He is in a dream, that much he knows. He could tell it by how he seems to be experiencing some form of tunnel vision; he sees perfectly clearly in front of him, but everything in the periphery of his sight is merely a shimmering blur, as if the subconscious mind has not bothered putting in such minor unnecessary details.
He looks to be in some sort of village. Simple but well kept houses made of wood and stone stand in arced rows, forming a rough semicircle around what looks like a communal well. People are milling around, going about their daily business, many of them busily tending to their crops and livestock. The atmosphere is neither pleasant nor unpleasant, but normal. These villagers harbour no idealistic delusions about happiness; there is hardship and poverty, yet they appear to be content with making do with what they have.
He sees a child playing beside the well, a young boy with a head of tousled dark hair. He is running around with a wooden sword, swinging it wildly at imaginary foes. A woman, probably the child's mother, sits on the front step of a nearby house, sewing.
"Easy there!" the woman admonishes gently, when one of the boy's overenthusiastic lunges nearly clips her. "You'll be taking my head off next!"
The child laughs, his cheeks flushed from his exertions, as he leans on his toy sword. "Don't worry, Ma!" he says breathlessly. "I won't hurt you! I only hurt the bad guys!"
"Well, you could have fooled me…" his mother jokes, as she pretends to feel her head for missing strands of hair. "You nearly gave me a bald patch there!"
"That was my special move, Ma!" the boy replies. "Watch!" He holds up his sword in both hands and slices the air in front of him, from left to right and back again, the wooden blade making a whooshing sound as it goes. "I use it to cut my enemies in half!" he declares triumphantly.
"My, what a strong cleave!" the woman gushes, as she motions the boy over. Brushing his messy hair out of his face, she playfully chucks his chin. "You'll be as strong as Pa in no time!"
The boy nods solemnly. "When I grow up, and become as big and strong as Pa, I want to be a knight."
"Oh?" The mother raises an eyebrow. "Why's that?"
"'Cause knights are heroes! They fight bad guys!"
With a warm smile, the woman puts an arm around the boy. "You know, you don't have to be a knight, or to fight bad guys, to become a hero."
The child's eyes widen incredulously. "I don't?"
"No," she says, as she tenderly rubs their noses together. "Anybody can be a hero. As long as they are willing to do anything for the people they love." She motions towards the men working in the fields. "All those men there, they work hard all day to make sure their family have food and shelter. In my eyes, they are all heroes."
"So Pa's a hero, too?" the boy asks, his voice filled with awe.
His mother barely manages an answering nod before a booming voice interrupts them.
"Someone call for me?" A burly man with a beard strides up to them with a hoe slung over his shoulder.
"Pa!" the boy shouts as he runs towards his father. The man easily plucks the child up with one hand, cradling him in the crook of one massive arm.
"Ugh," groans the big man. "Is it just me, runt, or have you grown heavier since this morning? Soon you'll get too big for me to hold you like this!"
The child giggles as he throws his arms around his father's neck. "Ma says you're a hero."
"That so?" the man asks, as he bounces the boy on his arm.
"Yes! She says that anyone willing to do anything for the people they love is a hero."
"Aww…" says the father, as he winks at his wife. "Well, you know what, runt? It's your Ma's turn to be a hero now." He flashes a huge smile. "She's gonna save our poor rumbling bellies by making us some nice supper!" He glances at the boy's grubby hands. "But I think you need to clean yourself up a bit first, don't you think?"
The child shrugs as he looks at the dirt on his hands. "I guess…" He gives his father another quick hug. "When I grow up, I want to be a hero, just like you!"
With that, he jumps off his perch on the man's arm, and races into the house. Alone now, the man puts an arm affectionately around his wife. "Been putting more soppy ideas into his head?"
The woman gathers up her sewing and punches him playfully. "Well, you have been filling his head with way too many stories of knights in shining armour. A little soppiness never hurt anybody."
The observer watches as the couple walk arm in arm into the house, and shuts the door behind them.
