Ico: The Horned Boy

Prologue

I knew the journey would be long from the minute we left the village. Every horse that the soliders were planning to take were stacked at the sides with provisions: multiple water tanks, bags of food and clothes that would last for days. Of course, when we got where we were going, none of that would matter for me.

I didn't know it at the time, but I wouldn't be returning home with the soliders. I guess I kind of expected it, I knew something was weird about me from the day I could remember the world around me. I was born with horns, and in my village that was considered a bad omen. They believed people born eith horns were cursed by the devil - Dormin, they like to call him - and if they lived in the village past the age of eight, bad things would happen. In stories, a child passed one day over the age of nine, and entire crop fields were wilting during the night. In a way, I'm kind of happy that I was taken away. Despite not having many friends growing up, there were a few who cared for me, whether they were obligated to or not. Priestess Emon, the oldest lady in our village. No-one actually knows how old she is. She doesn't tell anyone, and she's been around since anyone else has been, so she might even be immortal. A girl, I never knew her name, who always used to pick flowers by the edge of the village. Whenever I was told to stay away for a while, she'd always come and say 'hi'. And finally, my dad was always there for my, as modt dad's should. He was actually rather important in the village, second in command to the mayor if I remember correctly. He was always so kind to me, doing things like giving me his food shares when the other kids took mine. I just wish I'd known my mother. The thing I despise most about the horns I was born with is that they say that they're what killed my mother as I came out of her womb. "So much blood," some people told me, probably just to spite me. "People had thought she had a miscarriage at first, but it was just her fucking devil boy clawing at her insides,"

The tears that fell that day fell again, familiar to my cheeks. Luckily it was raining, and as we were riding, the guards didn't notice. Eventually I couldn't tell the difference. Rain became tears and tears became rain. And when the sun finally came out with the clouds giving way to bright blue skies, I could feel that I wasn't crying anymore. It even felt empty somehow. Should I be crying? Will I die where I'm going? Were the soldiers lying when they said we're going for a short trip? I think, even in my eight year old mind, I secretly knew that when I saw them packing. I just tried and tried to not believe it, but I didn't care by then. I didn't care.

Was it raining again?