Lysander looked around himself. The village was burning, and there was nothing he could do. Stuck under the plank, which fell from the roof, he didn't know how long he'd survive.
There is nothing worse, than burning alive. Flames were spreading around the village, and he, just a ten-year-old, was going to be burned alive.
He punched the ground under him, and did his best to try and heave the plank off himself. It wasn't like life was very good to him, even before the bandits came and killed off his fellow villagers. Lysander was a wanderer. With caramel skin, and golden eyes. His unkept hair reached his shoulders. If he had any access to a pair of scissors, then he would have cut it.
"Come on," Lysander said, as he tried to heave the plank one last time. "Come on, god darn you!"
As if this curse offended a higher being, Lysander felt a power in him. With a burst of mana, he managed to get the plank off himself. Quickly, he crawled out of the wreckage, and then away from the fire.
The boy wiped the tears from his face. He was a wanderer, and wanderers survived. No one wanted them in their settlements. The people of this village never let him inside, either. Yet, it had been a holy day, and the adults had taken pity on the dirty boy, who lived in the surrounding forest.
"Wanderers bring bad luck," Lysander fought with the guilt, which threatened to overwhelm him. He knew the saying. This had happened before. Yet, he still came inside the village. Still shared their bread and salt, and drank from the customary cup of milk with honey. Then, the bandits had attacked.
"Why, just why?" Lysander collapsed on the ground. The road was a dirt one, and the fire was not traveling up it. Once again, he was alone. Once again, he had deaths on his conscience.
"Help! Anyone, help!" Came a weak voice from a couple of houses away. Lysander sprang into action. He ran, and reached the house from where the voice had come.
With wide eyes, he searched for just about anyone. The house was big. Certainly, belonging to a well-off person. Finally, the wanderer saw it. A boy, peering out of the second story window.
"Help!" The boy was as close to the window, as he could get. Lysander could see the flames licking at the inside of the room.
"Jump!" Lysander yelled. The door was broken, and so, if there was a way for the boy to come through it, he would have done so by now.
"I am scared," the boy called, between coughs. Lysander looked up, and saw that the house was made out of bricks. With something like this, he could climb up.
"Do you have water with you?" Lysander yelled, and the boy yelped. The flames must be reaching him. Lysander began to climb then. If he could save just one person, then he won't be cursed anymore. If he could only save the boy, then his life had meaning.
"I have some water, but it is not enough to stave off the flames," the boy calls out, which makes Lysander climb faster. The journey down would be harder. This boy, whoever he was, must be accustomed to a leisurely lifestyle. No climber, at any rate.
"Wet some on a cloth, and tie it around your nose and mouth," Lysander said, as he kept on climbing. If he could just do this...
When Lysander finally reached the top, he took a hold of the windowsill, and climbed inside the room. It was richly decorated, with things that Lysander had not dared to so much as dream about.
A plush bed, books, real ones, and not the fake wooden stand-ins, which the poorer people bought for their covers. A carpet, now ruined by the flames.
Lysander looked around, and saw the boy wetting some cloth in a washing basin. The wanderer ran to the boy, and then took the cloth from him. He squeezed the water out, and then tied it to the boy's face. After that, Lysander took the blonde child by the hand, and tugged him to the window.
"Hold onto me," Lysander said. He was just ten, and the boy looked to be about the same age. Lysander didn't dare let the thoughts about how he was going to climb down with the other boy bother him. If he could do this, then his life would have meaning. He won't be simply surviving; he would be someone's savior.
Even if I was the one who brought this on this boy.
"Wait, I can't climb," the boy said, halfway out of the window.
"Do you trust me?" Lysander asked. The boy looked at the wanderer, and then at the flames, which were destroying his old life in front of his eyes.
"I trust you," no one has ever told this to Lysander. The wanderer took a hold of the boy, and brought him flush against him. Lysander didn't have much to offer. A hard life, one which might be worse than the death by fire.
Catching himself thinking such things, Lysander shook his head violently.
No, nothing is worse than death. As long as one survives, there is hope that they can thrive. Lysander began to climb down, with the boy clutching at him. He had been right, when he thought, that the return trip was going to be harder, than going up.
"Don't let go of me," Lysander said, and then focused on the bricks. His fingers hurt, and he was certain that his nails were a bloody mess. Yet, he didn't give up. When they finally reached the ground, the boy let go of Lysander.
"Mama and papa are in there," the boy said, as he tried to rush back inside the burning ruin of a house.
"Yes, more than likely dead. The same as you, if you go back inside," Lysander snapped. The boy blinked at him, and then looked at the fire, which was eating away at the house.
"You are a hero, right?" The boy asked, hope in his voice. "Please, save mama and papa."
"I can't," Lysander let his mana stream inside the house. There were no living people inside. Just two corpses. It was better for the fire to hide away what was done to them. "We have to go. To the Gold Road."
"But mama and papa," the blonde boy made a couple of steps towards the house, but Lysander snatched his hand, and turned him around.
"Are dead. I am a wanderer. You can trust me," Lysander kept for himself, that the boy's mother had blood around her legs, that his father's head was split in half, probably by a war axe. Let the fire cleanse this place. Let it cover the traces of the sin, which took place on a holy day.
