28. Ruen
Chapter 28
Ruen
10 years old…
I know the moment I wake up that today won’t be like the others. It’s time to leave. That much is clear because when I finally finish rubbing the grit of sleep from my eyes and sit up in the cot style bed pushed against the back corner of our one room shack, I can see my mom’s face as she moves around the slight kitchen area.
It’s not so much a real kitchen—like those houses she cleans in the villages and larger towns we pass through—but more a collection of chairs and tables put together next to the fireplace that acts as both our oven and stove. Only the people who live in real houses have those.
Mom’s old tea kettle whistles from its position over the fire and she quickly grabs a cloth to remove it from the handle that hangs over the flames before moving to pour the steaming hot liquid into two bowls. Soup for breakfast… again.
A dull groan rumbles up my throat as I swing my legs over the side of my cot. “Don’t we have any bacon?” I plead as I settle a hand over a stomach that bites at me in hunger.
Mom passes me a guilty look. “Not today, sweetie,” she murmurs before setting the now cooled kettle onto one of the tables that make up a counter. “Vegetable soup is good for you. Come sit. We need to pack after breakfast.”
I’m halfway to the table, but at her words, I slow to a stop and lift my eyes back to hers. “Do we have to?” I want to snatch back the words the moment they’re out of my mouth. I know better than to beg, but I thought this place was different.
Yette is a small village near the Hinterlands. Surely whatever searches for us wouldn’t dare to come so close to a place even the most dangerous of criminals avoid. I thought it was safe here. That we were safe from whatever shadow stalks my mom’s dreams. I should have known better though. She had another dream last night—and unlike the others, this one seems to have her more on edge.
Mom sighs and comes around the table, wiping her hands absently on her already stained apron as she bundles me into her arms. “I’m sorry, baby,” she says quietly, patting her hands on my back as she holds me to her.
I cuddle closer. Even if I am ten, almost a man by my standards, I still love the smell of her in my nose. All powdery and lemon scented. Lemon is my favorite and I wonder if it’s because it reminds me of her.
“I liked it here,” I say, the childish hope to convince her to forget whatever nightmare held her in its thrall last night and stay still bubbling inside me.
When she pulls back, though, I know it’s a false hope. “I know.” Mom pushes a lock of my hair back and tucks it behind my ear. “But it’s time for us to move. You knew that we wouldn’t stay long.”
“We stayed longer here than anywhere else,” I argue.
Her brows pinch and her expression turns stern. “Eat your breakfast,” she orders, straightening as she gestures for the table.
I stare past her at the gross vegetable soup that sits, waiting, on the rickety wooden table that had been here when we first moved in. That, too, I know will be left behind. Everything but what we can carry will be.
“Can I at least say goodbye to Ralf?” I half-plead.
Huffing out a breath, she places her hands on her hips to glare down at me. I don’t care, I place my hands together and gaze up at her, trying to make my eyes as big as they can be until I feel like they’re about to pop out of my head. With a huff, Mom rolls her eyes and drops her hands, and with that one action, I know I’ve won.
“Fine,” she says. “But hurry along. You have to eat before we leave and I’m not reheating your soup, so if you go now, you’ll have to eat your soup cold.”
I’ve had cold soup before, and honestly, hot or cold, it never makes it any better, but I at least want to have some time with my first ever friend before I say goodbye to him forever.
“I love you!” I cry as I slam myself into her lower half, squeezing her legs as I press my face into her stomach. “I’ll be quick, promise.”
Her laughter as I release her to jump about the room, pulling off my night clothes and jerking on my breeches and tunic and boots, follows me as I race out of the shack and into the street.
Unlike other places, even the slums of Yette are clean. The people living here prefer to take care of whatever they have even if it’s not much. After three months, I know the way to Ralf’s by heart. Hanging a left, I jog lightly down the road closer to the city. Ralf’s shack is similar to ours except that it has two rooms instead of one, each one stacked atop the other with a ladder that acts as their staircase. When I stop outside Ralf’s door and knock lightly, I hear his elder sister, Mira, call out.
Creeping inside, I offer the older pretty girl with eyes like a doe and freckles smattered over her cheeks a smile. “Is Ralf up?” I ask, peering around the room where no one else moves about.
Mira huffs out a snort. “This early?” she shakes her head and points the ladle she’s using to stir something over the fire towards the ladder. “Feel free to wake him and Samson up. They need to head out to gather some meds from the forest edge soon.”
I’m already nodding and heading for the ladder, setting my hands into place and making short work of the effort it takes to head up to the lone room that sits above their living space. My head peeks through the opening to see that it’s far darker up here without windows. The ceiling is lower than the first floor with barely enough room to crouch as I scoot down the row of blankets and straw mattresses spread out on the floor for Ralf’s family of five including his sister, brother, and parents to sleep.