The dream fades suddenly into black. Then, he realises that he is in a darkened bedroom. There is a strange reddish light shining through the thin curtains from outside the window, casting flickering shadows on the walls. That, combined with the smell of smoke and the muffled cries of people screaming, tells him that something is wrong.
The figure on the bed stirs and sits up. It is the same little boy from earlier. Nervously, the child tiptoes to the window, and parts the curtains just enough for him to peek through. Curious, he moves to look over the boy's shoulder, to see what the child is seeing.
He hears the lad stifle a gasp at the scene before them.
The village is bathed in an eerie orange glow. Some of the houses are ablaze, and people are running about in a panic, screaming. There are a few villagers who seem to have fallen down, but they seem unable to get back up. Many of these have burning arrows sticking out of their twitching bodies.
Amid the cries of fear and pain, the sound of horses' hooves could be heard, thundering ominously. One of them, a magnificent stallion the colour of smooth obsidian, trots into view, nostrils flaring, bearing a man dressed all in black. The raging fires surrounding them are reflected in the creature's eyes, and in the blade wielded by its rider, as if both were radiating some infernal light. The effect makes the rider look like an apocalyptic horseman straight from the flaming depths of the Nine Hells.
He hears the child draw a sharp intake of breath as the demonic-looking horseman ruthlessly cuts down a fleeing villager, slashing the hapless man across the back with his deadly blade.
With a small whimper, the boy runs back to his bed, and kneels down beside it. For a moment, he thought the child was about to wriggle under it to hide, but then realises that he was rummaging underneath it for something.
Heavy footsteps reverberate through the house before the door to the bedroom is thrown open with a bang. The child jumps in fright, nearly hitting his head on the wooden bed frame.
The doorway is filled by the towering bulk of the child's father. He could see the boy's shoulders sag in relief.
"It's a raid!" The father's baritone voice is quaking slightly. "Come, we have to go!" Grabbing the child's hand, he practically drags the boy out of the room. As if tethered to the child by an invisible rope, the observer finds himself being pulled along as well. Silently and unseen, he glides right behind the man and the boy, and watches as they meet up with the child's mother, her eyes wide with worry. She clutches a small cloth bundle protectively in her arms, no doubt trying to salvage what little valuables the family has.
Suddenly, he finds himself being reeled in towards the boy, closer and closer, until he thinks he would soon be colliding with the child. Instead, he goes straight through the boy, and feels himself merging with the child, becoming one with him, entering the lad's mind, until he finds himself seeing through the boy's eyes.
And tasting the child's fear.
His parents lead him hurriedly to the back door of their house. A blast of smoky air hit them as they rush through the exit. Running as fast as they could with a child in tow, they make their way to the relative shelter of the surrounding woods. The boy trips once on a raised tree root, but his father quickly hauls him back up, literally carrying him until the child regains his balance. He hears the sound of rushing water up ahead. They must be close to the river.
The trees surrounding the three people start to thin as they reach the stream. There are a few other villagers there, familiar faces to the boy, all huddled together in fear.
Someone screams, and they all turn back towards the trees. A couple of black-clad robbers, their weapons drawn, emerge from the woods, apparently having left their horses to track their quarry on foot through the tangled underbrush. As the two men advance menacingly, the villagers step back, hemming themselves in between the raiders and the river behind them.
They hear the sound of hooves thundering through the vegetation, before the same ebony coloured horse the boy saw earlier crashes out from the brush. Both horse and rider step right up to the trembling group of villagers. It is obvious that the horseman is the leader of this raiding party.
"So this is where the rest are hiding," remarks the dark rider, his face concealed under a black hood. "You don't know how much of an inconvenience it was for us to track you all down. I am not happy."
With that, he slashes his blade across the throat of the villager standing nearest to him. Amid shrieks of horror from the other villagers, the man, whom the boy recognises as old Janus the baker, slumps to the ground, his eyes bulging with surprise as his lifeblood spurts out from his neck wound.
