Prodigal - Book III

Prologue

Winds buffet the long, undulating hills, caterwauling up their green slopes, rushing around the tall, reedy young man who runs up, all lanky legs and thin arms. But beneath that slim appearance is muscle, and when he reaches the top his breath is even, mild, though the flash in his eyes is far from it.

"Hurry up," he tells the shorter, squatter boy below him, the high, crystalline arch to his tone at odds with the way his thin mouth twists into a small smile.

"Not all of us are built like trees," his companion complains, the bloom of a blush on his cheeks, brightening his sea-blue eyes. The wind is casting tufts of his brown hair up, like cresting waves, into the air and he huffs, planting heavy feet onto higher ground as he climbs.

"No, some of us are closer to bushes." The man smirks, turning to gaze at their surroundings. "I still say we slug Baulieu when we get back. The little shit needs to be knocked around a bit."

"We aren't going to beat up a fifteen year-old, Rast," the other answers when he finally summits, panting a little as he holds a hand to his side.

Rast glances back.

"Even if he does deserves it," the other admits.

A grin breaks on Rast's face, making his smooth, angular face even handsomer, a hint of rarely-seen mirth glinting in the gleam of his green eyes.

"You're not as wholesome as you pretend," he teases and the other man smiles too. He might not have the same classic beauty as his tall friend, but there was a magnetic pull to his gentle countenance, an easy charisma to his geniality.

"You already knew that," he points out, a hand ruffling his windswept hair.

Rast's smile turns slyer.

"Yes, I did."

His companion's cheeks flush, but it's not from the wind or the climb this time and, looking anywhere else, he diverts: "Where's Dost?"

"Who knows?" Rast answers, staring only at him. "Up in a tree, talking to that hawk of hers."

"We said noon."

Rast shrugs.

"I told you she's a heathen."

He gets a dirty look thrown his way, but he only follows, amusedly, as his companion begins to descend on the other side.

"Ru, I don't want to spend my one free afternoon running after 'Ren," Rast complains, languidly trailing behind, watching the way the muscles between Ruben's broad shoulders ripple and twist as he trudges down. "There are a thousand better things we could do."

"We're not running after 'Ren."

Rast scoffs.

"We're always running after 'Ren. You're always running after 'Ren." His face twists. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you have a tender spot for her."

"You know that's not true."

Rast says nothing to this, but the furrowing lines around his brow disappear.

At the bottom of the hill, they move into the thick canopy of the woods. Inside the howling wind is shut out, cut off by the barricade of thick tree limbs which knit close together, old and twisted things that have leaned together, stitched together in age. The two young men wander amongst the leaves and birdsong, the shorter leading the way as the taller plucks nuts off trees, conjures fruit from out-of-reach branches.

"Ru," the taller says after a while, his fingers tapping on the side of his leg. "Really..."

But Ruben is pushing on, his large hands parting the thick tangle of bushes ahead of them, wedging himself between the tenuous gap.

"I just want to check..."

"She ditched us," Rast says bluntly. "Can't we just go back to our dorm and—"

But Ruben stops abruptly and, not noticing, Rast walks right into him. He huffs, making to go around the man, but Ruben's hand shoots out, gripping the front of his shirt, holding him in place.

"I thought—"

The words die in Rast's mouth.

The two young men stare, fixed in place as if they have been struck still by the scene. Amidst the tinkering quiet of the forest there is a new clearing, a clearing forged in mute ruin, running from the dark-stained earth all the way up to the splintered, dangling branches and the wide, crimson-flecked trunks, which bear long, gaping gashes. The ground is bare but for patches of wet, shredded cloth and the hewn trunk at the center. Upon this sits another young man, bent over a pair of clasped, stained hands. Long, black hair frames the red rivers, crusted and rippling, that are streaked down his long face.

"Olcay," Ruben says, voice flat and distant. "What happened?"