A Memory not so long ago (2)

Thorne grabbed Harkin and walked out of the hut with him, then threw him down onto the ground before sitting beside him with a heavy sigh.

"You little runt."

Harkin scrambled to find his words, his hands fidgeting nervously. "Hey, hey—y'know I didn't actually mean that. I was just mad at her, tha—"

Before he could finish, Thorne shifted closer. Harkin flinched, bracing for another hit, but instead, Thorne wrapped his arms around him in a tight hug.

"Yeah, I know you didn't mean it," Thorne said quietly. "But you need to understand, saying things like that to your mum? That's not okay. Words have weight, kid. Sometimes they cut deeper than blades. Trust me, I know."

He leaned back slightly, letting out a dry chuckle.

"And your mum of all people? You're lucky. Incredibly lucky to have her."

"Let me tell you something—the day I first met your mother was one of the two moments when I truly found light in my life." Thorne said staring up at the lightless sky that was forever a spectacle. 

"Hey! You bastard, pick up the pace."

A large, protruding man with a gnarly scar across his face barked the words as he kicked the small boy in front of him.

"You bloody sack of shit."

The boy hit the ground with a heavy thud. Mud smeared across his cheeks as his overgrown brown hair fell into his face, tangled with leaves, like no one had ever bothered to care for him.

"There's a reason we call you Thorn," the man sneered. "You're a fucking little prickle in our side."

Thorn took a moment to rise, his hands shackled tightly in front of him. He didn't speak, just kept walking, silently following the large man and the group that surrounded them. Dozens of other children shuffled alongside him, dressed in rags, all bound in chains.

"Let's get it, then," the large man grinned.

"As you say, Jotrid." the other nodded.

They drew their knives and began circling a beast that let out a low, guttural growl.

"A bloody Groanbeast," one muttered.

The five men hesitated, wary of its size. Then, without a second thought, they hurled three shackled kids toward the creature.

Thorn among them.

His heart thudded in his chest. Fear gripped him as he fell forward. He squeezed his eyes shut, trembling.

Maybe this was it. Maybe this is how his horrible life would end. Maybe this is how the gods answered his prayers.

This was it then. How a nobody like him would die. Someone unwanted by everyone seen as a piece of trash, just like how his real parents sold him to these people for a few measly coins.

He'd never been wanted. Not by them. Not by anyone.

But just as the Groanbeast began to lurch forward, a small Milbure dashed across the plains, barking wildly and drawing the monster's attention.

The men seized their chance.

Blades flashed.

They hacked into the beast, slashing until its strange, sack-like body collapsed in a still heap.

Then, without pause, they turned on the Milbure.

Thorn thought it might kill him too.

Instead, the little creature bounded over to him, hand like tail wagging, and licked his face. 

One of the men, missing an eye, swung his blade and split the Milbure in two.

He stared down at Thorn and spat on him.

"You little fucker," he hissed. "Dirty little beasts get drawn to filthy, disgusting brats like you." 

The five men feasted on both the Milbure and the Groanbeast, tossing the stripped bones onto the dirt. All the shackled kids, including Thorn, rushed forward to scavenge whatever scraps they could. The men stood back and laughed as the children fought over the remains. Thorn managed to gnaw on a couple of bone pieces, but by the time he dove back into the pile, everything was gone. The five men started kicking at them.

"You little dirty fucking beggars, get to walking." 

They marched for countless days until the faint sound of running water reached their ears. The men lit their torches and eventually found a stream. They decided to make camp there. Thorn had been kicked repeatedly that day and was thrown to the ground like a pile of trash to sleep on the bare hard ground. 

As the other kids began to drift off, Thorn silently started to cry. His eyes stayed fixed on the long, winding stream. That's when an idea came to him. Slowly, he picked himself up and quietly began to walk. Tonight, he told himself, would be the night he escaped.

He made it to the edge of the camp, heart pounding in his chest. For a moment, he thought he had done it.

Then a voice cut through the night.

"Oi! What the fuck do you think you're doing, you little fuck?"

It was the one-eyed man. Barid, patrolling near a tree. Thorn panicked and tried to run, but Barid lunged and grabbed him, slamming him into the ground.

"Oh, today's the day you die, you fucker."

Thorn scrambled away, but Barid kicked him hard. Thorn hit the floor with a thud. Just beside him was a jagged rock. He snatched it up with his shackled hands. As Barid lifted him again, Thorn used all his strength to slam the rock into Barid's one good eye. Over and over for maybe two seconds, but it was enough.

Barid screamed in agony and dropped him.

Thorn didn't look back. He ran. And ran. And ran, as fast as his tiny legs would carry him.

Thorn had been running for what felt like hours. He followed the edge of the stream, too afraid to stop. He didn't dare slow down—if any of them caught him, they'd beat him to death. Or worse… skin him alive before killing him.

His legs ached. His stomach growled so loud it almost echoed in the night, and his eyes had begun to blur. Darkness flickered at the corners of his vision, coming and going like a cruel trick.

Then, without warning, everything gave way.

His knees buckled, and he collapsed, tumbling forward into the stream. His small, malnourished body was light enough that the current carried him with ease. The cold water rushed around him, pulling him along, but Thorn saw nothing.

Only darkness.

So this is how I die, he thought weakly. At least I got away… at least I escaped them…

And then even his thoughts faded, swallowed by the current, as he slipped into unconsciousness.

