Lost

Ingvar didn't knew how things escalated like that. In just a second, he found himself surrounded by the guards. In na instant, things changed.

Why?

Was his hair really that different? Really that important? He didn't do anything wrong, so why the people were looking at him like that?

"Today, we will banish this evil back to hell! Back to where it belongs! This just proves that we have to be careful, we have to be aware and believe in the word of our god!" The priest continued while the boy were forceful pushed towards the man with the axe.

Ingvar couldn't breath, couldn't move, couldn't really react. His mind was racing in confusion and surprise while his heart was filled with fear. The sound around him became muffled, and his eyes could only see the bloody axe that was slowly approaching in his direction.

In a moment, the confusion left his mind. Her didn't care why they were so eager to see his head flying off his body, he didn't care for the reason he was being called evil, and most of all, he didn't care if they really see him as the devil or some other shit.

All he cared about was to get out of there. He went through a lot in these past few days, and he survived. He couldn't possibly die now.

Well, he now understood why his parents were always so cautious regarding his hair. Maybe they knew that this was what was going to happen. But, he didn't, they never really told him, they just said for him to be careful.

How could he know that the people would try to kill him? How could he know that he would be seen as evil?

Maybe the people weren't so muth better than that monster after all.

In a desperate act, he turned around in an attempt to run away, in the naive, or, perhaps, foolish thought that maybe he could lose the guards, that maybe he could get out of that town and escape the danger.

But the result was obvious, there was no way he could simply escape from trained and armed guards, how could he? Not to mention that he knew nothing about that city. Where would he run to?

The soldier who had talked to him at the gate grabbed him firmly by the back of the neck and, in a strong and rather crude move, punched the boy in the face, making him dizzy and bewildered by the blow.

The soldier took advantage of the boy's weakness and began to pull him toward where the people were tied up, now dead.

Though still dazed, Ingvar began to struggle from the guard's grip, the way he could, the way he was capable of despite not getting the effect he wanted.

"Quiet, you evil beast. You are lucky our lord is merciful, for for me you would spend your whole life in torment." The soldier of this, his voice drawn out and carried by an unusual anger at the boy.

It was as if he had directed his anger at something other than the kid, his eyes looking at him as if he were in a trance, and saw someone else, or something else, in the redhead's place.

For Ingvar, it all happened in a matter of five seconds.

In the first second, he was pulled up by the guard. The priest was looking at him with sharp eyes and a strange aura around him, an aura imperceptible to ignorant or idiotic eyes. The people around him were looking at him with similar looks to the priest, their mouths still shyly throwing small insults and preachings in his direction.

In the next second, the man holding the axe took a few steps to the side of the body of the man with the severed head. His step caused him to step on a small pool of blood that had formed, further staining the red ground as his eyes unblinkingly followed the approaching boy.

In the third second, the soldier holding him began to pray together with the priest, the tightness in his neck became even stronger. People's gazes went from the boy to the priest. The audience imitated the man's gestures, their mouths moving as they mimicked his, copying his words.

In the fourth second, the soldier walked past the man with the axe. The prayer became louder, people practically shouted along with the priest as they prayed to their god. Their heads rose to the sky, their eyes rolled back as if in ecstasy. The priest opened his arms as the soldier positioned the boy with his hands behind his back. The man with the axe was already approaching calmly.

At the fifth second, the priest turned toward him with his arms still open as he said his prayers. The man with the axe stood right behind Ingvar, his axe already raised as the soldier pushed the boy forward with his leg behind his back.

The boy couldn't breathe, his eyes widened and he felt his heart accelerate in an unusual way. The despair and fear he felt mixed together in an almost fantastic way, and just before the man swung his axe, two swords appeared in both the boy's hands.

Overcome with despair, the red-haired boy threw himself aside quickly, not caring about the blood that stained his body and the rest of his clothes. His movements, however, were as if they were done automatically by his body, without him even noticing or thinking.

The boy could not even believe his eyes when he saw the severed leg of the soldier on the ground. His confused and frightened eyes stared at the man grunting in pain, trying at all costs to stop the blood pouring out of his leg.

