From The Ashes

Chapter Nineteen - Dearest Lost Beloved

Fenris Alivar

He struggled against the man in black, who held his hand in his tight, calloused grasp. The man usually wore a pair of worn, leather gloves, which he currently had held in his other hand, beneath his long, dark cloak. To his dismay, he knew screaming or calling for help was pointless, after all, this man had full right to take him. He'd already tried that before he had been officially and legally been taken into the custody of this man, lashing his arms about and screaming that he was being kidnapped, and that the man he was with was not his real father had been useless, a waste of effort and breath. They'd given him over to this man, sold him against his will in a legal court, no less. It was all he could do in his frantic, stubborn fear to pull against his grip, being so much smaller, so spindly and delicate compared to his captor. The man pulled him silently along, as if his fighting meant nothing, causing him no impediment in his course whatsoever. The only inkling he gave to even noticing his opposition was a slight frown beneath the shadowy brim of his hat, as if he found the child he was pulling along to be a nuisance and nothing more. This dismissal of his efforts only served to irritate Fenris further.

This man had claimed to be an old family friend, and Fenris had met him before, but he couldn't say that he knew him. This man, Wolfram, he'd called himself, had often been over at Fenris' family home, but had hardly spoken to him directly. He'd never smiled at him, never said more than a formal greeting, before turning away and engaging his mother in deep, private conversation in the kitchen. He'd never sought any bond beyond that with this man. He was a Duskguide, after all, a figure of near-absolute authority. Judge, jury and executioner. Closeness to one of them led to an undesirable closeness to the gallows or the burning stake. Fenris had seen such demonstrations in the village center many times, and very much against his will. He was not a sensitive child and did not cry in the face of these public executions, but he couldn't say he particularly enjoyed them either. But that had only been before the argument. It had caused plates to shudder within cabinets and walls to bleed with the sounds of raised, cursing voices. He didn't know what the root of these quarrels were, but he remembered sitting on the stairs with his elder brother, listening intently and picking up nothing of significance, nothing that could give him any kind of idea as to what they were disagreeing about.

Still, it didn't stop Fenris and his brother Tobias, often with nothing else to do, theorizing what it had been about. Many speculations had passed their lips, some merely spoken in jest, and others said with far more weight and sincerity than was likely necessary. There was one that he knew had stuck with both him and Tobias, something they dreaded to be the truth, and wished with every fiber of their beings to remain within the realms of delirious speculation. The thing was, neither of them knew who their father was. In fact, for all they knew, they didn't even even share the same father. What they did know was that, whoever he was, their father was still out there somewhere, alive. He'd left their mother before Fenris was born and Tobias could understand speech. To add further shame to the whole situation, their mother had never worn her wedding ring. She'd never even owned a wedding ring. She'd never been married to the man or men that were their fathers. Both of the boys had been born out of wedlock, were products of their mother's promiscuity and overall disgraces to the community, as made evident by how the adults sneered and turned away as they passed, and how the other children heckled, gaped and refused to play with them. They were the talk of the village, and they always had been, their mother's scandal the most spoken about bit of gossip in Wyvirblight in years, for years.

It was painful to think that the Wolfram was their estranged father, as he was always so cold towards them, like he didn't know them or want anything to do with them. Like they meant nothing to him. He never had to pay for his weakness like their mother had, punished for their birth like she had. Fenris couldn't remember himself, but Tobias had been old enough to understand and recall their time in the dark cells of the village gaol. The gaol where he was separated from his mother despite his youth and terror. Where Fenris had been born, in the empty dark upon the clammy stone. Alone, sick and hungry, with no one to defend them, no one to get them out, no one to ensure their survival. No one to care. It was no fault