A pair of hands falls across the boy's eyes as his mother tries to shield the child from the horrific sight, but he could still hear the sickening gurgles of the dying man choking on his own blood. He suppresses a horrified shudder at the man's death rattle, but he could not tear his gaze away, and peeks out between his mother's fingers at the macabre scene.
"Tell you what," the horseman says, his tone casual even as he flicks the blood off his sword. "I'll make a deal with you. Hand over all your valuables willingly, and I may consider not killing anyone else."
With that, the other two raiders proceed to relieve each man, woman and child of their possessions, roughly snatching away bags, pulling rings off fingers, tugging pendants off necks.
One of the raiders, a swarthy, brutish looking man with missing teeth, approaches the boy's cowering family. He plucks the sack of valuables from the mother's arms, then greedily eyes the woman's simple gold wedding band. Brutally, he grabs her wrist with one hand, and starts to prise the ring off her finger with the other. The boy hears his mother cry out in pain.
"Hands off my Ma!" he shouts, the toy sword he retrieved from under his bed now firmly clutched in both hands. With all his might, he swings the wooden blade down onto the raider's fingers encircled around his mother's wrist. There is a resounding thwack on contact, and the man draws his hand back, yelling and cursing.
"Me knuckles!" he roars as he clutches his injured fingers. "You broke me knuckles, yer li'l wretch!" His eyes gleaming with violent intent, the man swipes at the child with his good hand. The vicious backhand connects squarely with the boy's temple, sending him sprawling onto the ground, dazed. His head throbbing, his vision swimming both with tears and dizziness, the child hears the sound of footsteps coming towards him. He recognises the cold and calculating voice of the leader of the raiding party, asking what the disturbance is about.
As his vision stops dancing, he sees a pair of soft leather boots near his face. He looks up to find the horseman staring down at him with apparent amusement. Now that he is off his mount, he no longer appears as hellishly scary as before, seeing as he only stands as tall as the boy, but his stout, sturdy build and his cruel gaze harbour no illusion: he is still a dangerous man.
He realises the dwarf is laughing.
"You're not going to let a little kid get the better of you, are you, Jared?" he chuckles. Nudging the boy with a toe, he comments, "Look what you did to the poor lad. He's all covered in dirt now!" He glances down again at the child, his eyes glinting with malevolent glee.
"You'll need to give him a bath."
The boy is still trying to comprehend why the dwarf is so concerned about getting him cleaned, when he feels himself being picked up roughly by the collar. The man known as Jared drags him unceremoniously towards the river, and before he could protest, his head is dunked forcibly into the frigid waters.
The shock of the icy stream quickly clears up his dazed mind. Instinctively, he tries to lift his head, but he is held firmly in place. He claws desperately at the hand gripping his hair, but it only succeeds in getting his face shoved even further into the depths of the river. His heart beats loudly in his head as panic consumes him. Thrashing wildly, he watches helplessly as streams of tiny bubbles trail out of his nose and mouth. The harder he struggles, the more bubbles escape, until he feels a crushing pressure in his lungs, as if a metal band was being tightened around them. He tries to fight the urge to draw breath, but the band continues to squeeze his airless lungs like a vice, and he feels they would implode if he does not take in some air soon.
Unable to bear the pressure any longer, his mouth opens, and a torrent of water rushes down his throat. He feels the freezing liquid flooding his lungs, the cold piercing him like a thousand icy needles. Reflexively, he coughs, and the reaction makes him suck in even more water. He could feel his lungs distending as they fill up, yet the band around his chest continues to tighten.
His lungs are about to burst.
Suddenly, the hand forcing his head down is lifted. Pushing himself hastily out of the water, he takes a big gulp of air, sweet air. Sputtering breathlessly, he leans his dripping forehead on the ground, his little body convulsing with each mouthful of water he coughs up, his pulse still pounding madly in his temples. He hears some sort of commotion in the background, but he ignores it for now as he concentrates on expelling the fluid from his lungs, and filling them instead with precious oxygen.
