Despair stomped upon his hopes like a boot on his face. It was ground to a fine powder, then kicked into the air to get swept away in the wind. Any chance of escape had been dashed. All around them was fire and beasts and the certainty of a gruesome end. That finality of cattle in a pen awaiting slaughter. As macabre as it was, Blacwin wondered if his father would be willing to kill him if he asked. Surely a sword through the heart was a kinder mercy compared to falling prey to a pack of monstrosities. To being burnt alive. That jostled his heart the most. Terror plunged into him as he imagined the skin peeling, the flesh roasting, the marrow from his bones bubbling from the heat. If his body were to get feasted upon by the flames, at least allow his life to flee this vessel first.

Blacwin tugged upon his father's sleeve. "Don't let me get taken by the fire... nor the beasts," he choked through a wallow of tears. There was no point in hiding the fear anymore.

"Never." The sword came free from its scabbard, and yet its steely tip remained pointing to the dirt. "So long as I can draw air into my lungs, no harm shall ever befall upon you," he said, his voice as steady as a stone pillar, unshakably assured. Even the battering ram within his chest had slowed to a gentle thump as refugees finally dispersed from the gate.

Animal panic scattered them every which way. Many ran into the flames in a desperate attempt to escape. A man with an arrow in his shoulder tried, dashing across the gauntlet of fire until he was consumed whole, until his screams were finally subsumed by the fiery roar. Many scrambled for some weapon, a length of rotten timber, a rock, a spear if they were lucky. A foolhardy man even made a grab at their sword, and his father was more than willing to share as he plunged it into the man's chest. Nobody else dared to take it from them afterward.

With some sort of weapon in hand, the refugees charged at the wretched beasts as a hysterical mob. They hurdled themselves senselessly like they had at the gate, relying upon rabid tactics to smash through the bestial mound, to carve out a path from their imminent demise. The tenacity was admirable. Truly, it was. Makeshift clubs splintered uselessly upon heads. Spears did no more damage than a bee sting as they sank into flesh. Rocks bounced off harmlessly and splattered dully on the mud. Malnourished, uncoordinated and inexperienced in war making, the band of would-be brigands stood as good of a chance as a reed in a storm, rend a sunder like a tide upon jagged rocks. Limbs were ripped from the body like a roasted chicken at a feast. Heads popped from shoulders as easily as dandelions. Innards spilled upon the churn. Perhaps that was why his father simply stood and watched instead of joining the fray.

Only until the wretched beasts were pacified with food did his father rouse into a run. Many paid no mind as they dashed through save for a few without anything to gnaw on. Jaws flew open, arms lashed out. The sword flicked up and down, side to side, separating limbs and swatting heads aside. Not a claw nor tooth touched any part of Blacwin. Unable to help it, a spur of hope swelled within his chest. Him and his father might leave this nightmare after all. The beasts were now behind them, still feasting upon the slain. The way ahead was clear. And blockaded by a wall of flames.

The little hope that Blacwin was foolish enough foster had gone sour within an instant. Life already proved itself so fragile, so short. It was idiotic to believe that tonight could end in any other way. It was the destiny of ants to know the cruelty of a boot, for power and strength sought to prey upon the weak, to direct their spears and shields toward those without. That was far crueler to the boy. That man would ever stoop to the muck of animals. That anybody would ever want to hurt a fellow man so readily and giddily. Want was the perfect word. He thought back on the soldier, how after a string of reason and thought, the bastard chose to stomp down on his head just because he could. Just because he wanted to.

The notion of fighting felt futile at that point. The gambeson and chainmail was beyond a ton upon his back. It clung like a second skin because of the sweat. Each breath was hot and heavy in his lungs. The caustic air blinded his vision. Despair was quickly taking hold. His heart ramped with panic. And yet the heartbeat of his father neither rose nor fell, only calm as a summer day. It appeared that he anticipated as much. And so, turning away from the barrier of fire, he carried Blacwin into the throng of tents.

Past burning heaps and snarling beasts, they navigated through the camp until they finally stopped at their tent. His father stumbled in and collapsed to one knee, panting like a dog. Blacwin immediately climbed down to fetch some water from a barrel, taking a sip for himself before offering the rest.

"No." His father threw open the false floor.

Blacwin stared into the dugout. Did his father plan for them to weather the mayhem from in there? If so, that was hardly enough room. The only person that could fit in there was...

Blacwin shook his head adamantly. "No."

"You will," his father commanded.

And yet the boy shackled himself to his waist. "I can't! I can't! I won't let you leave me!" he cried, starting to sob anew as he dug his fingernails into his wrists, fastening his arms in place.

Gently, his father stroked his hair. "No tears, my boy. Do not cry," he said. "I will never leave you. Nor your mother even. You only need to look at a pond on a sunny day. There you will find the black hair and green eyes of your mother, and the jawline and winning smile of mine!" He squeezed Blacwin's shoulder firmly. "Neither of us will ever be far from you. All right?"

"No! Please don't leave!" Blacwin pleaded. The world had already taken away his mother, there was no way he would let his father go as well. Not a chance. he would soon join his father and mother in the mysterious country known as death than be left alone in this mortal plain.

His father let out a sigh. Sharp and wistful as the final rasp of a fireplace. "Then you'll have to forgive me."

With a swift strike to the back of his head, everything went dark for the boy.

***

When Blacwin finally awoke, the world was cold and dark. Could he have died? The back of his head was tender to the touch, and his body felt as stiff as a rusty joint. Pain would have no bearing had his anima left his body. No. He was very much alive. He tried to stretch out his limbs when his hands and feet were stopped. Damp, earthen walls got in the way. That was when he realized he was in the dugout.

"Father!" Blacwin cried out.

Wriggling onto his back, he kicked up with all the might he could muster. The false floor popped away, and gone was the darkness when sunlight shone through. He threw his head to the side as his vision strained to a squint. With a hand to shade against the glare, the boy stood from the dugout. Only once his vision adjusted did he take his hand away. And when he did, all around him was ash and bones.