Dean was born and raised in the most beautiful place on earth, for earth itself was his home.
Khai people lived as a caravan. They traveled from places to places. They enjoyed living with nature because they believed themselves part of the nature they grew up in. Their God's teaching was simple - love, share, and put down hatred. The codes of conduct would make the world a better place, not only for nomads like the Khais, but also for people around them.
Despite their peaceful living, the Khais were fierce warriors and excellent hunters. Men led the hunt, and protected the family. Women led the society, and shaped new generations. Both were equal. Both were strong.
This was the main reason why the King of Matra feared them. Free-spirited combined with knowledge could not be controlled by power. Neither could they be lured by wealth. As far as the Khai concerned, they were rich. They had everything they need.
At 6 years old, people told Dean that he looked like an angel though a very naughty one. Dean had blond curly hair, a pair of bright green eyes, long eyelashes, and kisses by an angel sprayed over his face.
Not a day passed Dean would not jump into a lake with other older boys, or ran along the hills for a short game of chase. He always lost, of course. Dean was the youngest boy since the two-year-old Sam who could barely talk did not count. The Henriksen brothers looked at Dean like their own little brother. Gordon and Viktor would ask Mary for a permission to let Dean play with them in the morning. They taught Dean how to spot edible fruits or mushrooms.
There was one time Dean fell and sprained his ankle so, Gordon and Viktor took turn giving Dean a piggyback ride on the way home.
To his eyes back then, everyone was the same. Dean had never asked his mom or his dad about the color of the Henriksens' skin. It was not something the Khais would discuss. They held no discrimination. All people were welcome to their family because they were created by God who had no exception nor preference.
Dean was proud of his family. His father, John, was the chief of the caravan. John had vast knowledge on hunting, weapons, and geography. Mary, Dean's mother and the most beautiful person he had ever seen, was an excellent apothecarist even though John always teased that she was the better hunter than him. Sometimes in an evening, Dean and Sam would play jackstones together (Although most of Dean's energy would be used in preventing Sam from eating the pebbles) while John and Mary slow-danced to the crooning of the Gurney, a rare species of bird that symbolizes freedom and faith. Their parents were very much in love, and Dean's heart swelled twice the size.
Come to think of it, it was a sweet dream. A dream that Dean was forced to wake up from.
The sky was red that day, and three boys were playing at their usual spot in the forest, far from the caravan. Viktor said that the sky was red because there was bloodshed somewhere. But Gordon smacked his brother's head, and explained that a rainstorm was coming, and that they should head back.
Row, row, row you boat
Gently down the stream
If you see a crocodile
Don't forget to scream WAHH!
Dean remembered they were singing old 's song on their way when Gordon suddenly stopped and told them to be quiet.
It was a sound Dean never heard before. He never heard a woman's screaming with despair like that. Her voice was cut off immediately like someone pulled a string off. They were too many sounds of metals crashing together - those - Dean knew, were swords. A wind blew, and Dean could smell burning flesh in the air. The smoke from the location where the caravan should be rose high to the sky.
"Viktor, take Dean and go hide somewhere. I'll go find dad." Gordon said urgently, but Victor stood still.
"No" The younger brother clutched Dean's hand tight, but he refused to go. "Gordon, I…"
"I said GO!" The brother commanded again, and Viktor knew his brother enough to oblige. He started running back to the opposite direction, taking Dean with him. Dean glanced back, Gordon was gone.
"Gordon? GORDOONNNN" Dean cried out. He did not grasp the full concept of what was happening but he knew the caravan was in danger. He shook Viktor's hand off and ran toward the caravan, but Victor threw himself on Dean. Dean struggled, but Viktor was much bigger that he could nail Dean to the ground easily.
"Dean. Nothing you could do there. Come!" If Viktor noticed that Dean was crying, he did not say anything. Viktor led Dean faster into the forest to the are in which they were not familiar anymore.
"Viktor?" Dean held the boy's hand tight. Viktor looked around, and gave Dean a smile that Dean knew was fake. "Come here. You'll be safe here."
It looked like a very large rabbit hole under a willow tree. But if no one really looked, they would not know if there was a hole a size of a small boy there. Viktor led Dean into it, but himself was too big.
"No matter what happens. No matter what you hear. Stay quiet. I'll come back for you."
"Viktor"
"No, Dean. Stay quiet. Understand?" Viktor instructed for the last time. Dean nodded.
As soon as the boy turned his back to Dean, an arrow shot right through his neck, and Dean, despite being hidden, could see it clearly.
Viktor fell to the ground and twitched as he was struggling for air.
