(no subject)
Title: Legacy
Chapter Number - Chapter Title: 1 - The River is Long and the Travel Hard
Notes: More about the boy himself will come later. This is set as the background of the entire basis of this story.
Once the attack had started, nothing could stop the massacre. Few were left alive, and those who did were captured and sold into slavery to the high nobles in the barbarian society, a fate some considered worse than death. In fact, Death looked so beautiful they lunged off cliffs to try and fall into her embracing arms. But the rope that held the prisoners together was strong, and none was blessed which such a fate. The warriors sent to the back to keep an eye on them laughed at their attempts, spitting on the ground in front of them as the slaves trudged along, hating every word they could not understand coming from the barbarian’s mouth. One grabbed a young girl and pulled her close, his rancid breath making her head turn away. He pulled her face towards him and gave a kiss to those soft lips, his friends laughing as she promptly reeled away and vomited, sickened by the taste of meat long spoiled and filth that had been there since the day he was born.
The group wondered about their fates as each passing day, they traveled farther and farther away from any source of help. Would they be killed and eaten by the tribe, as so many stories told? Or would they be spared, but forced to abandon everything they had grown up with, every story destroyed and the tribe forcing them to live how they lived, forever integrated into a society where sacrifices were made to gods that didn’t exist and senseless violence made such deities happy? Would they be killed if the gods the barbarians so worshipped became angry at the tribe, and they, the prisoners, would be sacrificed to pacify the gods’ great anger? Each had a different fate in mind, each worse than the one before. At night, when the barbarians slept but at least one warrior at a time kept watch, the captured spoke quietly among themselves, comforted that that they were not alone in this ordeal and sure that their own gods would give them a sign that would give them enough courage to get through this time of fear.
The morning brought nothing but another day of unstoppable traveling, their feet bleeding from the blisters on the soles of their feet, cracked open from the sharp rocks that littered the path across the open land. The sun beat down high above, and even their capturers seemed tortured by the intense heat. Obviously they were used to the cool climate of the forest, or perhaps even in the high mountains. One of the scouts sent out in the early morning ran up to the leader of the pack, speaking silently and motioning his hands towards something far in the distance. The tall man squinted his eye - his other taken from him long ago in some battle or another, the group figured - and nodded, turning to his band and yelling out something in the rough language. The boy, mentioned a long time ago, had learned bits and pieces of the barbaric tongue and translated, very loosely, what the captain said.
A river was nearby, the leader yelled to his men, and they would rest there for a time until the heat passed and night became their trusted ally once more. The barbarians and their captives were led to a river, walking nearly half a day before they could hear the rushing waters. The prisoners were allowed to wash first, the women stripped naked while the barbaric men watched and grinned with teeth missing. The group ignored them the best they could, soothing their tired feet in the water and wading out until they were knee-deep in the cool liquid and washed themselves, the grime of seven days and eight nights flowing off them to wherever the river ended. When the band saw them fitfully clean and rested, they hauled the group out by their hair and went in themselves. The small band of prisoners were left to their own devices, though an armed guard nearby kept them conscious of their misfortune.
As night fell, the barbarians began to move once more, this time following the river’s flow. Many days and many nights were spent as such, the plans of escape fading as quickly as the fish that escaped the grasps of the large men. Those who tried to escape were beaten with sticks, and many submitted to their fate of being a slave - or worse. All except the nine-year-old boy, who had seen his mother killed and his town destroyed. He drew figures in the mud by the river bank, making plans that had flaws. Those that had the greatest weaknesses where washed away, and those that seemed like they would work were gone over again and again until it seemed all of his planning was for naught. Finally, he resigned himself to wait until he could see what the barbarians were planning to do and how it could work in their favor. How does a nine-year-old child seem so grown up and full of hope, when all is lost?
Death had forced him to see that life wasn’t what he thought it was.
Chapter Number - Chapter Title: 1 - The River is Long and the Travel Hard
Notes: More about the boy himself will come later. This is set as the background of the entire basis of this story.
Once the attack had started, nothing could stop the massacre. Few were left alive, and those who did were captured and sold into slavery to the high nobles in the barbarian society, a fate some considered worse than death. In fact, Death looked so beautiful they lunged off cliffs to try and fall into her embracing arms. But the rope that held the prisoners together was strong, and none was blessed which such a fate. The warriors sent to the back to keep an eye on them laughed at their attempts, spitting on the ground in front of them as the slaves trudged along, hating every word they could not understand coming from the barbarian’s mouth. One grabbed a young girl and pulled her close, his rancid breath making her head turn away. He pulled her face towards him and gave a kiss to those soft lips, his friends laughing as she promptly reeled away and vomited, sickened by the taste of meat long spoiled and filth that had been there since the day he was born.
The group wondered about their fates as each passing day, they traveled farther and farther away from any source of help. Would they be killed and eaten by the tribe, as so many stories told? Or would they be spared, but forced to abandon everything they had grown up with, every story destroyed and the tribe forcing them to live how they lived, forever integrated into a society where sacrifices were made to gods that didn’t exist and senseless violence made such deities happy? Would they be killed if the gods the barbarians so worshipped became angry at the tribe, and they, the prisoners, would be sacrificed to pacify the gods’ great anger? Each had a different fate in mind, each worse than the one before. At night, when the barbarians slept but at least one warrior at a time kept watch, the captured spoke quietly among themselves, comforted that that they were not alone in this ordeal and sure that their own gods would give them a sign that would give them enough courage to get through this time of fear.
The morning brought nothing but another day of unstoppable traveling, their feet bleeding from the blisters on the soles of their feet, cracked open from the sharp rocks that littered the path across the open land. The sun beat down high above, and even their capturers seemed tortured by the intense heat. Obviously they were used to the cool climate of the forest, or perhaps even in the high mountains. One of the scouts sent out in the early morning ran up to the leader of the pack, speaking silently and motioning his hands towards something far in the distance. The tall man squinted his eye - his other taken from him long ago in some battle or another, the group figured - and nodded, turning to his band and yelling out something in the rough language. The boy, mentioned a long time ago, had learned bits and pieces of the barbaric tongue and translated, very loosely, what the captain said.
A river was nearby, the leader yelled to his men, and they would rest there for a time until the heat passed and night became their trusted ally once more. The barbarians and their captives were led to a river, walking nearly half a day before they could hear the rushing waters. The prisoners were allowed to wash first, the women stripped naked while the barbaric men watched and grinned with teeth missing. The group ignored them the best they could, soothing their tired feet in the water and wading out until they were knee-deep in the cool liquid and washed themselves, the grime of seven days and eight nights flowing off them to wherever the river ended. When the band saw them fitfully clean and rested, they hauled the group out by their hair and went in themselves. The small band of prisoners were left to their own devices, though an armed guard nearby kept them conscious of their misfortune.
As night fell, the barbarians began to move once more, this time following the river’s flow. Many days and many nights were spent as such, the plans of escape fading as quickly as the fish that escaped the grasps of the large men. Those who tried to escape were beaten with sticks, and many submitted to their fate of being a slave - or worse. All except the nine-year-old boy, who had seen his mother killed and his town destroyed. He drew figures in the mud by the river bank, making plans that had flaws. Those that had the greatest weaknesses where washed away, and those that seemed like they would work were gone over again and again until it seemed all of his planning was for naught. Finally, he resigned himself to wait until he could see what the barbarians were planning to do and how it could work in their favor. How does a nine-year-old child seem so grown up and full of hope, when all is lost?
Death had forced him to see that life wasn’t what he thought it was.