Had to rush out the chapter today due to work, will put more care into the next one.

Chapter 4

He would've liked to say he was prepared. Maybe he might've even managed to convince himself that he was, in some capacity.

But that would've been a lie.

Not once, in his short span of training outside with his father, did a situation like this one come up. So, when Celia and Inigo fidgeted to move towards the tormented children, when the hulking ragged bodies rushed towards them, when the swirling white vortex of the blizzard barreled towards them at unnatural speeds, did Artos act. Not on experience, not on thought, but on pure instinct. After all, it was his father that always said, "Moments of great gravity require instinct, not thought."

Grabbing Celia's shoulder with his left hand while raising a stolen pistol in the other, he squeezed the trigger, all the while yelling, "Run!"

He saw the rightmost bandit's head snap back, chunks of brain matter flying through the air, before the tsunami of bellowing snow consumed them, leaving nothing but an endless plain of stark white for as far as the eye could see. The sharp winds that accompanied were deafening.

Forcibly raising his hands to protect his face, he acutely felt his sense of direction be lost. When sharp gusts of wind assaulted you from all sides, and your vision was effectively gone, it required you to rely on other senses. As much as he hated it, be it for how little belief mattered to him right now. He had nothing to hold onto but the belief that there was a wall to his left.

He felt a pair of small yet surprisingly strong hands grab at his waist and wrap around his left arm, and yank him backward, guiding him.

Although he didn't know where he was being led nor could he see anything other than a subtle streak of crimson hair from his right, what bothered him most was the lack of hearing due to the deafening cry of the screaming winds. He didn't feel panic for himself though. He tried in vain to scream out for Celia, yet the words were consumed by the wind.

Suddenly his foot got caught on something sharp, causing him to stumble out of the grasp that was guiding him. Erratically looking around through the blinding sea of snow, for any thing, all he saw was distant shadows of grey.

To what could've been his right, although he wasn't sure, he saw something. A nearby silhouette. He stumbled aimlessly towards it when he felt an impossible strong force slam into his back, sending him tumbling through the air. Forcing his aura out not a moment too soon, he slammed back first into a solid wall; his black aura crackled momentarily around him, absorbing most of the blow, but it still left his back aching.

Winded, he gasped wildly, gulping as much air as possible, before he noticed that he was suspended against the wooden wall, and pieces of ice were gradually pooling around his wrists, binding him to the wall. Around him, the rapid winds of the blizzard had receded, to either side of him, leaving him in some open pocket. To the right, he saw the opening in which they had climbed in until the frozen winds pushed in towards him, filling the gap back up.

Through the blazing winds walked a tall woman; he couldn't really see what she was wearing, just that it seemed to be red and black padded armor because her face is what locked him in. Her blood-red eyes seared their way into his soul, with indescribable malice, streams of red vapor pooled out from her eyes, the sneer on her lips telling him what fate he had in store. As she stormed towards him, a pale blue light grew from within her gauntleted palm, resulting in the ice tightening around his arms, spreading to his back.

He knew what would happen.

She would take him, use him, chain him, maybe even sell him. The thought sent a spike of molten rage up his spine.

Feel that anger...Use it.

Images assaulted him; he saw himself and Inigo, chained, hung to die, like unwanted toys. He saw Celia and Pyrrha, beaten. Nude men surrounded them, no doubt to use them. A rage unlike anything he had ever felt, coursed through his very veins.

Surrender yourself to it, allow it to guide you.

An intense heat spread through him, filling him; his very veins felt like molten metal, and a scream tore its way free from his coarse throat.

Snapping his eyes open, an immediate wave of exhaustion hit him, followed by a burning from his hands.

In front of him flames flicker and die from the frigid temperatures, black soot lay scattered in between him and the now paused woman. Her arms bent upwards to cover her face, the previously red gauntlets tinged slightly, her eyes were wide, the embers of surprise or maybe intrigue lingered within her blood-red irises.

