Chapter 2 Thamolin: Youth

Chapter 2

Year 821 Month 5

Thamolin: Youth

The sun was like a big, shiny coin in the sky, making everything in Old Oak look like it was dipped in gold. The ground under my feet felt warm and cozy. The air smelled fresh like the grass had just taken a shower from the morning dew. And those tall oak trees stood like giants, sending out a smell that made me think of digging in the garden.

I was swinging my ax, and with each chop, a sweet smell of wood filled the air. It was like a hug from the trees, saying thanks for using their fallen branches. A soft wind gave me a little tickle, making my hair all messy and fun. The sun made me sweat, but wiping it off with my hand before it could cover my eyes was like a game.

Around me, there was a party of sounds. Kids laughed and played, and their giggles danced in the air. Some pots and pans clanged from the houses, adding their beat to the music. And that blacksmith, he was like a drummer, hitting that hammer and making a rhythm that I could feel in my chest.

Then came the big split, that "crack" sound when the wood gave in to my swing. It was like nature clapping for me, joining the day's tune. I stacked the split wood, making a tower that was growing and growing. Each piece had its own thump as it landed like it wanted to join the band.

I was all into my job when I saw her—my friend. With her dark skin and wild hair, she was like a burst of color. Her eyes were shiny and full of secrets, and her laugh was like a little bell, adding its jingle to the concert of life around us.

"Hey, Thamolin, would you like to come and play?" Rachel's voice floated over like a songbird's melody, her big brown eyes twinkling with innocence as she gazed up at me, full of hope. Her lips curved into a sweet smile as if she held a secret treasure waiting to be shared, inviting me to step into her world of youthful joy.

In response, I hoisted my grand ax high, the sunlight catching on its gleaming blade before it descended with a mighty thud. Each forceful swing felt like a release like my frustrations were channeled into the wood, one powerful chop at a time. My expression remained tireless as if I harbored a personal grudge against the very timber I was cleaving.

"I'm pretty busy right now. Need to keep chopping wood until father gets back," I replied, my voice steady and measured. Rachel's disappointment hung in the air, her foot tapping the ground in a small act of frustration, her arms gesturing downward in an animated plea.

"You're always so busy these days. When did growing up mean you have to be so dull?" Her tone was a mix of defiance and disappointment. I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, a brief pause from the toil, and added another log to the chopping block. With a determined focus, I raised the ax again and brought it down, my movements deliberate and precise.

"I've got to make sure we've got enough wood for the day," I tried to explain, my voice carrying a hint of patient reasoning. But Rachel remained unconvinced, her pout deepening as I clung to my task. Her frustration simmered just below the surface, her voice rising as a mix of emotions swirled within her words.

"You've got enough wood to last a whole week!" Her words carried a touch of indignation, her annoyance plain to see. "You've been chopping away for hours. I've finished my studies for the day and you're still at it."

As Rachel's protests filled the air, my attention was drawn to a troubling scene nearby. My gaze shifted, capturing a commotion that had sprung up. My heartbeat quickened as I watched a gang of teenagers, led by the jerk Rex Turvor, tormenting the lone elven boy in our village. The young lad's vulnerability seemed stark against the backdrop of their cruelty. I recognized him as Todd Gullen's son, a boy of elven heritage, targeted for no reason other than his bloodline.

Rex Turvor, the embodiment of my disdain, reveled in his domination over those he saw as weaker. His short, curly blonde hair framed his face, marred by a scruffy beard that barely hid his arrogance. His towering form matched his imposing six-foot stature, in huge distinction to the half-elven kid he was persecuting—a fragile figure who barely reached five feet, his struggles clear to anyone who cared to look.

Anger coursed through me, my blood boiling at the sight of Rex's bullying. My grip on the ax tightened, knuckles turning pale as my emotions swirled within. Revulsion for Rex and his heartless acts surged like a tempest, threatening to unleash my fury against the injustice unfolding before me.