When the tightening in his chest finally starts to subside, he looks up, his throat feeling raw from all the hacking.
His mother is lying on the ground with Jared pinning her down. Her eyes are shut, and she is groaning, blood dripping out of her nose. Jared is swearing furiously at her, his uninjured hand still balled into a fist. Jagged red scratch marks run down his face, as if he had been clawed by an angry cat.
"Ma…" the child manages hoarsely as he coughs again.
The leader of the raiding party stands nearby, snickering. "Poor, poor Jared. Not a good day for you, is it? First the kid, then the mother…although I do see now where the lad got his balls from."
Jared says nothing, but merely glares daggers at the dwarf.
The leader eyes the unconscious woman appraisingly. "Y'know, she's not a bad-looking wench. Since you've already got her in a…horizontal position, no sense wasting a chance to…vent your frustrations, eh?" And he gives the other man a meaningful wink.
This time, Jared breaks out in a gap-toothed grin. The boy has no idea what the dwarf is implying, but he does not like the predatory looks on the men's faces as they ogle at his mother.
His father, however, knows of their intentions all too clearly.
"Please…!" he pleads, stepping forward and falling to his knees. "You've taken all we have. Please spare us…" The boy stares at his father's submissive display in wide-eyed confusion.
Why is Pa kneeling before them? Why is he begging to them?
The raiders are snickering at the big man's grovelling. The leader ambles right up to the man. With his father on his knees, the dwarf is just about able to look him levelly in the eye.
"I suggest that you don't try to be a hero, peasant," he snarls menacingly, his blade at the larger man's throat.
Come on, Pa, you're much bigger and stronger than him! Fight him! Save Ma!
But his father merely blubbers helplessly as he flinches away from the dwarf's sword. As the raider backs off, the boy could only watch, mortified, as his Pa covers his face with his massive hands, muttering, "Please…please…please…"
With building horror, the boy watches as all three raiders converge around his mother's body.
And his father does nothing to try and help her.
The child gapes at his Pa, the big, strong man he has always looked up to, and feels a pang of shame.
The men surrounding his mother have started laughing raucously.
Without thinking, the child picks himself off the ground, still sopping wet, and launches himself on the back of the dwarf. He hears a cry of surprise before a hand clamps down on his shoulder. The child bites down hard on the offending hand, eliciting a yowl of pain from its owner.
Then something solid hits him in the base of his skull, and everything spirals into darkness.
In the obscure gloom of semi-consciousness, the child is vaguely aware of the sounds of grunting, shrieking and crying. Then, he hears a high-pitched scream, followed by a long, drawn out wail.
When he awakes, the hair on the back of his head is matted with something sticky and warm, and it hurts. He is lying face down in the dirt, and the brown sand is stained with a few drops of something darker and reddish.
He tries to get up, but he could not move his body. For a moment, panic hits him, as he wonders why his limbs are not responding to his brain. Eventually, he realises that his hands are bound behind him. His feet, too, are tied up.
"Pa? Ma?" he calls out groggily, his voice a terrified squeak. The wailing he heard before waking up is still sounding in his head.
Turning his head, he finds the source of the piteous cries.
His father, his big, strong Pa, is rocking on his hands and knees, keening mournfully.
The boy is frightened. He has never seen his father weep before. What has upset him so?
He cranes his neck in the other direction. The three raiders have stepped away from his mother, but something is wrong with Ma…
Her eyes are open, but they do not seem focused on anything. They just stare vacantly into space.
And as the raiders step back even further from her, he sees the blood.
He chokes back a scream. There is so much blood: on her hands, her clothes, her hitched-up skirt, her bare legs, her exposed thighs…
It all seems to be flowing from the gaping hole in her stomach.
"MAAA…!!" This time he does scream, long and loud. His Ma does not seem to hear him. She remains unmoving, her dimmed eyes still gazing blankly at nothing.
Why isn't she moving? What's wrong with Ma? Tears start to roll down the child's face as he whimpers plaintively.
