𝗪ᕼY 𝓬ᗩ𝗻t̆̈ 🇮 🄵𝔬𝗋𝗴ȇ̈t̑̈

Childhood

"Intelligent", "Charming"

"Beautiful"

Those were common words to describe Kennith's younger self. Born in Skent's Peak, to the townsfolk there, he was truly a curiosity.

A bright, round eye. It was mesmerizing, intelligent and watchful. Little Kennith would always have his eye on something, he rathered observation over participation. Kennith was eager for info, he wanted details. At some points, he even ended up being more knowledgeable of the job than the worker.
His charm was something else. Children aren't always the most graceful, yet Kennith kept himself so gentle and smart. He craved respect and compliment, the attention of others was all he wanted. His features and behavior combined well for what he wanted.

But more or less, Kennith was a child. Just a regular old child.

Though slowly, his childhood and reputation dwindled. There was one descriptor left out, that he hoped to forget. Kennith was weak, horribly weak.
Physically, it was hard to stand straight or lift boxes and wood. He shook, as if nervous. He was exhausted by small tasks, it was an hour break before the next. Kennith was built from injuries and broken fingers. Emotionally he was worse, slight pressure shattered him. A raise in volume or slight overwhelming would cause him to drop dead from an illness called panic. A finger was rarely laid on him, and yet he developed the behaviors of someone mistreated beyond love's repair.

This behavior started to gain spotlight, this sickening weakness. His home was not a safe place for something like this, oh no, it was a hell for the weak.

Home, Skent's Peak, was a cult's happy home.

Members of his town turned their backs to him, one-by-one, he was far too young to understand. Had it been a rumour, did he do something wrong? Was he, Kennith, a failure? Yes, to his town he was.
He betrayed the town by showing he could barely survive, he was a waste of food and shelter here, a goddamned stray.
Kennith could only turn to his family, which too slowly drifted away and shut him out. Even his sister who he loved oh so much. There was nowhere for him, there was no hiding place. Soon the town's "owners" took him in for themselves, they took him into their harsh treatment.

Chores. That was all his life was expected to be, but these were chores meant for the men, the workers. This poor soul wasn't allowed the long breaks he needed, poor Kennith was tired. He'd drop motionless from exhaustion at times, and refuse to get up, even with the worker's frustrated yelling. None of these leaders took time for him, he had to steal, he had to follow. There was nothing better for him anymore.

Looking back, Kennith wished he never eavesdropped, he wishes he let them kill him. Maybe then he wouldn't live with his uselessness anymore, a fresh corpse is more useful to the gods anyways, if they even wanted him.
A late night, a night of confusion. Today, he'd been treated especially nice by the leaders. Was he forgiven, were they congratulating him on work and his efforts? For once, Kennith wasn't depressed about his life, just for the moment at least.
Kennith thought to ask the leaders, he followed where he heard them, happily dragging his last stuffed animal along.

A meeting. One he never wanted to hear.
What Kennith could remember was something about offerings, a child. A moment of arguing. They mentioned sacrifice, whatever that meant. The pieces of meeting slowly made sense, god how he wished to forget. That moment of realization had stuck with him, it haunts him.

Kennith didn't want to hear the rest, he never wanted to even hear the meeting.
He ran, it was painful to do so. His physical state made him almost regret leaving. There was fear, only fear. The memory is still vivid, but he feels the wanting of death each time it returns to him now, better than knowing the fear.

By the time it was morning, Kennith had abandoned Skent's Peak, with nothing but that old stuffed bear. It hurt him to see his home revealed like this, it hurt to know he lived somewhere so cruel.
He was tempted to return and wait for his fate, to let them take him away. He was just a poor child, this was far too much for someone like him. Run was his only thought, run away.

Please never return, please don't remind yourself...

...Kennith hopes that someday he could return to the town and proudly say he was born there.
It's been 201 years, and yet not one thought of forgiving that dreadful home has come.

Anyways I'm tired of writing. Please take this I need writing clout 🚶.