With my heart pounding, I wrested the ax free from the stubborn wood and strode toward the unsettling scene. A sour taste of anger prickled at the back of my throat, bitterness mingling with determination as I closed the gap. My steps matched the rhythm of my convictions, a drumbeat of resolve echoing through me. It was a terrible sight—a gang of bullies ganging up on a helpless elf, their cruel words staining the air like a foul stench. They spat out ugly slurs like "knife ear," their venom slicing through the peace of the village.

My gut twisted with a mix of disgust and sympathy, fueling a growing fire of determination within. These jerks, preying on someone weaker, were a stain on our village's honor. Righteous anger blazed in me, encouraging me onward.

"Back off from the elf!" My voice carried an unexpected weight—an order etched with fierce resolve that echoed like a challenge. The boys, a pack of scared rabbits, scattered at the sight of my ax, their tough act crumbling. But Rex, the mastermind of this nastiness, stood his ground, his defiance etched into his face like a mask of arrogance.

"Only a coward pulls a weapon in a fistfight!" he spat. I let my ax drop to the ground with a heavy thud. Adrenaline surged like wildfire, and I lunged at Rex, my determination solid as a boulder, unshakable like the ancient oaks that watched over our village.

The tall boy sidestepped my maneuver with surprising agility, his movements swift and fluid. He unleashed an uppercut that landed square on my nose, a sickening crunch filling my ears as pain shot through my face. Blood gushed from my nostrils, staining the ground like crimson rain. Rex, the source of my anguish, seized my shirt and yanked it with brutal force, driving me down toward the earth as my vision whirled from the powerful blow. My balance faltered, but I harnessed the motion to my advantage.

With a burst of desperate energy, I extended my forearm, aiming it for Rex's right temple. The impact rocked him, and I took advantage of his momentary confusion. Placing my arms around the back of his shoulders, I delivered two quick knees to his chest. Rex wobbled, struggling to maintain his footing.

In my relentless assault, Rex countered with two rapid jabs to my abdomen and a wide haymaker, telegraphed and lacking finesse. I easily evaded his blow, sidestepping to the left, and delivered a vicious hook to his massive ribs. Rex absorbed the blow with a grimace but responded by tackling me to the ground. He rained blows upon my head, each punch a painful reminder of our bitter feud. I raised my arms in defense, shielding myself from the unrelenting barrage.

Yet, I knew I couldn't prevail from this vulnerable position. My mind raced, seeking an escape route. I decided to let one of his punches land, a deliberate choice, as I surged upward, seizing the back of Rex's head to disrupt his balance. My hips thrust forward as we flipped positions. Now I was on top, and he had his legs wrapped around my waist.

I pummeled his face relentlessly, the visceral need to avenge the cruelty he had shown overwhelming me. Rex's hands shot up to protect his battered face, but one of my punches slipped through, landing with a powerful impact. His head snapped backward and struck the unforgiving ground.

I should have stopped and allowed reason to prevail. Yet, blinded by rage, I pressed on, delivering a barrage of blows to the barely conscious Rex Turvor. The primal urge for revenge consumed me, killing all rational thought.

"Thamolin, stop!" Rachel shouted. Blind and deaf by my fury, I neither heard her nor saw Rex's friends coming to help him. Soon enough, a forceful impact sent me tumbling off Rex, and the other five men wasted no time in descending upon me mercilessly, their kicks like mallet strikes upon my battered body. The half-elf tried to stop them but was effortlessly thrown to the unforgiving ground, sharing in the relentless beating.

"Stop! Stop!" Rachel's panicked voice continued to pierce the chaos. But the adolescents remained unrelenting, their wrath inexhaustible. Rachel, realizing she was powerless against the attack, turned and fled toward the nearby barracks to alert the militia to the horrifying assault.

I struggled to regain my footing, but a vicious kick from one of the boys sent me spinning, my head snapping back as a jet of blood erupted from my mouth. My vision, already obscured by swollen eyes, grew increasingly dim.

