Fear. He wasn't allowed to feel it, so why did he feel drenched in its terrifying presence? Rymon shuddered against the wall and swaddled himself in his scratchy woollen blankets. The darkness pressed itself against him like a breathing monster, and he gave a frightened little squeak.
"Rymon?" A grating voice sliced the silence, and the sound of it made Rymon's pale eyes widen in terror.
A match flared to life, and the shadows fled from the hovel as a flickering lamp was set on the little table beside Rymon's straw mattress. It illuminated a tiny shack with an unstable bed beside the blackened hearth across the room from where the young Capricorn, though his name was then Rymon, laid. Much to his dismay, the lamp also illuminated a bird-like woman with a hooked nose and small, piercing eyes; the sort of eyes you would expect to find on a doll.
"Mother…" He said as boldly as he could, though at ten years old his voice was far from bold.
"What was that noise? Are you afraid of something?" Her eyes bulged and her breath quickened. Mortola had told him many times to never show fear, and once again, he had disobeyed her.
"I wasn't afraid." He said quickly. "Not really… it was dark." He blinked up at her imploringly.
"You are afraid of the dark?" Mortola snorted. "Then you'll have to conquer your fear. Go outside and spend the night out there. It is perfectly dark out there." He must have looked completely horrified then, for she leaned closer and said, "Do it, Rymon, or I shall tell your father about this."
Rymon glanced over at the snoring heap that lay on the bed. His father, Asric. He nodded fearfully and pushed the blankets off himself. He pulled a coat around his thin shoulders and slipped his bare feet into a pair of doeskin shoes.
As he stepped out into the cold air of the dark, poor area of Ombra, his mother whispered, "Fear is a weakness, son. You must learn to lose it." And she pushed the door shut.
Rymon stood out in the chilly air and stared up at the sprinkle of stars scattered over the black sky. He forced himself to look around at the shadows clinging to the walls and houses as though they were afraid to venture out into the milky moonlight. He then clenched his fists and set off to find somewhere to spend the night.
He tripped along the cobbles clumsily, his eyes snapping everywhere nervously. There was no one out, and it was so dark. He whimpered.
There was a bang from a cluster of wooden crates outside one of the tiny houses, and with a terrified cry he hurled himself along the narrow streets at a run. He stumbled many times, but didn't linger in one place until he found a small wooden stable and launched himself into the hay above it.
He lay there, panting, and simply listened to the night sounds of the city. In fact, he felt safer there than in his hovel with his parents. Or, he did, until he heard a rustling in the stables beneath him. He froze as the unmistakeable sound of a footstep throbbed in his ears, and stared up at the fairy nests in the rafters, still and silent, hoping whoever it was would go away.
"Hello?" A young, female voice called, and Rymon heard someone climbing up the ladder into the hayloft.
He jumped to a crouch and prepared himself to spring at whoever it was, to send them falling back to the stable with a punch. But when the person did come to the top of the ladder, he did not move. It was not a night mare, and it wasn't a scary-looking person at all. It was just a dirty little girl in a green felt dress. She was around his age, with long straw-coloured plaits and muddy brown eyes that looked right at him, bemused.
"Hello." She said again. "What are you doing here?"
Rymon eyed her with distrust and hunched himself against the stable wall, glaring fiercely. "What are you doing here?" He demanded, curling his hands into claws.
The girl arched an eyebrow and sat with her legs dangling over the edge of the loft. "There's no need for that, I was only asking because I've never seen you here before. I come here most nights. It's so difficult to sleep when my brothers are snoring, so I sleep here."
"I can be here if I want to be." Rymon said sullenly.
"I didn't say you couldn't be. I'm Wren, who are you?"
"Rymon."
"Do you live in Ombra?"
Rymon snorted. "Of course. My father is the best blacksmith in the entire town." It was an exaggeration, and he knew it, but he had nothing else to brag about.
"Is he? I expect he makes the swords and weapons for the army, then. Have you got a sword? Oh, have you?" She asked enthusiastically, her eyes wide and hopeful.
"Yes, he does make swords. But I'm not allowed one until I'm older." It was a downright lie, of course. His father had never come near a sword, and Rymon would certainly never see one.
"Oh my, that's exciting! You can go and hunt night mares and talk with the moss women of the Wayless Wood, and you can stroll through it because not even the wolves will go near you if you have a sword!" She eyed him enviously. "It's just like Balbulus's stories!"
Rymon's eyebrow's shot up to his hairline. "You can read?"
"Oh no, but my mother works as Balbulus's assistant. She fetches paints and parchment for him and tidies the library at the castle. When I was younger and had nowhere to go she would bring me with her, and Balbulus would read to me when he had nothing else to do. I still don't think he liked me very much, though."
"My mother is a maid at the castle, too." Rymon said truthfully. He eyed Wren nervously. He liked her, and didn't like that he had lied to her. He could always do with a friend, even if Mortola said friendship was for the weak. "Wren, do you want to know why I am here? I'm sorry I was rude and didn't tell you before."
"Yes, tell me." She smiled dreamily, and Rymon suspected she was thinking up all sorts of incredulous tales and stories of brownies and sprites.
"I'm afraid of the dark. My mother doesn't like me being afraid. She sent me out here to 'conquer my fear' and I hated being out on the street, so I came in here. You can stay here, too, if you like. I don't want to be alone again." He hung his head in shame.
"That's all right. I used to be afraid of the dark, because of the night mares and white women. My father was killed by a night mare, you see. But when I started coming out here to get a better night's sleep, my fear sort of… went. I'm sure that'll happen to you." She smiled slightly.
"Thank you. I like it better here than at home." He didn't think he would ever be able to explain to her why that was. He didn't want to say he was beaten and encouraged to be cruel, and he didn't want to mention his horrid mother and brutish father. He decided he would spend more time in the stable with his new friend Wren.