"You're not one of us," they had shouted, their breaths misting in the cold air. "You're a curse, a blight on our village!"
Arteus had stumbled back, the weight of their words heavier than any snowfall. He had felt the sting of their ice-cold stones, the bruises on his cheeks a stark contrast against his dark skin. He had been so young, too young to comprehend the full gravity of their accusations. Yet even then, the pain had sliced through him like a knife, leaving a scar that time had not managed to heal.
He had looked up at them, his eyes wide with shock and confusion. "What do you mean?" He had asked, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and anger. "What's wrong with me?"
One of the children, a girl named Marian with hair as fair as freshly fallen snow, had stepped forward, her eyes filled with a sadness that seemed too heavy for her small frame. "Our teacher said..." she began, her voice trailing off as if she couldn't bear the weight of her own words. "He said that the gods don't love you, Arteus. That you're different, and that's why you don't get cold like us."
Arteus felt a cold knot in his stomach, a heaviness that seemed to freeze his very core. His mother had always told him that he was special, that his ability to endure the cold was a gift from his ancestors. But to hear it from his peers, to see the fear and revulsion in their eyes, it was like the warmth of the sun had been stolen away, leaving him in a world of perpetual shivering shade.
He tried to convince them, his voice high with desperation, his words tumbling out like a river breaking through an ice dam. "You're wrong," he had insisted, "my mother, she's a healer! She helps everyone! I'm not a curse, I promise!"
Marian looked at him with a flicker of doubt in her eyes, but before she could speak, a burly boy, his cheeks red from the cold or perhaps the excitement of the moment, gave Arteus a hard shove. "Get away from us, demon spawn!" He yelled.
Arteus's hand shot out, his mittens reaching for Marian's arm, a silent plea for sanctuary amidst the chaos. But it was too late. Another child, driven by fear and the need to belong, gave him an extra push, and with a scream that was swallowed by the wind, he was sent tumbling over the cliff's edge.
The world around him turned into a blur of white, the snow and rocks a canvas of terror as he plummeted into the abyss. The drop wasn't a short one, a mere plunge into a drift of soft snow that would leave him bruised and shaken. No, this was a fall that could cleave the soul from the body, a descent that could shatter the spirit of even the strongest of men. The wind roared in his ears like the wrath of a thousand storms, and the ground below grew closer, each inch a taunting promise of an end to the nightmare.
Children being children though they run away leaving him at the cliffs bottom, their laughter turned into a fading echo, leaving only the bitter taste of betrayal and fear in his mouth. The snow crunched under his boots as he stumbled to his feet, the cold biting through his layers of clothing and into his very bones. He looked up, the cliff face a sheer wall of white, a silent sentinel to his newfound solitude. The village was but a speck in the distance, the warmth of his mother's embrace a memory as distant as the stars above.
Arteus took a step, then another, the pain shooting through his body like lightning. His left arm hung limp at his side, the bone snapped like a twig under the weight of the fall. His right leg, once a pillar of strength, now a twisted mess of agony with every step. He grunted, clutching at the jutting bone, trying to find some semblance of comfort, of hope. But hope was as fleeting as the snowflakes that danced around him, each one a silent whisper of his failure.
The journey home was a blur of pain and determination. Each breath was a battle, a war cry against the cold that sought to claim him. His eyes, once bright and full of life, had dulled to the shade of the leaden sky above. The howling wind seemed to carry the voices of the children, their taunts now a chorus of despair that echoed through the barren landscape.
The sun had set and risen again twice by the time Arteus stumbled back into the village of Barley. His limbs felt like they were made of the very ice he had fought against, his heart a frozen stone in his chest. The warmth of the day had been swallowed by the insatiable maw of night, leaving the world in a monochrome of blue and white. The snow had stained red with the blood from his wounds, painting a macabre picture of his struggle against the elements.
Yet, despite the pain and exhaustion that clawed at his very essence, his first destination wasn't the warm embrace of his mother's cottage. Instead, he found himself drawn to Marian's house, the same house where he had once sought refuge from the cold embrace of loneliness.
He stumbled through the drifts of snow that had accumulated outside her door, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps that painted the air with mist. The village was still, the silence so profound that it was as if the very heart of Avaricia had ceased to beat. It was in this quietude that he knocked, the sound echoing through the stillness like a solitary drumbeat in the abyss.
Marian's mother, pulled open the door with a start, her eyes wide with shock at the sight of him. Her hand flew to her mouth, a silent gasp escaping her lips as she took in his ragged form and bloody clothes. For the boy who was supposedly maimed but two days ago now stood firm and whole.
For a brief moment, there was a flicker of recognition in Marian's mother's eyes, a spark of the care to aid the ailing boy. But it was extinguished just as quickly, snuffed out by the flame of fear and prejudice that had been fanned by whispers of his birth.
"What do you want?" she demanded, her voice as sharp as the icicles that hung from the eaves of the cottage. "Why have you come here?"
Arteus leaned heavily against the wooden frame, his eyes never leaving hers. The light from the candles inside cast eerie shadows across his bruised and bloodied face, giving him the appearance of a specter from the very depths of the frozen wasteland. His smile was a twisted mockery of the one he had once had, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards to reveal teeth stained with crimson.
"Please," he rasped, his voice a hoarse whisper that seemed to carry the weight of his pain and determination. "Can i talk to Marian?"
Marian's mother stepped back, her eyes narrowed into slits, her face a mask of disgust and anger. "You're not welcome here, demon," she spat, her voice carrying the venom of a thousand winters. "Leave, before I call my husband!"
With that, she slammed the door shut, the wood shuddering under the force of her hate. Arteus staggered back, the impact sending shockwaves through his already-battered body. But he didn't move, his eyes glued to the sliver of warmth that the crack in the doorframe allowed him to see. Just before it disappeared from view, he caught the faintest glimpse of Marian, her eyes wide and filled with a mix of fear and pity as she darted away from sight, their laughter now a distant memory, replaced by the harsh whispers of the village that had turned its back on him.
The cold wind stung his eyes as he turned away from Marian's house, the snow a cruel reminder of his isolation. He knew he should go home, to the warmth and safety of his mother's embrace. But the words of the children had left a gaping wound in his soul, one that needed to be addressed before it festered into something darker.
One by one, Arteus approached the homes of his former friends, his heart pounding in his chest with every step. Each house was a bastion of warmth and light, a stark contrast to the frigid embrace of the winter night that enveloped him. The windows were frost-covered, but within, he could see the flicker of candlelight and the shadows of lives that continued without him.
He called out their names, his voice a mere whisper against the howling wind, hoping that maybe, just maybe, they would see beyond the lies, beyond the fear, and remember the joy they had shared. Yet, the only responses were the muffled sounds of families huddling closer, bolting the doors, shutters slammed shut with the finality of a tomb.
Their message was clear, he, was not welcome here.
-To Be Continued-