My initial fury had now surrendered to doubt and an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. The physical pain was nothing new, but it was my pride that was now suffering. I knew I had failed, utterly and completely. I couldn't protect anyone, not Rachel, the half-elf, or even myself. Instead, I lay there, battered and defeated, both in spirit and body.

I awoke in my room, my body protesting with aches and pains, the sensation of freshly applied bandages wrapped securely around my wounds. The familiar surroundings of my home comforted me, the room bearing the comforting scent of well-worn wood and the soft touch of sunlight filtering through the curtains. The windows allowed a gentle breeze to rustle the curtains, carrying the nearby forest's subtle, soothing scent.

Struggling to open my half-covered eyes, I squinted against the muted light filtering through the room. The world remained hazy, but determination surged within me. I couldn't stay confined to my bed, not when I had to face my father. Gathering my resolve, I eased myself out of the bed, my weakened legs protesting as I slowly navigated the familiar creak of the wooden floor underfoot.

Descending the narrow staircase, I entered the cozy dining area, where the aroma of a hearty home-cooked meal filled the air. My father sat at the dining table, his short brown/gray hair unkempt and a scruffy beard framing his rugged features. His weathered face bore the marks of past battles—a significant scar that ran from his right eyebrow down to his chin, accompanied by a smaller vertical scar on his left cheek and a horizontal one on his nose. Despite his retired status, he still held himself with the same commanding presence that had once defined his career as an adventurer. Standing well over six feet tall, his bulky, muscular frame carried the weight of experience, and though age had softened his belly, his imposing chest remained a reminder of his former strength.

My gaze met his, and I felt the weight of his disappointment, an unspoken ache that hung in the air. I had aspired to follow in his footsteps, to become a fourth-tier adventurer, and my recent failure had wounded not just me but the high expectations I'd set for myself. The silence between us spoke volumes. My inability to meet his eyes showed my own sense of shame.

"Take a seat, son," Father gestured toward the vacant chair on the other side of the small, round table. The soft clink of his mug reached my ears as he took a gulp. I watched him casually wipe the foam from his beard. Ale, no doubt, and probably not his first drink.

Slowly, I complied, moving towards the table with an air of hesitance that clung to me like a heavy shroud. I couldn't muster the courage to meet my father's stare, my eyes remaining cast downward, avoiding the weight of his scrutiny.

"Keep your head up, son," Father's voice, both soft and stern, carried the gravity of the moment, and he spoke with a matter-of-fact tone that brooked no argument. Reluctantly, I raised my head, though my eyes dared not reach his chin. They reddened and watered, betraying the emotions that welled up within me. Shame and guilt coursed through my veins, a painful reminder of my actions and their consequences. The effort to hold back tears was a battle I fought desperately, the turmoil within me.

My father's admonition cut through the tension, his words laden with an unspoken challenge. "By not makin' eye contact, you're showing that you are beneath me. Look me in the eye. If you want to be treated like an equal, show me that you are equal." I attempted to meet his gaze, to lock eyes with the man I had always looked up to, but an invisible force seemed to hold me back. Every muscle in my body rebelled against my will, rendering me stagnant. A solitary tear escaped from my right eye, and I clenched my fists, suppressing a pathetic whimper that threatened to escape. The sense of inadequacy and uncertainty weighed heavily on me, leaving me grappling with the question of my own worth. Why did I feel this way? Why was it so difficult to muster the strength to become a man?

With deliberation, Father took a seat, and I resisted the urge to divert my gaze. While I still couldn't bring myself to meet his eyes directly, I at least held my head high, locking my watch slightly above his forehead.

Father scratched his beard, a brief moment of contemplation before he spoke. His actions hinted at the difficulty he, too, faced in finding the right words. The silence between us bore witness to our shared struggle with communication, a trait I had inherited from him. "Why did you threaten the lads with an ax?" Father's question was delivered bluntly, hanging in the air like a challenge that demanded an answer.

"They were beating the elf!" My voice quivered with a mix of anger and frustration. My emotions laid bare. I felt my insignificance press upon me like a weight I couldn't shake.