"He's still alive!" A voice with strange accent called out, and Dean heard the sound for hooves coming closer. Maybe there were a few horses and their horsemen outside. Dean clapped his mouth. Trying to not make any sound even though it was hard to breathe properly when tears streaming down his face and his nose was running.
By the footstep, one man got off the horse. "Let me put you out of misery." He said.
Dean did not know what the man had done, because he could not see, but the stream off blood shot high and splashed into the hole where he was hiding. Dean wanted to scream. He was shaking terribly. His knees weak under his own weight. He had no choice but to remain silent as other men outside were complimenting on the shot that hit right on his friend's vein. They were shouting and laughing loudly although the nearest man was complaining about the blood strain on his armor.
"This one is a Sie, isn't he?" One man asked. The other snorted. "Are you blind? He is white as fuck. Of course, he's a bloody Sie, and you know what to do."
A few seconds passed without anyone saying a word. Then Dean saw a tip of a sword raising up, and it slashed down hard enough for him to hear the sound it made through the air. Another splash of blood.
Viktor's head rolled into the hole, and Dean screamed at the top of his lung.
He pressed himself against the wall, as far from the head as possible, but Viktor was right there at Dean's feet, eyes wide staring into nothing. A strong hand scooped down to take Viktor's head.
All the boy could see was a pair of very dark eyes and crooked teeth grinning at him. "We've got a toddler!" It announced, and Dean fainted. Blackness and shadow covered his sight.
When Dean woke up again, he was hoisted and tied up on a back of a horse. His consciousness was not back completely, and a 6-year-old strength was nothing compared to the rope that tied him up. As the horse galloped slowly, Dean recognize the surrounding. It was the trail not far from the caravan, but he heard no scream or fighting anymore. There were only silence and the sound of fire cracking.
The horseman knew that Dean was awake, or maybe he didn't care. He pulled Dean's hair, forcing the boys to see what's ahead of them.
They are stakes. A line of dozen of steaks or more. Each one had a sharp tip pointing to the sky. And Each one was decorated with something neither circular nor square.
As they approached the line closer, Dean finally realized. They were a human's head. And one of them was John's.
Dean stopped breathing. Then he started to breathe long and hard. His breath became faster it turned into panting. Dean felt like someone was squeezing his heart and he wanted to cry and to scream but no sound came out.
A man in a hood standing among the soldiers seemed to notice, and signaled for Dean's rider to stop as himself put Dean on the ground softly.
"Breathe, kid. Breathe."
Even at 6, Dean knew this man was on the enemy's side, but he could not help feeling better under the warmth of the hand on Dean's chest. A minute or two has passed, and Dean's breath became slower, almost normal again. The man still stayed with Dean.
Suddenly, Dean thought of his mother. Where's mom? Where's Sammy? He must escape and find them.
It was a ridiculous thought of a child who barely passed a toddler age. And Dean's hope was crushed when he heard a cry of a small boy.
There was no mistake. It was Sammy.
Dean tried to look up to see his brother. Just a glimpse would be enough. Just a glimpse and Dean would run to comfort Sam like he always did. But the hand held him down. The man in hood hushed. "Don't you worry about anyone but yourself." He hissed.
"What's that" another strange accent called out. But this voice was colder than the rest. It spoke with authority and froze Dean to the spine.
Dean's eyes followed the voice to a man on a horse. He was holding a white rose up his nose.
"We found a child inside that cart, my lord. The mother was shot to death." One soldier reported.
The man with a rose said something to the soldier who bowed and walked away. Then he addressed the man in the hood sternly.
"Chuck"
Dean's helper answered to the call. "Yes, my lord" He, too, bowed.
"Kill that child." He jerked his chin toward Dean.
Chuck answered with a shaken voice. "It will be done, my lord"
"Good."
Then the man shook his horse's rein. The horse galloped away, along with the dozen more than trailing behind. Chuck hurriedly came back to Dean.
"I'm sorry. This is the best I can do." The man was crying, but Dean did not know why.
He tied Dean's mouth with a piece of cloth and covered Dean's head with a sack then tied it again to make sure it would not slip away.
Dean was lifted and thrown into some kind of a vehicle he did not know what. All he knew was that he kept moving, and the journey was never-ending.
Mary was dead. John was dead. Sammy was dead. Viktor and Gordon, too.
It was the first time a six-year-old Dean wished to die. It was also the first time he cried himself to sleep. When they finally took the sack off Dean's head, it was the first day he spent in a cold, damp cell of Chateau D'If prison. And Dean had never seen the sun since.
