WE BECOME THOUGHTLESS

three | run, boy, run

king of fools // rafferty

The two soldiers reacted before Alistair did.

Two hands yanked him back, wrapping hard fingers around his thin arms. The red-faced soldier's mouth was set in a hard twist before he opened it wide and yelled. "Go, get out of here!"

Alistair staggered back. The Welish boy with the fisted axe raised it above his head before crashing it down onto the second soldier's steel sword. The sound was cacophonous, a terrible thunderclap, and Alistair felt the vibration in his skull. The boy threw his axe, again and again, unrelenting. He wouldn't stop.

His heart throbbed in his chest as he ripped his arm free, and he was moving towards the still swinging doors before he could get his mind to stop reeling at the sudden flush of violent movement. His fingertips flooded with uncontained warmth. He had to wipe them across his coat to keep them from stinging, burning.

The shock of the cold hit him as he slipped out into the night, stirring wisps of pale hair. He could hear the crash and clatter of the battle inside, and he knew it wouldn't be long until the two soldiers were overpowered. Despite this, he almost felt relieved.

No more bottled minds. No more hot fingertips on cool skin.

Alistair stumbled down the steps leading up to the triangular hut, his boots kicking up melted snow and loose mud. His breath shuddered in his chest. The vibration of steel on steel remained in his head like the shivering air after long organ notes, a continuous, nerve-wracking noise that would not stop.

Two other soldiers posted at the bottom of the steps turned to stare up at him as he stopped. Smoothing the creases in his coat, Alistair exhaled. "The prisoners have escaped," he said urgently, trying desperately to remain calm. The only times anyone had ever listened to him was when he'd kept alarmingly cool – as emotionless as the general, because no one dared show emotion in Chrysos. "We need to secure them again."

The soldiers exchanged a long, too-sharp glance before they said a few words in unmistakable Welish. They weren't Chrysosian soldiers at all, and when he peered closer, he could see the black, Welish hair from under their helmets and distinctly dark features.

He cast a look across the village clearing. How many Welish rebels were there in this camp?

The girl lifted the burnt-gold helmet from over her head and threw it aside, into the dirt. She tossed a lock of needle-sharp hair over her shoulder before drawing her sword, cracking a smile, and taking a confident step forward.

In poor Chrysosian, she said, "I thought you would be taller,"

When she lunged forward, Alistair barely managed to slip out from under her falling sword. The frightening brush of air cut his cheek as the steel drew too close, concerningly close to his unguarded face. She threw it again, and again, until she landed a quick swipe along his shoulder. Luckily, and he thanked whatever imaginary god listening, it only managed to tear through his coat.

The girl shrieked in violent frustration before pausing to glance up at the opening doors behind him. Welish prisoners tumbled out, a flood of moving bodies, and the boy with the axe (now slathered in a dangerous, sticky shade of red) lead them out.

Gods, if Alistair's night couldn't get any worse.

Before he could blink, a boot was kicking him square in the chest and sending him into the earth, where his body hit the mud with a wet splat. When his eyes refocused, a sword was raised above his head. Down, down, down – it sliced through the air towards him.

Raising his hands, palms out, the mindrenderer drained the heat in his fingertips and sent it towards the girl's downturned head. Without skin on skin contact, he didn't know what would happen – but he couldn't just wait for the sword to bury itself into his flesh, wedge its cold steel between his ribs.

And surprisingly, the girl screamed and dropped the weapon, a scream like shattered glass. Alistair scrambled to his feet and watched the girl drop, her knees in the cool, dark soil, hands in her hair.

He didn't pause to stop and revel. Instead, he turned and ran.

Chrysosian soldiers had already noticed the commotion and were sprinting across the clearing. The shing of drawing swords against their scabbards split the air. He knew where he needed to go – the battle would pass, and he would be safely tucked away in one of their balloon ships. The Welish were too scared of them to get close.

As Alistair passed soldiers, watched their strapped boots hit the ground, he dared to glance over his shoulder.

The Welish boy moved with unfathomable ferocity. He whirled his axe against Chrysosian steel, turned and fought, clawed through the clash of Welish prisoners and Chrysosian soldiers. Quick as the snapping jaws of some ravenous beast, he turned his head to stare at him from across the clearing. His focus zeroed on him, the mindrenderer.

Of course he's after me.

If he closed his eyes, he could see the boy's intense stare from across the room again. An imprint on the inside of his eyelids. Alistair tried not to blink too much to keep them from glaring at him.

As he slipped down the snow-capped slant, the unthinkable crossed his mind: what if the rebels won? But that was near impossible. He couldn't allow himself to think that way, and so he shoved it to the back of his mind to keep his pale hands from shaking. His chest rose and fell, rose and fell. The tell-tale signs of panic formed in his chest, as if his were bones clamping down on his organs, heart and lungs.

Stop it, he urged to himself. But the tightness in his chest didn't loosen. As if out of spite, it only got tighter.

Again, he glanced over his shoulder as he stumbled up the gangway of the nearest balloon ship, and silhouetted against the dark clouds at the top of the slant was the Welish boy with his axe.

Alistair gulped as he receded into the darkness of the ship.