Father's head shook slowly, a grim disagreement etched across his face. "They were picking on Veralien, yes. They do so all the time, but they never beat him." My face flushed, frustration and embarrassment intertwined as tears streamed down my cheeks. "But they did beat him, just like they did to me!"

Father's abrupt rise from his seat sent a shockwave through the room. He slammed his hand down on the wooden table, the force shattering it in half. The mug of ale, flung into the air, spilled its contents across the walls and floor, the liquid staining the room with a chaotic display. I bit my lip and clenched my fists, my gaze fixed on the fuming old man.

In the aftermath of the outburst, Father took a deep breath, his fiery temper gradually subsiding as he sank back into his seat. The ensuing seconds stretched into agonizing minutes, the weight of unspoken words bearing down upon us. "Because you approached them with the ax," he finally spoke, his tone weighted with disappointment. "They claimed it was self-defense. Todd Gullen might be a member of the militia, but it was their word against yours, and you were unconscious."

My voice grew hushed, a hesitant whimper escaping my lips. "I was only trying to help." I rose from the table, a sense of defeat weighing over me. I turned to leave the room. "Keep to yourself, boy. You're old enough to be arrested." Father's final words hung in the air, a stark reminder of my newfound vulnerability. Without another word, I left, my steps carrying me toward my place of solitude; the nearby lake.

The night enveloped me in an impenetrable shroud of darkness. I stood at the familiar wood docks on the edge of the lake, though calling it a lake might have been a generous description; it was more of an enormous pond. My outstretched hand brushed against the cool, smooth oak planks, their surface damp from the light rain that had passed through. The musky, earthy scent of the wood filled the air, a comforting presence that held an unspoken connection. For some reason, this place felt like a sanctuary.

I stayed there for a few moments, letting the gentle gusts of wind coming from the water wash over me. The cool drizzle kissed my skin, and the scent of the muddy shores around me grounded me at this moment. In the solitude of this place, I felt a kinship with the natural world, a sense of belonging that eluded me among other people.

My fingers brushed against the scattered pebbles at my feet, and I couldn't resist the urge to skip them across the water's surface. With each flick of my wrist, I watched the stones dance—once, twice, thrice—creating ripples that painted the otherwise inky water with fleeting patterns. My eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness, allowing me to see the subtle, shimmering trails left by the skipping stones. It was a simple, almost trivial act, but it brought a weird ease, a quiet satisfaction.

As a child, I often found solace in this place, sometimes imagining my mother by my side. Though I had never truly known her, as she had died giving birth to me, my father's stories painted a vivid picture. Isabelle Tavis or Isabelle Ortelia, her name seemed to hold an air of grace. A merchant from the southeastern islands of Asorewin, she had met my father on one of his many adventures, for he was a guild member known for crossing continents. People from the islands wore strange hats decorated with plumes and capes and bore the mark of darker skin due to the warmth of their homeland. Their warriors wielded thin blades, depending on gunpowder and firearms in their battles against monsters. The tales of their ways sounded odd and captivating, though it was the story of my mother that held the most profound fascination.

Isabelle was described as a warm and gentle woman, a radiant presence that welcomed all with a smile. Her laughter had the power to fill hearts with the reassurance that everything would be alright. She and her family would extend their kindness to needy children and offer compassion to stray animals. She seemed extraordinary, a beacon of love and compassion that I wished I could have known. Her death, linked to my birth, had left a void I couldn't help but dwell on. I loved my father and knew he cared for me, yet his affection was often hidden behind a tough exterior. It struck me as odd that a woman like Isabelle could have fallen in love with a man like him; they were seemingly polar opposites. He was a quiet, reserved man of physical strength, whereas she possessed warmth and nurturing love. He comes from a small, humble village with no riches to his name, while her family owns a ship and carries a noble status. Perhaps my father had romanticized her memory, but I could never know the truth for myself.