One of the raiders approaches him. Gruffly, he picks up the child and tosses him over a shoulder. The man's shoulder is bony, and it hurts where it juts into the boy's ribs. He tries to squirm free, but his bonds are tight.
"Paaa…!" he calls out to his father, terror-stricken. "Pa! Help me! Please!"
His father hears him, that much he is certain, but he makes no move to get to his feet, to come rushing to his rescue.
Instead, he merely crawls pitifully on all fours toward them. When Jared strides towards him, his weapon raised, his father stops, tears streaming down his face and drenching his beard.
"My son! No, please, not my son, too…" and he breaks down in uncontrollable sobbing.
The child could only stare at his father, all hopes in his little heart crushed.
Still carrying him, the raider starts to walk.
Where are they taking me? What will they do to me? Like any child, his imagination runs wild with all sorts of nightmarish possibilities.
He cries out to the other villagers, who have been crowded together all this time, entreating, praying, for one of them to aid him. He sees some familiar faces among them: Amos the innkeeper, Sven the carpenter, Hogarth the farmhand…all big, strong, capable men.
But not one of them tries to stop the raiders.
There are so many of you! There are only three of them! Why won't you fight them?
"Someone, please, help!"
But they just look on as the black-clad men amble off with the boy slung over a shoulder, trussed up like some animal on its way to the slaughterhouse. Their eyes show fear, resignation, and pity.
Pity…
The child does not stop screaming until he is flung ungraciously over the back of a horse, his face buried into the mount's firm flank. Consumed with grief, dread, and abject terror, the little boy starts to bawl.
A hand roughly grabs him by the hair around his head wound, sending jolts of pain through the child. The hand jerks his head up, and the boy finds himself staring into the dwarf's face. He glimpses the strange greyish-blue hue of the dwarf's complexion, and the evil glint in his red eyes. The child flinches in fear.
The dwarf is laughing. "I like you, kid. You have fire." He visually assesses the child. "I could find some uses for you yet…if you survive long enough."
A small whine escapes the boy's quivering lips. He does not like the dwarf's tone at all.
The man glances back towards the trees, in the direction of the river. "Your Ma tried to be a hero, kid," he tells the child, as if giving him a fatherly lecture. "Fought to the very end." His fingers are still entwined painfully in the boy's dark locks. He shakes his grey-blue head. "Trust me, it was a bad move.
"You don't want to be a hero."
He lets go of the boy's hair, and pats him on the head. Then, the dwarf mounts the horse with an agility that belies his short stature.
"Take it from me, lad, heroes are the first to die."
With that, he snaps the reins, and the black stallion breaks into a gallop. The child sees a few horses ahead of them, and more behind them. He bounces uncomfortably as the dwarf's steed starts to run faster, leaving the burning village behind.
The child could only stare dumbly at the retreating village, at the burning houses.
At his home.
His Ma's words from what seems so long ago echo in his mind.
"Anybody can be a hero. As long as they are willing to do anything for the people they love."
He sees his father again, his big, strong Pa, who has always been a hero in the child's eyes, begging pitifully for mercy, unwilling to stand up for his family, for Ma.
Does he not love us? Is that why he didn't do anything?
The child is suddenly overwhelmed by a river of shame, as he realises that his Pa, whom he has admired and adored, is no hero.
Then he hears the dwarven raider's sinister, mocking voice.
"Heroes are the first to die."
The image of his Ma's bloody, violated body burns freshly in his mind. Ma had tried to save him, had she not?
Now look what's happened to her.
He is engulfed by a sudden rush of guilt.
As the raiding party picks up the pace, the fires of the burning village fade slowly into the distance. His little spirit broken, the child lays limply across the horse's back, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head and the discomfort of his bonds.
"You don't want to be a hero."
The dwarf's words invade his thoughts again.
No, I don't want to be a hero…the child thinks, his cheeks stained with tears, blood and grime.
Not anymore…
The observer could almost feel the child's little heart crumbling in despair.
Everything starts to flicker, and before he knows it, the dream ends, fading into nothingness.
