A year had passed since the night of terror, but the scars left on Orin's soul felt as raw as if it had happened only yesterday. The memories of his father's death haunted him, replaying in his mind like echoes in a vast, empty cavern, each one piercing him with fresh pain. But it was not only the absence of his father that weighed heavy on him. Now, as the sun beat down relentlessly, Orin felt the slow descent of despair claiming yet another loved one—his mother.
The drought had come without warning, settling over Myre like a curse. Days stretched into weeks, then into months, and not a single drop of rain fell from the cloudless sky. The once-lush fields around their home dried up, the earth cracking and splitting under the punishing heat. Wells ran dry, crops withered, and the streams where Orin and his sister once played were reduced to trickles, then dust.
Orin's mother, Elara, had always been a strong woman. In the year since her husband's death, she had shouldered the burdens of their small, fractured family with a silent resilience, carrying on in the face of hardship. She worked tirelessly to keep their home and fields in order, doing her best to make up for the absence of the father Orin and his sister had loved so dearly. But even Elara's strength had its limits, and the drought seemed intent on finding them.
At first, she tried to carry on as usual, rationing what little water they had and tending to the shriveling crops in their small garden. She would rise before dawn, hoping to gather dew in the early hours before the sun stole even that small gift from the land. Each morning, Orin would watch her, seeing how she bent over the earth with a determined, unyielding posture, her hands cracked and raw from working the parched soil. But as the days grew hotter and the water scarcer, Elara's strength began to wane.
Orin would often catch glimpses of her, sitting by herself on the edge of the barren field, her shoulders slumped, her gaze fixed on the distance as if searching for some sign of relief on the endless horizon. Her once-bright eyes grew hollow, the light within them dimming as her hope faded. At night, Orin would hear her coughing in the next room, a dry, hacking sound that seemed to scrape at her very bones.
One evening, Orin's sister, Lira, found her slumped by the doorway, her face pale and drawn. Lira helped her inside, her own face etched with worry, but Eara brushed her off with a weak smile, insisting she was fine. "Just tired," she whispered, her voice barely more than a rasp. But Orin could see the truth in her eyes. The drought was taking more than just the land. It was draining her spirit, sapping the life from her inch by inch.
As the drought wore on, their food supplies dwindled. There was no harvest, and the village market had little to offer. The drought had affected everyone, and the villagers hoarded what meager supplies they could find. Orin took it upon himself to find whatever food he could, foraging along the edge of the forest and scavenging through the village for scraps. But it was never enough. His mother grew weaker, her skin pale and gaunt, her hands trembling as she tried to continue with her daily tasks.
One night, as the moon hung low and dim, Orin found her in the small, darkened kitchen, her shoulders hunched over the table. She held a small, withered sprout in her hands—a single, frail remnant of the crops she had once lovingly tended. Her fingers traced its wilted leaves, her gaze distant and unfocused.
"Mother?" Orin's voice was a soft whisper, almost afraid to disturb the silence.
She looked up, her face shadowed, her eyes empty of the warmth they once held. "This land… it's dying," she murmured, her voice breaking. "Everything we've worked for, everything your father fought to protect… it's all slipping away."
Orin stepped closer, reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder. He could feel the frailty of her bones beneath his touch, the stark reminder of how much she had given, how much she had sacrificed. "We'll find a way, Mother," he said, though the words felt hollow in his mouth. He wanted to believe them, but the truth was, he didn't know how much longer they could survive like this.
Days passed, each one blending into the next, the heat unrelenting, the sky a merciless expanse of unbroken blue. Orin took on more of the work, doing his best to shield his mother from the toll it was taking. He spent hours in the fields, turning the dry soil, even though he knew it was a fruitless task. His hands became calloused, his skin burned and cracked, but he pushed on, driven by a desperation to keep their family afloat.
Elara, however, was fading faster. She grew weaker with each passing day, her movements slower, her breath coming in shallow gasps. One evening, as the last light of day faded, Orin found her lying on her narrow cot, her face pale and sunken. She opened her eyes as he approached, a faint smile touching her lips.
"My little star," she whispered, reaching out to touch his cheek. Her hand was cold, her fingers trembling. "You've grown so much… so strong."
Orin swallowed, his throat tight with the tears he refused to shed. "Mother, you don't have to worry about us. Lira and I… we'll manage."
Her smile faltered, her eyes growing distant. "I've tried to be strong for you… for both of you," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "But this… this land, it's taken so much…"
She fell silent, her gaze drifting toward the window, where the last sliver of sunlight slipped below the horizon. Orin felt a wave of panic rise within him, a desperate, helpless feeling that twisted his stomach. He wanted to say something, to reassure her, to promise that things would get better, but the words refused to come.
Elara's hand slipped from his cheek, falling limply to her side. Her eyes fluttered closed, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. Orin knelt beside her, clutching her hand in his, willing her to hold on, to fight just a little longer. But deep down, he knew it was too late. The drought had taken everything from her—the strength that had once defined her, the spirit that had kept their family together.
As the night deepened, Orin sat beside her, his gaze fixed on her still form. He listened to the faint, fading rhythm of her breaths, each one slower than the last, until finally, there was silence.
In the cold, empty darkness, Orin felt the weight of loss settle over him once more. His mother was gone, just like his father, and he was left with only the hollow remnants of the life they had shared. The drought had claimed her, taking not only her life but also the last shreds of hope that had once sustained them.
He stayed beside her through the night, his mind numb, his heart a hollow shell. When dawn finally broke, it cast a harsh, unforgiving light across the barren landscape, illuminating the devastation that surrounded him. The fields lay empty, the earth cracked and broken, and in the center of it all, Orin stood alone, a young boy with nothing left but the memory of those he had lost.
But as the sun rose higher, casting long shadows over the land, Orin felt a spark ignite within him—a fierce, unyielding ember of determination. His mother's words echoed in his mind, the memory of her strength a guiding force in the face of despair. He couldn't change what had happened, couldn't bring back those he had lost, but he could carry their memory with him, could fight to survive, to endure.
As he turned away from the empty house, his gaze hardened, a flicker of defiance gleaming in his eyes. The drought had taken everything, but it hadn't taken him. And one day, he would make sure that those responsible, the marauders who had first stolen his family's peace, would feel the weight of that loss.
Orin walked forward, his footsteps slow and steady, each one a testament to the strength he would carry with him—a strength forged in the fires of loss, tempered by the harsh, unforgiving trials of life. And with every step, he grew stronger, his resolve hardening, his spirit unbreakable.
The drought had claimed his mother, but it had also given him something in return—a purpose, a drive, and a fierce determination that would carry him through whatever lay ahead.