Chapter 6 | Cold Air
– ◇ –
I was now four years old and, at the present time, fat snowflakes were falling on slate roofs, enriching the colorful city with an endless blanket.
I was also spending a lot of time with my new friend Nina and her friends.
And yes, it was strange to become friends with a five-year-old when you were virtually in your mid thirties. Well, the key to the right mindset was this: It didn't matter, and it was only weird if you made it weird. Trust me when I say that it took me some time to get here. Source: Trust me bro.
I wasn't in a position to talk about complex topics anyway like the state of the world, hobbies, sex, the latest stuff, the stars or just life, like when I was back on earth, let alone with Nina. That had to wait another ten years.
And things like shittalking the enemy team in video games were entirely off the table, for obvious reasons.
But one thing was clear: you refrained from doing stuff you knew would go wrong.
Okay, here's a funny story about an issue Nina and I had. We were confusing each other with the way we were talking. Now you would probably guess that it's because I spoke two languages and mixed them up or mispronounced words, but no, jokes on you.
We simply spoke with different accents. While Nina had naturally adopted her parents' Wisir accent, I, in contrast, had copied the Millis accent from Brand.
It was very comparable to British and Australian English.
Nina and her friends and I often played in the park behind her father's store.
On one of these snowy days, we would spend our time building our own snow tower, or diving into small snow mounds.
It was, in all honesty, mad fun.
Nina's parents were nice people who sometimes invited me for dinner, which was a world apart from what my father would produce.
Her father had also started teaching us sewing and how to weave a basket at one point, maybe because he was getting bored or maybe, just maybe, he wanted to use child labor. It wasn't easy, neither the weaving nor being a child, but I think I've got the right weaving technique by now.
Today was no exception, and our little group of friends were helping out in the store.
Incidentally, I had finished my very first basket and was satisfied with the result. Nina's father also looked pleased with his pupils' product, which made me happy. His eyes also told me that he wanted to sell what I was making. Let's see if he would include me in the profits.
At noon, Brand came to the shop to pick me up. To ensure that we did not stray, someone always escorted us back and forth. It was either my father, my mother, or Brand these days.
He and Nina's father greeted each other with a mutual nod and Brand, in an unusually good mood, asked "Do any of you kiddos want to see a neat trick?"
His question was immediately answered with cheers by the swarm to his feet.
Oh no.
Brand went down on one knee and put one hand out.
Then he made a fist and moved his thumb in a slow, circular motion to demonstrate its movability while mysteriously increasing the tension.
He retracted his thumb into the palm of his hand, showing us a completely closed fist, the thumb enclosed with his fingers.
He shook his fist a little and grabbed his fist with his other hand, and revealed to us that he now had his left index finger wrapped around his right thumb.
Everyone's eyes were glued to Brand's fist.
What followed next was an unexpectedly excessive use of force, as Brand pulled the tip of his thumb off, little by little!
Cries of concern became louder as some saw Brand's bright red face from strain, and the question arose: how on earth would this madman be okay after this?!
But Brand knew better.
He had found a way to fight fate itself, and with one angry puff out of his nose, he pushed his thumb back into one piece!
The excitement could not be held back any longer and hell broke loose.
And then the spectacle was over.
Brand was completely fine, his normal color already returning to his face, which now carried a barely noticeable grin of satisfaction.
He then stood up as if nothing happened and stretched his hand out to me.
It was time to go home.
– ◇◇ –
The awe-struck looks of the other kids followed us a little longer down the street, until we turned a corner and were out of sight. But before returning home, we had to go and pick up something else from the Red District first.
After about ten minutes, we also came across Irhaal, who was waiting for us at a cross section. He ruffled my hair and took me by the hand.
Of course, I made him notice my newly made basket!
"Well, that is one nicely done basket!" He said in awe, "I figured just yesterday that I would want a basket just like that one. Would you make a basket for Papa as well?"
His silly question made me laugh out loud, and I naturally confirmed that the next basket I made would be his.
"Did you have fun with your friends?" He asked me, genuinely interested in whatever we were doing.
Of course, I straight up told him "Yes! And Uncle Brand did one of his crazy tricks and pulled his thumb out like, 'prfftt' !" And reenact his thumb-pulling with a little bit of over-exaggerated visuals and noise-making on my part.
"Oh wow, he went full out, didn't he?" Irhaal smiled, as if he himself had seen the trick dozens of times.
On our way, I listened to the conversation between Irhaal and Brand, who had ordered some special equipment for themselves from a reputable artisan who had sent for both of them to come for a fitting. They were both very excited, because they had been waiting a very long time for this.
A little further ahead of us, the Iron Fountain came into sight.
It was the landmark of the Red District.
According to Bazelle, everything that had something to do with smithing, storing, and processing of ores and metals was almost exclusively found here, since there were heavy machines at work.
The Iron Fountain itself served as an irrefutable token of the master craftsmanship that accumulated in this district.
This magnificent eye-catcher, with its three-tiered design and many ornaments that could be discovered through plumes of sparkling water, stood proudly at the head of the Red District's main street.
The use of all sorts of colorful metals that were carefully placed and well-matched with each other was a nod to the city and a nod to the people who honed their craft to new heights.