"By the gods, Harkin, stop it—don't cry right now. I'll get you your supper in a moment."

Thorn stirred faintly at the sound of the woman's voice. It was gentle, filled with a strange warmth and sincerity he hadn't heard in a long time.

Is that… Is that... one of the gods? Thorn wondered, just before his eyes were hit by the soft glow of torchlight.

He blinked groggily. His wrists—where shackles had once dug into his skin—were now bare.

"Oh my, the poor boy's awake," came the voice again, and soon a woman stepped into view. Thorn saw a kind-faced lady with bushy black hair leaning over him, her eyes filled with concern.

"Are you a goddess, miss?" Thorn's voice squeaked earnestly.

The woman burst into a laugh—warm, loud, and amused. "Oh my, what a silly boy. Where would you ever get that idea?"

"No, no, no—I'm nothing like that," she said, still smiling. "My name is Arlene, that's all. And this little troublemaker is my boy, Harkin."

Thorn's eyes shifted to the child sitting nearby in a small wooden chair. His spiky hair jutted out in all directions, and he looked around six or seven years, blinking sleepily. 

"So, tell me," Arlene said gently, "what's your name?"

"It's Thorn," he replied softly.

"Ah, Thorn. Alright—odd name," she said with a chuckle, but stopped when she noticed Thorn's reaction. "I'm sorry," she added quickly, her tone sincere.

She paused a moment, then asked, "So how'd you end up falling into the stream?"

"I saw you up by the stream just two odd days ago," Arlene said. Her voice lowered slightly with worry. "You looked half-dead."

Suddenly, loud shouting erupted outside the small hut.

"Any of you seen a small little beggar?!" a booming voice roared.

Thorn's heart seized in his chest. He darted to Arlene, his eyes wide with terror, tears forming.

"Please, miss—please, Miss Arlene, don't tell them I'm here. Please, I beg you!" he cried, clinging to her arm.

Arlene looked at the boy—trembling, fragile—and her expression softened with understanding. She nodded silently, then opened one of her cupboards.

She put a finger to her lips. "In there. Quickly," she whispered.

Thorn obeyed and crawled inside just as she closed the door quietly. Little Harkin had already drifted off to sleep by then, unaware of the tension. 

A thunderous knock echoed across the door.

Arlene walked calmly to answer it. Through the thin crack in the cupboard door, Thorn could just barely see her speaking to a large man.

It was Jotrid.

"A beggar?" Arlene echoed, feigning surprise. "No, I haven't seen any beggar around here. I'm sorry, sir."

Jotrid grunted, unconvinced, but didn't press further. Arlene shut the door with quiet confidence.

She waited a few moments, listening for footsteps to fade before walking back and opening the cupboard.

Thorn climbed out, shaky but grateful. Arlene looked at him firmly.

"Do you want to tell me who those men are?" she asked gently.

Thorn opened his mouth to speak—but his body failed him. His vision darkened again, and he collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

Over the next couple of days, Arlene nursed Thorn back to health. She fed him, bathed him, and even gave him clean clothes to wear. Her kindness felt unreal.

But deep down, Thorn couldn't shake the feeling that he was a burden.

And so. One day when Arlene had fallen asleep, Thorn ran out the hut into the endlessly black sky he ran away.

"You see, Harkin," Thorne said, a faraway look in his eyes as if pulled into an old memory. "Like I've told you so many times before your mother is one of the reasons I'm still alive today."

"You don't even realise how lucky you are to have a woman like her for a mother."

Inside the hut, both Solène and Arlene overheard the conversation. Arlene wiped away a small tear — she, too, was remembering that distant day. Solène remained still, still trying to process what had just happened earlier inside the hut.

"You already knew I ran away, didn't you?" Thorne continued, glancing at Harkin.

"Yeah, of course," Harkin replied. "You and Mum told me countless times. You came back like... four years later."

"I did..." Thorne said quietly.

"I'll be back, just going to hang these out," Arlene called, grabbing a torch and stepping outside toward the washing line.

But she stopped.

She could feel something — a presence behind her. Turning slowly, she saw a tall, strong-looking man with shaggy brown hair approaching. There was something in his eyes... something familiar. A softness beneath the roughness. And just for a moment, she saw past the strong man Infront of her — she saw a small, scared, scrawny boy standing there again.

Before she could speak, her hands dropped the clothes. Her mouth opened, and tears welled in her eyes.

The man smiled gently, a single tear sliding down his own cheek.

"Thorn?" she whispered, her voice catching. "Is... is that you?"

"It's actually Thorne, with an 'e'," he replied, trying to smile through the lump in his throat.

She rushed toward him and wrapped him in a motherly embrace.

"Why did you run off?" she asked, her voice cracking. "I thought you'd died. I truly did."

"I thought it was the best thing to do at the time... but don't worry," Thorne replied softly. "I met someone else — someone kind, like you — who looked after me for a while."

"Oh, I can tell," she said with a shaky laugh. "Just look at you… oh my..."

Thorne stood up. 

"Anyway, Harkin, I hope you learned your lesson. Head back to the house now. Tell your mum I'm heading back to my hut. And make sure you apologise again."

Thorne patted Harkin on the back and began to walk away.

Behind him, Harkin called out, "Hey! Y'know how you fought today? Instead of teaching me all that patience stuff... could you actually teach me how to fight like that?"

Thorne paused, turned back with a grin stretched across his face.

"Yeah, sure. Why not."

He waved lazily and continued down the path.