“Ralf!” I whisper-hiss into the darkness. “Ralf, wake up, I need to talk to you.”
From the back of the room, a low grumble sounds. “Five more minutes, Mom,” Ralf replies, his voice heavy and still mostly asleep.
I roll my eyes and head straight for him, grabbing the foot I see sticking out of the bottom of his straw mattress and yanking hard. “Wake up,” I order, getting a little bit louder when I remember that Mira had said I could wake both him and Samson.
At my voice, Samson’s little head pops up next to his brother’s and he blinks eyes the same color as Mira’s at me for several long seconds. Then he smiles. “Hi, Ruen,” he says, reaching up to rub his eyes with his fists.
I smile back at the five-year-old, thankful that both of their parents appear to be out for the day and already working to provide for them. “Hi, Sammie. Mira has something cooking for you downstairs. You should go eat breakfast.”
“‘Kay,” the little boy responds around a yawn, but unlike his brother, Sammie is awake and already crawling across the mattresses heading for the opening that leads below.
Ralf kicks at my hand, making me realize I’ve still got a grip on him. I tug again. “Come on, Ralf, I’m serious.”
He half sits up and glares at me. “What is so important that you have to wake me up at the ass crack of dawn?” he gripes.
“If Mira heard you talking like that, she’d tan your hide,” I warn him.
Ralf shakes his head. “Nu-uh, Dad talks like that and she can’t tan his hide.”
I don’t argue the fact that Ralf’s Dad is also Mira’s and that though the man seems like a gentle giant, I doubt Mira would feel comfortable telling her dad not to curse around the young ones. Not when the man himself doesn’t even seem to realize it. Instead, I just tug at Ralf again.
“Come on,” I wheedle. “Mom says we’re moving today and I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye to you.”
That has Ralf fully awake in a split second and he tosses back the covers. “You’re moving?” I release him so that he can crawl to the end of his mattress and sit up more fully.
I nod. “Yeah. I told you that my mom and I travel a lot. Well, she said it’s time for us to go to the next place.”
“Why?” Ralf looks at me in what I guess is the same way I’d looked at Mom this morning. “Can’t you stay a little longer? We were supposed to go to the Day of Descendance Festival together.”
I drop down to sit cross-legged on the floor as Ralf starts searching through the side of his bed for the clothes he’d been wearing the day before. Scratching out a line on the grain of the wooden floor, I wait for him to finish dressing.
“She seems pretty set on leaving today,” I say. “I asked her if we could stay, but she…” I shake my head and lift it again to see that Ralf has his trousers on over his hips and is tying the too loose waist tight with the laces practically folded in half under his belly button. “I’m sorry, Ralf.”
Ralf quickly tugs on his tunic and then grabs my hand. “Come on, let’s go to the clubhouse.”
I don’t argue as I let Ralf lead me back to the ladder. He releases me, and together we climb down to the first floor to see Samson sitting at the table, his dangling feet swaying back and forth. Mira waves at the two of us as Ralf offers her a quick goodbye and pulls me towards the door.
“Don’t forget the herbs you need to gather with Sammie!” Mira calls out.
“I’ll be back soon,” Ralf promises, and then the two of us are off.
We run back up the street, towards my house, and past it. Though no one dares go too far into the Hinterlands, the edge woods that linger closer to the outskirts of Yette are safe enough. About two weeks into our new friendship, Ralf and I had discovered a hollowed-out tree facing the city, big and dry enough for the two of us to sit in during a light summer storm. Since then, it’d become our secret clubhouse and hideout when neither of us wanted to return home for one reason or another.
I wave to a few familiar faces of the other inhabitants of the slums of Yette—men and women who’d welcomed my mom and me with open arms and even helped her to gain work closer to the village’s center. It was thanks to them that I’d come to love this place so much and I’m going to hate trying to set up somewhere new. Few villages are as kind as Yette.
Ralf and I pause at the edge of the woods and then track along its exterior until we spot the three marks we’d made on one tree to mark our path. Once we see it, we climb over the roots and underbrush off the normal path that other villagers take when they come to collect herbs and other roots to sell in town.
Our clubhouse is a massive tree that’s wider than any of the smaller trees that hover around it like sentinels guarding their King. We circle it and Ralf pulls off the web of moss that we’d woven together to hide the interior during the times we had to leave it unattended.
