Plans are not such an easy thing. They are all very well and good once in stories told by the fireplace of an evening. Those plans made by warriors or adventurers are well thought out and usually come out alright in the end. Torv had never found his plans to work out quite so smoothly. Thus far, in his run from the Island Guards, he had not had sufficient time to even begin to formulate a plan. Stay sharp, stay alive was the entirety of his plan, and as a beginning not such a bad one, as Wendell admitted.

-Smart chap, whoever gave you that advice, he said, grinning over his umpteenth cup of tea.

Wendell drank more tea than Torv could keep track of. He had never seen someone consume any beverage in such quantities, even the Luxan town drunks and their ale didn’t come close. The old tree dweller had stopped offering Torv refills after the fifth, and the boy was fairly well vibrating out of his chair by the fire as it was.

-Important thing, Wendell continued, for coming up with a plan, is to know the layout of the field. Perhaps you’d like to help with that bit.

-Isn’t it obvious?

-Furthest thing from it, my boy.

-I’m being hunted down by Island Guards and I don’t know how long I can keep in front of them.

Wendell sat down his mug on the armrest for the first time since his seventh cup of tea. He leaned forward with his chin in his hands, sunlight dappling his face as it cut through the upper canopy of his roof.

-You’ll not be safe here forever, Torv. It’s true that I’m a clever old bag with a few clever tricks up his sleeve, but I’m not your savior. Not like this. I’d do my best, but before too long, they’d be in this here house that I’m rather vain of having made. And the two of us? No telling...but I can’t imagine it’d be over pleasant if you take my meaning. I understand your hesitation, I do. You’ve been running a good long while now and you’re tired. But that second weight you’re carrying? The heavier one? You’ve got to let it go or no manner of good intentions by myself or otherwise will do you a spot of good.

-I’m not entirely sure how to explain it.

-When the Island Guards came for you, you ran. Let’s start there. All Mainland children are told that the Island Guards are there to help, to protect, and to keep order. While this view is often rejected in favor of one more akin to reality, few have the first instinct to run. Fewer still, I imagine, are correct as you so obviously were in having such an instinct. So tell me, Torv. Why did you run?

-It was my father.

His mother was flighty and incapable of sharing bad news with anyone as it caused her such pain as to often be on par or worse than whatever pain was inflicted by the news she bore. As this was the case, Torv had no memory of his mother ever telling him off, but had precious few memories of her sharing her love for him as well. The world always seemed to contain entirely too much feeling for Eleanor Mannold and it was all an unbearable mess for her. She is clearest in his memory on her chaise, head tilted back at an uncomfortable angle over the headrest, her body inert. Young Torv learned from an early age to tip-toe past her so as not to cause her undue pain at being suddenly awakened, which was one of her cardinal displeasures.

His father was the one who was tasked with disciplining the boy or telling him that there was not enough coin for a mule, much less a horse, no matter how much Torv wanted to have one. Branford Mannold was synonymous with the various and sundry pains of childhood, as he shared in all of them with his son, not forcing his son to bear the weight alone. For this, Torv loved his father all the better. So it was Branford who met his son at the edge of the pond they each loved so much the harvest season of Torv’s fourteenth year. As he rowed in to dock, he saw his father with his boots off, bare feet in the cattail shallows, aromatic pipe smoke trailing off into the cool early evening, the year’s last fireflies chasing the wreaths of smoke in concentric circles, like children chasing each other in a merry game. With the boat turned over and safely ashore, he sat down next to his father and waited. It was not likely that Branford had met his son at the shore without reason. He was a hardworking man with few free hours. When his bowl was finished, he knocked his pipe on the ground beside him and stowed the pipe he had carved himself in his pocket.

-’S going to be some men by tomorrow in the morning.

-Yes, father?

-Island Guards are coming to do a standard inspection of the village. Be coming by most places in Luxan as a formality to have a poke around.

Torv did not interrupt, but this was hardly new information to the boy. He had witnessed inspections his entire life. They didn’t happen every week, but it was hardly something worth getting worked up about.

-I know to say sir and bow my head when they pass by and all that, father.

-Yes, I know you do, Branford Mannold said, his teeth gritting with the strength necessary to keep his tone. There’s something I’d like you to know, son. Something I think to some extent you’re already aware of. Those men, the guards; they are not our friends, nor are they here to keep the peace. Do you understand what I’m saying, Torv?

-I think so, father.

-When your mother and I are gone, I want you to remember that. Can you do that for me?

-Of course, but what should…

-Remember it, Torv. They are not your friends.

-So I ran.