The crackling sound of leaves rustled behind me, breaking the silence of the night. Uncertainty knotted my stomach as I pondered who or what could be approaching. It might be Rex, returning to finish what he had started, or perhaps the village militiamen, suspicious of anyone wandering outside in the inky darkness. The only way to find out was to turn around and face it head-on.

With a deep breath, my body pivoted to the right, aligning with my curiosity. I clenched my teeth and jaw, bracing for the worst. At first, two shadowy figures surfaced before me, shrouded in the veil of darkness. Both were notably shorter than me, and they stopped as they saw me squarely facing them. The taller of the two raised his hands slowly, signaling that they meant no harm.

"We did not mean to disturb your peace," a voice tinged with familiarity reached my ears. I squinted to make out the smaller shadow and recognized Rachel. "Rae Rae?" She nodded in acknowledgment. "And you are Todd Gullen's boy," the smaller figure continued, taking slow, cautious steps toward me.

"Aye. Veralien," he replied, bitterness lacing his words. "Though most people prefer 'knife-ear,' 'half-breed,' or 'elf.'" Veralien paused briefly, waiting for my response, but I just returned to my stone-skipping.

"I wanted to thank you for helping me earlier." My nostrils flared as I skipped a stone, sending it straight into the water, denying it the chance to dance across the surface. "I didn't help. How could I have helped when I couldn't help myself?" My voice carried an uneasy edge, words escaping like a growl. Veralien took a cautious step back, clearly unsettled by my reaction.

Rachel approached me unafraid, her years of familiarity with my temper obvious. She placed her hand on my back, a silent gesture of reassurance, and stared into my watery brown eyes with her deep brown ones. "You did your best, Thamolin. It's the thought that counts."

I shrugged her off, turning away with a heavy sigh. "That's nonsense, and you know it. A man should be able to protect his family and the ones he cares about. That's what separates a man from a boy. How can a man do that when he can't even look after himself?" My fiery temper flared, but Rachel remained undaunted, a steady presence in the storm of my emotions.

Veralien inched closer, his footsteps barely audible on the forest floor. He cleared his throat, and his voice pierced the night, breaking through the darkness. "That seems to be a simplistic and haughty way of looking at things."

I spun around, my frustration consuming me as I grabbed the collar of his shirt. "I don't care for your big words or what you think! I don't care for anyone's opinions!" Tears streaked down my face, and I instantly regretted my aggression towards the smaller man. Why couldn't I control the bitterness nesting inside me? I reluctantly released my grip and turned away, determined to hide my vulnerability.

"I hate it here! I despise everything about this place—its rules, the tasteless food, the relentless cold, the people, and..." My voice hesitated as I vented my frustrations.

"Even your father and friends?" Rachel's voice cut through the darkness, her presence offering a hint of relief. I paused, then slowly turned to face her.

"No Rae Rae. I can't hate you or my father." My shoulders slumped as I conceded defeat. I sighed deeply and lowered myself to the ground, sitting among the fallen leaves and damp earth.

"I just wish I could explore the world like my mother and father did. I'm trapped in this godforsaken mud hole. This is no place to live; it's where people come to wither away. Even death had to be better than this."

Veralien picked up a stone and tossed it into the lake. It skipped poorly, to say the least, as expected from a novice. "The stone creates ripples when it hits the surface of the water." Veralien went on as he continued to skip stones slowly and stared in the direction of the dark lake. "The ripples spread far and wide, reaching places the stone has never even been to." I studied him as I tried to find what the strange elf was on about. "The stone is an outsider, just like us. The raindrops that hit the lake are outsiders. Yet, they impact the water more than what was already there, more than what belonged. You can touch the lives of so many just by jumping into one person's life, just like you did to mine when you came to stop the assailants earlier this morning. Be yourself, Thamolin, and the way you are, I can promise your life will be anything but dull."

I stood back up without saying a word, but my spirits were certainly raised higher than before. "You're pretty bad at skipping rocks," I told him. I picked up a stone and tossed it into the lake, skipping it five times. Did you see that? I am going to show you how to skip the right way while the night is still young. Grab a stone, Veralien. You have much to learn."