Lysander looked around himself. The village was burning, and there was nothing he could do. Stuck under the plank, which fell from the roof, he didn't know how long he'd survive.
There is nothing worse, than burning alive. Flames were spreading around the village, and he, just a ten-year-old, was going to be burned alive.
He punched the ground under him, and did his best to try and heave the plank off himself. It wasn't like life was very good to him, even before the bandits came and killed off his fellow villagers. Lysander was a wanderer. With caramel skin, and golden eyes. His unkept hair reached his shoulders. If he had any access to a pair of scissors, then he would have cut it.
"Come on," Lysander said, as he tried to heave the plank one last time. "Come on, god darn you!"
As if this curse offended a higher being, Lysander felt a power in him. With a burst of mana, he managed to get the plank off himself. Quickly, he crawled out of the wreckage, and then away from the fire.
The boy wiped the tears from his face. He was a wanderer, and wanderers survived. No one wanted them in their settlements. The people of this village never let him inside, either. Yet, it had been a holy day, and the adults had taken pity on the dirty boy, who lived in the surrounding forest.
"Wanderers bring bad luck," Lysander fought with the guilt, which threatened to overwhelm him. He knew the saying. This had happened before. Yet, he still came inside the village. Still shared their bread and salt, and drank from the customary cup of milk with honey. Then, the bandits had attacked.
"Why, just why?" Lysander collapsed on the ground. The road was a dirt one, and the fire was not traveling up it. Once again, he was alone. Once again, he had deaths on his conscience.
"Help! Anyone, help!" Came a weak voice from a couple of houses away. Lysander sprang into action. He ran, and reached the house from where the voice had come.
With wide eyes, he searched for just about anyone. The house was big. Certainly, belonging to a well-off person. Finally, the wanderer saw it. A boy, peering out of the second story window.
"Help!" The boy was as close to the window, as he could get. Lysander could see the flames licking at the inside of the room.
"Jump!" Lysander yelled. The door was broken, and so, if there was a way for the boy to come through it, he would have done so by now.
"I am scared," the boy called, between coughs. Lysander looked up, and saw that the house was made out of bricks. With something like this, he could climb up.
"Do you have water with you?" Lysander yelled, and the boy yelped. The flames must be reaching him. Lysander began to climb then. If he could save just one person, then he won't be cursed anymore. If he could only save the boy, then his life had meaning.
"I have some water, but it is not enough to stave off the flames," the boy calls out, which makes Lysander climb faster. The journey down would be harder. This boy, whoever he was, must be accustomed to a leisurely lifestyle. No climber, at any rate.
"Wet some on a cloth, and tie it around your nose and mouth," Lysander said, as he kept on climbing. If he could just do this...
When Lysander finally reached the top, he took a hold of the windowsill, and climbed inside the room. It was richly decorated, with things that Lysander had not dared to so much as dream about.
A plush bed, books, real ones, and not the fake wooden stand-ins, which the poorer people bought for their covers. A carpet, now ruined by the flames.
Lysander looked around, and saw the boy wetting some cloth in a washing basin. The wanderer ran to the boy, and then took the cloth from him. He squeezed the water out, and then tied it to the boy's face. After that, Lysander took the blonde child by the hand, and tugged him to the window.
"Hold onto me," Lysander said. He was just ten, and the boy looked to be about the same age. Lysander didn't dare let the thoughts about how he was going to climb down with the other boy bother him. If he could do this, then his life would have meaning. He won't be simply surviving; he would be someone's savior.
Even if I was the one who brought this on this boy.
"Wait, I can't climb," the boy said, halfway out of the window.
"Do you trust me?" Lysander asked. The boy looked at the wanderer, and then at the flames, which were destroying his old life in front of his eyes.
"I trust you," no one has ever told this to Lysander. The wanderer took a hold of the boy, and brought him flush against him. Lysander didn't have much to offer. A hard life, one which might be worse than the death by fire.
Catching himself thinking such things, Lysander shook his head violently.
No, nothing is worse than death. As long as one survives, there is hope that they can thrive. Lysander began to climb down, with the boy clutching at him. He had been right, when he thought, that the return trip was going to be harder, than going up.
"Don't let go of me," Lysander said, and then focused on the bricks. His fingers hurt, and he was certain that his nails were a bloody mess. Yet, he didn't give up. When they finally reached the ground, the boy let go of Lysander.
"Mama and papa are in there," the boy said, as he tried to rush back inside the burning ruin of a house.
"Yes, more than likely dead. The same as you, if you go back inside," Lysander snapped. The boy blinked at him, and then looked at the fire, which was eating away at the house.
"You are a hero, right?" The boy asked, hope in his voice. "Please, save mama and papa."
"I can't," Lysander let his mana stream inside the house. There were no living people inside. Just two corpses. It was better for the fire to hide away what was done to them. "We have to go. To the Gold Road."
"But mama and papa," the blonde boy made a couple of steps towards the house, but Lysander snatched his hand, and turned him around.
"Are dead. I am a wanderer. You can trust me," Lysander kept for himself, that the boy's mother had blood around her legs, that his father's head was split in half, probably by a war axe. Let the fire cleanse this place. Let it cover the traces of the sin, which took place on a holy day.