“Come on.” Ralf waves his hand for me to go first and I do, hooking one foot over the side of the massive trunk’s opening and then dropping to the floor of crushed leaves and foliage. In the next instant, Ralf is next to me. The inside of our clubhouse isn’t big to begin with, barely a five-foot perimeter. With both of us inside, it becomes smaller, but it’s private, and more importantly, it’s ours.
“Okay, so talk,” Ralf demands. “Why does your mom say you have to leave?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. She just does. We’ve never stayed in one place for very long.”
"Hmmmm.” Ralf hums in the back of his throat and crosses his arms over his chest. I kick at a twig sticking against the toe of my boot. “That’s suspicious, don’t you think?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I never really thought of it.” It’s a lie. Of course, I’d wondered why my mom and I had to move so often. I’d asked and her answer had always been vague, but I think I know the truth. It’s because of me, because of what I can do. More than that, though, I have the sneaking understanding that we’re running from something or someone. Whoever it is scares her, though, and despite my earlier begging to stay, I know that I don’t want my mom to be afraid. If that means moving, then so be it.
“Listen, Ralf, I’m sorry,” I say, blowing out a breath. “But I promise when I get older and I can make decisions for myself, I’ll come back to see you.”
Ralf eyes me and then drops his arms. His eyes grow glassy just like I expected. He sniffles. “I don’t want you to go,” he confesses.
I don’t want to go either. I hug my friend, squeezing him tight. Suddenly, I have the thought that the two of us could grow up together. We could keep coming back to our secret clubhouse and when we have muscles like Ralf’s dad, we could build it bigger—maybe even make it a real house.
That hope blossoms inside my chest and swells bigger and bigger until it consumes my whole mind. Around us, the wind whips through the trunk of the massive tree. Ralf and I pull away as the ceiling of the tree hole widens and expands, growing upward. My eyes widen. The wind swirls faster and faster, fog rolling in and spreading over the floor to sweep away the dust and debris. When the wind settles, the clubhouse is transformed. It’s become a real place, no bigger than my mom’s shack, but wide enough with carvings into the interior wood and even a window.
“Whoa, what in the world…”
My heart beats faster when I realize what I’ve done. Almost as soon as that thought occurs to me, the illusion vanishes and Ralf blinks at me with big, almost owlish eyes. “What was that?” he demands.
I repress a flinch and instead offer him a laugh that sounds too sharp to even my own ears. “What was what?”
Ralf narrows his eyes. “Our hideout, it just got ? —”
I stare at him. “I didn’t see anything,” I lie, cutting him off. “Are you okay?” Guilt eats at me, but I say the words anyway.
Ralf pauses and then shakes his head. “I don’t know, uh, never mind, I guess.”
Relief spreads through me and I hold out my hand for him to climb back through with me. “I can’t stay for much longer,” I say. “Mom wants to eat breakfast and pack.”
Ralf lets me help him out first and we spend some time talking—reminiscing over the last few months of friendship—as we walk back to the slums of Yette. It isn’t until I get to the end of our street that I realize something is very wrong.
All of the people I’d waved to on our way out are gone. Doors are shut. Window shutters are closed. There’s no sound. Ralf doesn’t seem to notice the sudden silence, but it slides over the back of my neck in warning, drawing me to a standstill.
“Ruen?” Ralf’s voice is distant as I gaze down the street towards the middle shack amongst others. Mine and my mom’s.
There’s a carriage outside it. A big one.
I start running, ignoring my friend’s shout of surprise behind me. My legs fly over the grit and dirt road, faster and faster until I can hear the sound of crying. My mom’s crying. White hot anger like I’ve never felt before gives me the energy and power I need to burst through the front door of our temporary home to find her on her knees before the fireplace with a tall muscular man standing in front of her, sword drawn.
“Get away from my mom!” I scream, diving for the man before it hits me.
The second my little body slams into his legs, not that it does much good—he’s built rock solid, like a mountain unwilling to crumble, the power he’s exuding crushes into my lungs. I fall, my back hitting the dirty floor as all of my breath escapes me. Blackness creeps into my vision at the edges, but I still see the man turn to look at me. Those golden eyes assess my face and then turn back to my mother with a nod.
“Good, we have him then,” the man says. Two figures I hadn’t noticed standing further back in the room come forward.
“No!” Mom screams and reaches for me. “Not him. You cannot take him! He’s mine! He’s my child!”
“And mine, Gabriela,” the man states. “You knew that and that’s why you hid him. Hiding a Mortal God is a crime punishable by death.”
Someone grabs ahold of my arms and drags me to standing. The man lifts his sword and my mom’s eyes swing my way. She opens her mouth and I know what she’s about to say— look away, baby —but I can’t. I’m locked onto her face, watching with horror and helplessness as the man—the monster—brings his sword down and severs her head directly from her body.