"Well, aren't you something. I'll have a use for you yet boy"

Boy... The word slithered through his mind, like a molten dagger.

A rain of bullets rammed into her side, as she encroached on him; within an instant, she absorbed the blows with her aura, pivoted, and with a blinding speed swung her blade in the direction of the attack. A shock wave sent the twisting winds spiraling away.

All of this happened in a matter of a few seconds, enough time to run for his life.

As soon as the first bullet impacted with her aura, Artos turned for where he had seen the opening and bolted into the winds.

For the first time in a long time, luck might've decided to be on his side because, as impossible as it may have seemed, he somehow managed to find the small opening that they had used to climb in here in the first place. Sliding down to his knees, he stuck his head through the child-sized hole, squeezing hard against the pointy ridges. He felt it dig into his right side, forgoing the use of aura, to preserve it when needed.

As he clawed his hands into the thick snow, a hand grasped his and pulled him forwards, helping to drag him to his feet. The icy winds of the blizzard meant visibility was still nearly nonexistent, although it had cleared slightly from inside the camp; in front of him, he saw the clear emerald eyes of Pyrrha.

"Celia... Where's Celia?" he croaked to her.

She didn't respond instead opting to move slightly to the left. Enough to allow a weight to barrel into his waist, nearly bringing him to the floor.

Staggering backward, he unconsciously wrapped his arms around Celia, a breath he didn't know he was holding sagged out of him.

"Artos" Pyrrha said, "Did you see Inigo?"

The gunfire. If Inigo had been the one who provided covering fire for him, then he had responded in kind by abandoning him. The thought slammed into him with a cold nauseating feeling.

Looking back at the hole he had just climbed through, he quickly came to a decision.

Gently peeling away Celia's arms, he said, "I'm going back to get him" I left him behind, was what he left to himself.

"What you... you can't!"

"I'm also coming"

He didn't get time to unpackage those mixed responses, as a flurry of gunfire sounded from the other side of the wall. Followed by Inigo crawling desperately through the snow just as he had just moments ago. A nasty gash was open along his forehead, and hot blood dripped into the snow below.

Hurrying over he grabbed at his desperate fingers and yanked him through. Once on the other side though, Inigo desperately turned back with a shout "Come on! Let's go!"

Next, the shaved head of the blue-eyed boy from earlier popped through the hole; his face was gaunt while his eyes were wild, a panic that both him and Artos shared.

Questions later, action now was what Artos had to tell himself.

Inigo desperately grabbed his right hand, while Artos took his left. Yet this time there was a heavy resistance; the kid must have been stuck on something. As they pulled harder, the kid's mouth fell agape, and his eyes began to dim, until finally, they felt something break and movement could be made.

With one final push, they yanked the kid forward with them, the released force causing both Inigo and Artos to fall flat on their asses as the kid was pulled with them.

Only it wasn't the kid that came out of that god-forsaken wall, at least not in his entirety.

He felt the warm sticky fluid that could only be blood, before he saw it.

Looking down at the single lifeless arm Artos was holding, he saw half of the child from before. A trail of guts and blood led back to the opening along the wall, where no doubt the other half of the boy lay. His cold lifeless blue eyes were set upon him, almost glaring at him, blaming him for his death.

There was no time to mourn this, no time to process it even. He knew they had to leave; the only possible safety they had was the blizzard. Once that had passed they would be fair game.

The climb back to camp was silent. No one spoke a word, no one knew what to say, but judging by the stony expression upon Inigo's face, he was probably eating himself up about what had just happened.

When they reached the hole Celia had made with her face not a few hours earlier, no one smiled.

Bursting into the smoky cave, the first thing they did was drop the gathered supplies and collapse their shuddering bodies around the fire. All but one.

Artos was burning.

Sweating.

A deep burning, as if someone had covered him head to toe with napalm, had consumed him since flames had unexpectedly shot from his palms just hours ago.

