The hand chopped like an axe and struck Blacwin in the cheek.

His head snapped to the side. Lost his footing. Fell to the ground. A burst of blood and dirt mixed in his mouth as a boot stamped his face into the dirt. Racks of pain tore at his scalp as the soldier ground his heel like one did with a bug. With both hands planted, Blacwin attempted to rise but the soldier stamped him down harder to extinguish any other wild embers.

"Ye lil' pisshead," the soldier spat, "think you can steal, did ya?"

A dull thump of something landed next to him. It was the potato that Blacwin tried to slip into his pants while the soldier was looking away. Clearly, a thief he was not. Or a good one anyways. And he was paying for his mess-up with blood, sweat and now tears. The boy started to cry. He couldn't help it. For weeks he had been holding them in. It was only now that the dam chose to burst like a diseased bubo.

The soldier though, callous as the leather sole of his boot, snorted indifferently to the plight of the boy. For those with power, with the full stomach, with the sword and the boot on the heads of others, they rarely cared except to lord it over those with nothing.

"Fucking ingrate! Yer bunch are as good as weeds. Lord Reynmeer has been kind enough to feed you in return for your labor, yet here you are spitting on that generosity."

Anger gnawed at Blacwin like a dog on a bone. He wanted to retort that his lordship fed them pitifully little for the hard labors they did in the field everyday, under the glaring sun and with little breaks for water. He wanted to shout it until his throat was raw and voice was gone. And yet he gritted his teeth shut. Ate the punishment quietly. The camp was already packed, and any other passing refugee would gladly take his place in exchange for some food and a semblance of security. And his father was in no state to travel through the badlands.

The boot lifted from his head. "Now get back to work. If I catch you trying to steal again, I'll have your hands hanging around your neck."

Blacwin waited until the solider lumbered away before getting up from the ground. He blew hard to get the dirt out his nose. Shook his head to get it out his hair. Swiped the tears from his cheeks. The other refugees in the potato field kept their heads down as they furiously dug out tubers and tossed them into the baskets, too afraid to even glance at him lest they received any unwanted attention. The boy glanced at the potato that he tried to steal, the ugly twisted little tuber. As if Lord Reynmeer would miss such a thing, when he regularly fattened himself with pig and bread on the other side of the wall while he tried to sleep through an empty stomach. He crouched down to pick up the ugly tuber, though before he tossed it into his basket he dug his other hand into the dirt, retrieving the other ugly tuber he hid and quickly stuffed it into his wool sock.

The rest of the work day was backbreaking. The lineup for food was long. And by the time that Blacwin walked up to get his food, all he got were two measly boiled potatoes for the sweat and labor. Oh well...

The refugee camp was a ring of tents that surrounded the walls of Reynmeer. Soldiers would march through, less to keep the peace, more so to keep them from causing any trouble. Like they could at all. Most of the faces in the camp had hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. It was not unusual to find bodies laying in a tent, whittled down to skin and bone. Blacwin kept his potatoes close to his chest, and a hand on the waistband of his pants. Hidden away was a small blade in case of any unwanted hands came at him.

He ducked into his tent, this sad droop of canvas. His father laid with his head on their pack as a pillow, his sword tucked under his only arm. At night there would be screams, then the smell of meat stewing in pots in the morning. The bandages at the end of his stump had gone brown. Later Blacwin would have to wash them, lest he got an infection.

Blacwin and his father had to flee their home, away from their village in the little kingdom of Harstone when the Judgement came and the people--friends, family... his mother-- turned into monsters, gathered into great hordes and destroyed everything that they once knew and loved. With nothing left and looking for a safe refuge, they wandered into the nearby Westerly kingdom of the Reynmeers, a place known for their wheat, rivers and high walls according to passing merchants.

Without a there was plenty of space for everybody. The Judgement made certain to touch every man, woman and child despite age, sex and class as Blacwin and his father learned from their migration. And yet the gates to the Reynmeers were kept closed, guarded by the soldiers with chainmail and tall spears, which they used to skewer any beggars that tried to plead their way past the gates. As per decree from Lord Reynmeer, they had no room for lay-abouts. Too many hungry mouths to feed. Except Blacwin's father was a soldier, a man good with the sword. And in perilous times, one could never have too many of those. So they joined the lucky few who got to live behind the walls. For a while they ate good, with bowls of porridge, bread and the occasional slice of meat. However, when his father lost an arm after an encounter with monsters, they were thrown back out to the refugee camp, where they had been ever since.

His father sighed wearily. "Blacwin..."

The boy angled his face away from his gaze as he lifted up the false floor in their tent, a wooden board that they used to cover a dugout to hide valuable things in. Inside was his father's chainmail and gambeson. Blacwin had wanted to trade them for more food, however, his father protested. They would need them for when they were back on the road again. That was, if his father would recover. He threw the ugly tuber in and covered the dugout back up.

"We deserve more," Blacwin said.

"Nothing is ever deserved in life."

He started peeling the boiled potato, which has since cooled. "Well, you should..." And then broke off a piece to feed his father.

"You eat first."

"My jaw hurts."

"All the more reason to get your strength back up."

"I'm not the one who's recovering." Blacwin insisted. "Please. Eat."

Reluctantly, his father took the piece of potato into his mouth and chewed. Blacwin would made certain that he ate the entirety of it before he ate his own, which by then had gone cold. Sharp pain shot up his skull whenever he worked his jaw up and down. The joint was swollen, tender to the touch. He winced as he prodded at it with a finger. Raged filled his heart. And later when he fell asleep, wishing that the monsters would sweep through and kill all the bastards behind the walls.