The Boy on the Mountain

[Dyl 2105]

Spoiler

 

 

The Boy on the Mountain

 

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The snowfall was heavy, the grass and foliage now covered in a thick white blanket. It was hard to see, the snowfall obscuring the vision of a woman in flee. A baby held firmly in her arms, his loud cries filling the silent forest. She had been running for days, the exhaustion visible within her eyes. Tears were dropping from the woman’s face as she clutched her baby tight. She remembered how quick it had all happened, the bandits' appearance within her village. They demanded all the food and when that was given, they demanded blankets. Next came all the money and when that was given, they demanded any jewelry. Once the village had been robbed of everything and would suffer in the coming winter, the bandits decided to bestow a gift upon the village. They viewed it as mercy, a slaughter to avoid the brutal winter. 

 

So the bandits began their hunt, masking the white snow with red as they spilled blood. None were safe. Men, women, and even children were put to the sword. The fleeing woman stumbled as the memories raced through her. She remembered how her baby had just been born, her husband so ecstatic to enter fatherhood. She remembered thinking about names for the child and decorating the child’s room. Now her biggest worry would be if her son would see the next day. She knew a baby would not survive like this, if the bandits did not kill him, then the winter storm would surely snuff out his life. 

 

The heavy snow masked a lot of things, but it could not mask her trail. A party of bandits had followed her, for they knew none could be left alive. They had been following her for days now. They were close, but far enough for her to run. They were catching up though. She was tiring, running on very little energy. Eventually she would collapse, and if her baby was not safe, they would both die. Her husband’s final words suddenly popped up, reminding her that nothing was more important than their son’s survival. She slowly stood up, first standing on one knee, then coming to both feet. She trotted forward, eventually coming to a mountain.

 

Various voices were heard, and the forest behind her slowly lit up. They were gaining on her, she had no choice but to climb up the mountain. She spotted buildings that jetted out from the mountain and trees with beautiful red leaves. It reminded her of the warmth of her old home. Tired and collapsing, she reached the gate of the mountain top settlement. With all her remaining energy she rattled the gatebars, yet no one could hear her. No help was coming and she feared the bandits would find her. She had to make a decision then and there. She wrapped her child in the cloak she had worn, praying that it would keep him safe until someone from inside the settlement could find him. Saying her final goodbyes, she descended the mountain and died at the hands of the bandits. Her sacrifice allowed for her son to avoid the same fate as everyone else in the village. 

 

Her final prayers were heard, the settlement did indeed have people in it. They came to the gate, only to find that an abandoned child was there. Asleep yet shivering, they knew if he was not cared for immediately, he would die. He was put in one of the empty houses and monitored, at least until the child regained his health. After some time his health started to improve, and his sick skin began to flourish. His eyes were soon full of life, the golden eyes seeming to mimic the nearby fire. The people of the mountain had hoped someone would come for the boy, yet no one came. Days turned into months and months soon turned into years yet the child remained in his home. How could he leave though? The only home he had ever known, was the one he had awoken his eyes to. 

 

 

Spoiler

OOC: Just an irp explanation for why my upcoming character is where he is!

 

[𝑓𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑎𝑙𝑠 824]

 

⥑ Upon that remote peak. ⥏
⥑ A nameless winter day. ⥏

 

A Cathant woman draped in cloaks with raven hair awakes, the day unremarkable as they all were. Blending together in their similarities, time stretches on into a blur of recollection. A patrol of the monastery grounds, to tend to its disciples and adherents. Such routine motions shattered by the peal of a child’s cry. It clung in desperation upon those brisk northern winds.

Hurried footsteps take her down to the front gate. It was cold there, as was much of the monastery. Soft snow-fall fell in a light flurry from dreary overcast skies. She stoops down, to pick up the crying bundle of blankets and cut cloth. The woman that peers down upon that weak infant bears features knitted with the pain of concern. A warm voice rings out in the cold.

⥑ Where is your mother, little one? ⥏

Though she would not find the answer to that question, at least- not until the spring would come to melt the snow and reveal death’s work upon the village beneath that remote place. As she took the babe in, provided it with warmth and care in equal measures. The days stretched to weeks, blurring together, and she found herself penning a letter to the only one whom might be suitable. It begins as such;

⥑ To her sister, ⥏
I appear to have come into possession of a child…

[ivery 594]

Once upon a time, she was a mother to a great many children. The light of her life, the proof of her curse, the void now left behind that yawns wider each day. She is far away from that land now, atop a high peak blanketed in snow. Warmed only by a borrowed cloak, she peers off into the distance and watches the seasons pass by with a lack of focus. Apathy, the sickness of the endless- or the ache of a heart with too many wounds.

 

And then, far below her perch, there is the cry of a child. The call from her sister, with too-harsh hands and the clumsiest instinct towards care. A call for help, for an expertise she has offered time and time again as easily as breathing. Nuan need not have worried. It is a combination of two things she could not bring herself to ignore. Not now, not ever.

 

It is a hard first few days, teaching a beast how to care for something fragile. Dragons are not meant to handle glass, and Nuan most of all knows cruelty far better than patience. Gentle guidance on how to hold the babe is all too commonly mixed in with reminders of his mortality, for her sister is a dragon and this child is decidedly not. The high peaks of the mountain are a hazard, the steep steps are a death sentence, the ledges are not good for their hearts. And yet they manage.

 

He may not be her own, he may not truly belong here, but Deia looks at this child and sees her own son anyway. As she guides Nuan through brushing his hair, the smallest piece of her wounded heart begins to heal.