Sliding down against the cool jagged wall, he sat by the entrance, a small puddle rested peacefully next to him. Unwillingly he found himself drawn into the image reflected upon the puddle. Where a clean head of silver hair had once sat was now nothing more than a bloody mop. His once pink lips now lay crusted and split.

The thick layers of blood splattered around his face had darkened into a burgundy, but the worst of it all was his eyes. Where his amber eyes should have been, instead was a pair of ice blue eyes full of agony.

One by one he watched his features change and distort until his reflection became that of the boy from earlier. Was it worth it? The boy croaked at him. The words washed over him like a bucket of cold ice, causing his heart to beat out of his chest, his pulse beating erratically, trying to jump free from his flesh.

If he hadn't led them to the camp, then that kid would still be alive, the emotional part of his brain told him.

A cold hand wrapped around his collarbone, startling him. Looking up he was met with the kneeling forum of Pyrrha; her eyes belied her clear exhaustion, yet also concern.

Why was there concern?

"Artos" she spoke softly, as one might do when talking to a toddler. "It's freezing, and Inigo and Celia are already assembling some sort of makeshift bed, from the blankets and furs we took. Come on"

Hadn't they all just been by the fire? Yet sure enough, the packs they had taken, now lay disordered, open, and thick furs lay next to the open fire. How long had he been sitting here?

Allowing her to pull him to his feet, and guide him over to the now assembled pocket of furs they would be sharing from now on, a momentary calmness overtook him.

Channeling upon the new wave of calmness, he began to speak, as Pyrrha forced him to sit on the furs, adjacent to the fire. "We can't stay here"

Expecting arguments, or perhaps some sort of disagreement, he was shocked when they all mumbled their agreements to him.

"If the blizzard breaks tomorrow, we should leave. Those bandits will be looking for us."

Inigo said, "I say we head towards Argus. After all with the current equipment we have, it's the best shot we have."

Nodding in agreement, for that was all the energy he had left to do, he rolled over, as a wave of deep exhaustion hit him, but he did so with excitement for the first time in god knows how long, and as the chatter around him began to be replaced by the strong pull of unconsciousness, he found himself thinking back on the boy from earlier.

Yes, it was worth it.

Funerals were a social affair. Some thought they were to honor the dead, and in some regards, they were. Yet when Lucien looked around at the eccentric crowd, decorated in their clean-cut uniforms, their vibrant medals on display, medals he knew they only achieved from familiar connections over any actual skill, he understood that this was a room full of vultures, here to stake their claim to their oh-so-beloved family member's inheritance.

To his left, he watched with barely contained disgust as his cousin Verna Nikos balled her eyes out, into her husband's chest, all the while he rubbed her head in small circles.

The last time Verna and his brother had spoken had been over a decade ago, and it ended in a restraining order. Yet here she was, playing her role.

The rhythmic single round gunfire spurred him from his thoughts.

The casket containing the remnants of his brother began to be lowered into the earth. Truth be told, when the arena had been recovered, all that was left, to be recovered of his brother were various metals adorned atop a burned husk. The mental image of which caused his tear ducts to burn.

At the very least, they had found something; others weren't so fortunate.

His gaze drifted past the grave of his brother, to land on that of his niece. A tombstone and photo had been set up for her, yet the ground itself remained untouched, for there were no remains of her to be found.

In his shame, he found that he blamed himself for that.

He was a commander of Argus, and yet he was powerless to this.

In time, his shame and guilt had turned into what his wife had called delusion. How was it possible that all traces of Pyrrha could just vanish? Even if she was consumed by flames or killed by Grimm, there should have still been some trace.

He knew that when it came to a missing person, you had 72 hours before you were searching for a body, and even then all they had found were tracks, nothing singular, just tracks.

When he had brought this thought to their mourning mother, she had promptly backhanded him and told him to "leave the dead be".

An investigation had been conducted, one that was still ongoing even after two goddamned months. The preliminary results indicated it could've been the White Fang, but that didn't explain anything. After two months, there were just theories.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice how the sky had darkened considerably, or how the larger gathered crowd had left.

