He felt as if Ater was glaring at him through the white fabric. "What's that… those bandages… are you hurt?" Rusuf dared to ask.
Ater shrugged.
A cold wind blew, carrying the scent of salt into the boy's face. It jolted him slightly. He felt cold and shivered. He remembered his warm room back home in the village. A tear ran down his face, absorbing tiny grains of salt that clung to his skin. Ater stood up and approached the boy. Rusuf cautiously stepped back but didn't flee. He didn't have the strength to speak. His breath was gone. Ater raised both hands in the air, and a fire, black as tar, began to flicker between them. Rusuf nodded gratefully and sat beside it.
He tilted his head and stared questioningly at the black flames. "Is this man the master of fire? But what kind of magic makes black fire? How can fire be black, anyway?" It was only then that he noticed that this strange fire emitted no light, only warmth. Ater lay down beside the fire, turning on his side, with his back to Rusuf. The boy thought for a second. He should probably go home. He probably shouldn't sleep beside this strange black fire and this strange black stranger on the seashore. Thinking was tiring. Rusuf lay down.