Mindless

Chapter 10 Haëgre

As he makes his way through the trees, the forest grows quieter and quieter. The native wildlife has already given their camp a wide berth, but as Haëgre intrudes on their territory, they move farther and farther to get away from him. Not for the first time, he marvels at how different everything is here. The trees are smaller—taller and thicker around the trunk. The leaves are broad and pointed—they turn when winter comes and fall. Even the bark, which was coarse and strong at home, gave way to neatly painted grooves. Outside the trees, the animals are smaller too. Little critters which chitter and forage and could be befriended with the right incentive.

In the early days of his inn, when Haëgre was still a young man, he would take the leftover bread to the edge of the forest and break it into smaller pieces for the animals. The first few days, his bread had been left in the grass where he left it. Then they realized the bread would do them no harm, and it would disappear between his visits. Finally, they came to realize he was nothing but a provider, and they would wait in the fringes of his vision, watching him deliver.

It has been many years since he brought crumbs to the forest. Experience had taught him to judge how much bread he'd serve in a day, and reputation had brought in more to serve. For a moment he wonders what they imagined happened. One day he brought food. And then he didn't. Did they wait for him? Did they go hungry waiting for him? He wonders if the ones he fed recognize him now, then he thinks they must be old now, as he is, if they're still alive at all. Did they tell their children about the strange being who used to feed them?

Melancholy washes over him like the setting of the sun. He was safe and then he wasn't. And then he was and now he isn't. Had anything ever changed at all?

Oh, the inn is grander than the home he had in Ballonlëa: a one-story affair of tinder and clay. He had built it with his own hands when he left his father's house. Like most young men in Ballonlëa, Haëgre worked as a laborer, travelling to larger villages to help trade-masters and construction efforts. Often, he'd go to Forescu or Laësh, but when the work was scarce, he'd go as far as Staurha. He'd work the evening, then camp overnight at the village's edge alongside those he'd travelled with. They'd work again in the morning before returning home by nightfall.

Haëgre had faced the same quandary all growing youth in his village faced: to stay in scarcity or to go where there was plenty. For Haëgre, there never was a choice—he loved Ballonlëa. He loved the open rock and the endless sky. He loved the closeness and the hand-built homes. Homes that were nearly always empty because their dwellers could be found in the streets, where children played, mothers shared their food, and fathers watched over them all. They were, perhaps, too far from the wilds to fear predators, but fathers will worry.

The quandary came, but he never considered leaving Ballonlëa.

A crack resounds through the forest and Haëgre startles towards the sound. He's stopped. Something moves in the corner of his vision and he turns towards it. He must keep moving.

They were in the streets when Nahran came lurching into the village. Haëgre recognized the man from Forescu and rushed forward to help him. Nahran was running so quickly he could barely keep his feet beneath him, and he crashes into Haëgre's arms. There's a bleeding cut over his left eye, his face is pale of color, and he was drenched with sweat.

"They're taking them," he gasped out. "They're taking them all."

The men of Ballonlëa began to crowd around the newcomer. Hearing his exclamation, several heads turn to find their families. Others burst into a torrent of questions.

Who's taking them? and who's being taken? call out the loudest.

Haëgre looks around—he's alone in the forest. The people are too far behind him; the guards are ahead. He doesn't understand why the forest is so quiet. He must keep moving.