A dry cough alerted him to the presence of another.

"Lucien."

"Raye."

Raye was dressed in his usual charcoal three-piece suit, the color when combined with his slender but tall frame made for an imposing image. Yet the normal fire in his eyes was replaced with deep fatigue.

"You know why I'm here."

To settle the will, he thought.

"Not now."

Sighing, Raye sat down in the adjacent seat to his own.

"It's been two months, Lucien, and even then, it's only been postponed due to our friendship. But it can't wait anymore."

With his eyes set on the framed photo of Pyrrha, he responded slowly, as if each syllable induced pain. "Come to the house later today, we'll handle it then."

"I'll wait for you."

He wished he could say the same to his niece.

"Looks clear," the whispered words traveled through the air as Inigo came around the farmhouse, now into view.

Nodding, Pyrrha used her semblance to unlock the metallic lock holding the tattered door closed. Once unlocked, Artos pushed the decaying door in, weapon raised as they entered the deteriorating home.

It was dark, almost unnaturally so, and within that darkness came at them the rotting stench of death. Raising a hand to his face to hold back a gag, he soldiered on forward down the cramped hallway.

To his left opened up to a larger room, illuminated only from the gentle streaks of sunlight beaming through the few unboarded windows. To his right was what seemed to be a kitchen.

Turning quickly, he pointed out to Inigo and Celia with his index finger, and with his thumb motioned toward the larger room, while with his head he motioned for Pyrrha to follow him.

Scanning the kitchen, they find the remnants of rotting food atop the counters, rushing around the counter, to the cupboards, Artos can't help himself and opens the first one he sees.

Sitting within the cupboard are rows of cans all labeled 'St Margos Spaghettios'.

"I don't think we have to worry about the owners!" Inigo's voice calls out from the other room.

Forgetting about the canned food, Artos rushes over to the voice, with Pyrrha following not far behind.

Quickly scanning the room, he finds the origin of the stench.

At the end of the room, by the unused fireplace, was a singular brown leather chair. Similar to the one his dad used to sleep in from time to time. Slumped lifelessly in the chair was the headless body of no doubt the previous owner. The butt end of a shotgun rested against the floor, with the barrel laying underneath his arms aiming up towards where his head should have been. Brain matter lay splattered across the adorning wall, akin to a galaxy of stars. Flies and no doubt maggots had already begun to inhabit the corpse.

"Just when I thought things were getting easier."

They spent the rest of their day making the small space they had found habitable for at least the night. The first thing they did was dump the rotting body and food out the back door, which both got rid of most of the flies, but also the disturbing image, but it did little to clean the place, as Celia later sat on a large piece of scalp and blood, which upon noticing she promptly screamed.

Ah, good old Rothslor bravery.

Later when they were stirring a pot full of the canned pasta, over a hastily built fire pit, did Artos start to relax.

This farmhouse meant that they were over halfway to Argus now. He didn't know how long they had been traveling for, only that it must have been months, with the worst of the winter now being well behind them. Admittedly it was his fault for the overly long journey, as he did his best to avoid areas that were flat and typically easier for Grimm to find them.

The other more obvious sign of the passage of time was on their bodies. Artos had no way of knowing just how much he had grown, but it was obvious to him that he had grown quite a bit. When he had met Inigo, Inigo could see over his head yet now the roles had reversed themselves, and that too with Inigo getting taller himself.

A small amount of stubble had begun to ghost its way around his chin, much to his annoyance, and seemingly everyone's amusement.

Pyrrha had kept up with him in his recent growth spurt; she could almost look him in the eyes. She had also begun to grow in different areas. Which he didn't really know what to think of, at least that's what he told himself, even as his face began to blush.

Celia had even grown herself, although he still reserved the right to call her a midget.

All in all, for the first time since all this started, he had begun to feel hopeful.

Things are becoming hopeful? In this story?