Blood squirts and then gushes from her body as both fall lifelessly to the floor. The spray of it rained so far that I can feel wetness on my cheeks. The arms holding me feel light as a feather. My body ascends from the natural plain and I feel nothing but the prickling sense of emptiness.
Hollow. I am hollow.
It isn’t until the man starts talking again as he wipes his sword against a cloth that one of the other men in the room hands him that some emotion returns to me. “Burn the body. She doesn’t deserve a burial for keeping my son from me,” the man says before turning to me.
Confusion fills me. His face is stark and angular with a heavy thick beard. The man bends slightly to look at me, eyes roving with clear intention. “You are well built,” he comments. “Although, a bit underfed.”
I stare at him, unblinking. Then my eyes turn to the small hilt of a weapon on his side. The handle is silver and black leather. A dagger. If I can just get my hands on that, I can cut his throat. I can make him pay for what he just did. I can avenge my mother.
“Do you know who I am?” the man continues to ask, though I haven’t spoken yet. “My name is Azai, I am the God of Strength, and you, boy, are my son.”
No. I shake my head at that. There’s no way I could be this man’s son. I am not. I will never be his son. I’m her son—my mother’s. I am Gabriela’s son.
Blood stains the wood grain beneath my hands and feet. The man—Azai—lifts his head and jerks his chin at the man gripping my shoulders. “Release him and go ready the carriage.” The command is followed without a sound, but all I hear is the booted footsteps of someone leaving the two of us.
My eyes move from the hilt of his dagger to my mom’s apron. I don’t know why I focus on it. Perhaps it’s because I can’t bring myself to look at the horror of her headless neck—the splintered bone jutting out or the unseeing eyes of the head that has rolled against the wooden frame of our hearth.
Whatever the case, my eyes latch on to the dirty no-longer-white color of her apron. Stained with green and brown splotches. Vegetable soup. She made vegetable soup for breakfast. I should get up and eat it. Even if I don’t like it, she always looks happier when I’m eating.
No. Wait. I have to do something first.
“Are you listening to me?” the man snaps, sounding angry.
My head turns as if it’s being pulled on a string until my eyes meet his. His lips part and I don’t hear what he’s going to say next because I’m already moving, jerking forward, hand wrapping around the hilt of his dagger as I draw it free and then twist, slamming it into his gut right past the leather of his tunic.
The man freezes, and for a moment, the two of us are suspended in a single instant in time. Our eyes, together, move down to where the silver blade is embedded into his abdomen. He doesn’t cry out in pain. No, instead, the man backhands me so hard that my hands leave the grip of the dagger. I fly across the room—harder and faster than I ever expected. My side slams into our kitchen table, the piece of weak furniture crumpling under the weight of my body as it kicks out two of its legs.
Bowls crash to the floor around me, the smell of my mom’s vegetable soup spilling over the wooden slats under me. It seeps into the space, filling my nostrils until I swear I’m going to choke on it. Blood coats the inside of my mouth and I turn my head, spitting a harsh wad of it out … along with a tooth.
“You are going to regret that, Son,” Azai says coolly.
I look up to see him pulling the dagger from his stomach as if he doesn’t even feel it. How is that possible? The blade slides out, and he cleans it on his thigh before placing it back in its scabbard. Something wet trickles down the side of my face. My head throbs.
Azai straightens and then reaches for a second dagger, one that had been hidden at his back. This one isn’t silver, but as black as stone, and it glints in the sunlight streaming through the doorway.
In the distance, I hear Ralf crying out my name. Azai jerks his head to the lone other man in the room. “I want everyone cleared out of this village,” he orders. “When we’re through here, raze it to the ground.”
“N-no.” My protest is breathy and my chest feels tight as if it’s caving in. Ralf can’t lose his family too.
Azai doesn’t even bother to acknowledge that I’ve spoken as he approaches me. I try to scramble back, but when I move, my knee screams out. I suck in a harsh breath as Azai bends over and captures my head with his hand tight in my hair. Pain sears through the back of my skull and when I look up at him, fear and anger swelling in my gut, I think I know now who my mom was always running from.
It was from this man. This monster.
“Look at me, boy,” Azai commands, brandishing that black blade. “This is your first lesson as the son of a God.” He brings the knife closer and closer to my face. Sweat beads on my brow, but I don’t close my eyes. I keep staring back at him.
When he sets the edge of the dagger to the skin above my brow, I almost lose control of my bowels. Fire stretches over my flesh, parting it as blood gushes out, flowing into my eyes—eyes that I keep open and locked on the man in front of me.
Blind or broken, I will know the one who stole my life from me and if it takes a thousand years, I will kill him for it.