Every blacksmith who wanted to open his shop in this district had to "earn the right" first by either adding or replacing a piece of the fountain. That also required the artisan to coordinate with all existing shops.
It was also my first time seeing the fountain, and we took our time looking at it and finding new details with each passing minute.
After I noticed that my company was getting antsy, we got moving again. It was nice to realize that they both waited patiently for me to take it all in.
We arrived in front of the place of our desire (kind of), but that was as far as we would get. The reason for that was a group of people blocking the entrance.
Irhaal let go of my hand and moved in front of me in a protective manner, while Brand wore a cautious expression on his face.
The abruptness of the swift change in situations left me dumbfounded.
Huh?
Noticing something, one of the men ahead of us turned around, and spotted us right away.
"Ha, will you look at that, didn't think I would see you greedy bastards here." he scoffed at us.
Irhaal and Brand exchanged short nods. Do you guys all know each other?
"Oh, so you thiefs wanted to get something from this shop, yeah? That's good to know. Really good."
I peered at the gathering that was clearly hostile towards us from behind my father's legs.
They were not wearing any color-coded apparel; instead, they were all dressed normally, each seeming different from the other save for the fact that they all wore identical chest armor.
I counted six men, all equipped with swords or daggers at their hips.
My mistake was to let my eyes wander further up, until the man's eyes met mine and a smirk formed on his face.
"Yo, this your kid? That's reaaally good to know!" he said to my father with mischievous eyes, and his group began to chuckle, some even licking their lips.
I didn't understand what kind of situation we were in.
Were we in danger? It definitely felt like it!
"Heh, I know you guys are shit scared, but you see, our boss is quite generous, so if you leave this territory to us and don't make a fuss about it, then who knows, we might even overlook the past few events." his grin widening.
Well shit, this guy was confident!
But we were given a way out.
And what was this? A turf war?
My father and Brand didn't hesitate to act on this chance and backed down—or so I thought, but all they did was change their posture a bit.
"As if I would ever believe the words of a liar," came the words from my father, his piercing eyes directly staring at the man who was acting as the head of the group.
His grin still plastered on his ugly face, he slowly put a hand on the pommel of his sword and stepped forward.
His men used this as well, exiting the shop one by one, and were beginning to gradually surround us.
Citizens who saw that something was going on but didn't want to get themselves involved rushed away.
I didn't like this scenario at all, not one bit! My instincts were screaming to get out of here as fast as I could! How was someone supposed to stay calm? The heck?
"I don't give a damn what you say. It doesn't matter to me whether you leave or die here," his voice slightly elevated as he declares.
I didn't know what to do and I was afraid that saying something would further escalate this, so the only thing that came to mind was clinging to Irhaal's cloak.
I knew that my father didn't want me to be in this situation. I was a burden, and that ugly guy utilized this to his advantage, but thankfully not to his fullest. He was giving us the chance to leave.
But the grin of ugly guy's face slowly vanished and apparently so did his patience.
"Alright, that's enough fooling around. I was planning on stabbing you guys in the back, but I have decided to stab you guys in the face instead. Here I come!" He shouted and drew his sword.
And with this declaration of his clear intent to kill us, the realization popped into my mind.
My father was right, it was all a lie, a bluff!
And it showed how naive I was.
It was just a set-up to give his men some time to get in a better position.
A-and now what? W-what was I supposed to do? Run?
I knew I was the slowest here.
Defend myself? But how? Throw my basket at them? Weave them to death? I-I also didn't have the resolve to …
Thankfully, that decision was made for me by someone with a lot more experience and resolve than me.
My father took a step towards the group, threw something at one of the rushing attackers, and at the same time, struck at another man with incredible speed.
He then tossed me over his shoulder, spun around and ran.
My grip loosened as a result of my being hoisted up, and the basket slid from my grasp and fell to the ground.
My brief anguish at the sight of my own creation being crushed was swiftly overpowered by fear of the approaching man and his sword, held high above his head and poised to strike.
"Got you!" the man exclaimed as he swung his sword at us.
And it would have been a hit if Irhaal had not shifted his body to the side, but the blade has still gotten terrifyingly close to my face.
The man readied himself to strike again, but before he could execute his next attack, a giant fist appeared in my field of vision and sent the man flying.
Brand saves the day! Oooh, now I got what the initial nod between Brand and Irhaal meant!
But there was not much time for me to be in awe of the blind understanding they both apparently had, because Brand did not run.
No!
"Tzeh!" I heard my father click his tongue clearly in frustration.
Brand was slowly driven into a side street, but it went without saying that he was putting up one hell of a fight, even taking on three attackers at once.
"Braaaaaand! Please, just run!" I screamed to him, tears welling up in my eyes, unsure if he could even hear me.
Please!
I caught the last glimpse of Brand as he twisted someone's neck into an unnatural position, but my guts tightened at the sight of a dagger, lodged in a growing red spot on his side.
We turned a corner, and I lost sight of Brand completely.
I began to gasp violently, for I had been unconsciously holding my breath all this time.
Irhaal did not slow down until we reached the Stag Bastion in record time.