The whole place was silent for a few moments... no, he simply couldn't hear the chaos that quickly ensued. His eyes stared at the scene of the man trying hard to take off his armor, probably to rip off his clothes and tie them around what was left of his leg to stop the bleeding.

In a few moments Ingvar looked at his right hand, slightly trembling. There was blood on the blade, blood that seemed to mix with the red that glowed strongly from the runes.

So he hadn't lost his swords, they were with him.... somehow.

"The evil strikes back! It's trying to get rid of us to ravage our city and our lives in revenge! We can't let it! Guards!" The priest shouted, pointing at the boy with a discomfiting rage.

Ingvar looked around. The guards were rapidly approaching with swords in hand. And in front of him, that man was raising his axe again as he ran towards him.

"God, our merciful father, give us your blessing and strength to put an end to the evil that plagues our land! May this evil being find the fate he so richly deserves!" The priest began to pray again while the people, frightened, moved away from the scene, but who followed what he was saying.

Ingvar did not want to stay there for another minute. The moment the man brandished the axe, the boy threw himself aside and began to run in the opposite direction of the crowd.

He heard shouts and insults, as well as the sound of footsteps mixed with the sound of metal from various pieces of armor. It was obvious that he would be pursued.

Ahead of him, two soldiers were approaching.

His mind racing, he clutched the hilt of the swords in his hands. He could try to strike back now that he had the blades. But he wouldn't, he had no experience, much less a fraction of the sword skill those men had.

As soon as he approached, the nearest guard attempted a horizontal slashing attack, from left to right.

The attack was quick, and all Ingvar could see was the movement of his arm. In reflex, or fear, or whatever, the boy lowered his head and torso, closing his eyes with some force as he did so.

Somehow he managed to escape the attack, his head still attached to his neck.

He gasped as he opened his eyes again, his legs moving as fast as he could, despite the fatigue he felt. The little he had eaten earlier had given him a little more energy, but he knew he had to escape as soon as possible. If he became tired, that was the end of him.

The boy turned right onto a narrow street after leaving the small square. Some people walking by looked at him startled and confused, both by his hair and the fact that he was wielding two swords and stained with blood.

The red-haired boy was dodging pedestrians, noblemen, and wagons, his eyes searching the street for some entrance, hiding place, or anything he could use to evade the guards on his tail. But all he could see were houses and stores.

Ingvar looked back over his shoulder as he heard the shouts of the guards and a few grunts from confused civilians caught in the mess. Despite the somewhat heavy armor, they were still grown and trained men, and it would not be long before they caught up with him.

Again, the boy turned left, and as he ran another few dozen steps, his tired eyes focused on the crowd of people ahead.

The noise filled his ears, the many voices obscured the shouts of the guards, the traders' warning about their goods going out of stock caught his attention.

The boy ran through the crowd, this was his best chance to escape.

However, he had one small problem. Not only was his hair too eye-catching, but it was totally unusual for a boy to be wielding swords and covered in blood.

The boy looked at the blades in his hands, how could he make them disappear? All he had to do was think?

No... it wasn't working.

Ingvar clicked his tongue in frustration. He then looked back again as he ran, checking to see if the guards were still on his tail.

Although far away, they were still chasing him. But at least now he had a chance to escape.

As he looked back, he didn't pay attention to where he was running and ended up crashing into a merchant's fruit stand.

The boy grunted as he felt his body collide with the wood. The stand crashed to the floor next to Ingvar, who covered his face as best he could as he felt the fruit fall on his body.

"What the... what the hell, boy! Look at the mess you made! Holy... what the..." The justifiably irritated merchant approached the boy with a sharp look on his face and somewhat frustrated due to his small loss. However, he fell silent as he saw the boy stand up, covered in blood, sweaty, a macabre look on his face, and uncommonly red hair.

Ingvar took advantage of the merchant's brief confusion and tore some fabric from the cloth that lay on the floor next to some of the man's other merchandise.

The red-haired boy looked back again and started running.

At one point, he turned right into a narrow alley. He stopped, and his tired eyes looked down the dead end. The desperation that began to seize him made him start breathing even harder.

There was no way he could climb that wall, and there was nowhere he could hide.

The guards were dangerously close by now.

That is, until his eyes found a cover in the floor that led to the sewer. It was a passage like any other, and for the moment, he didn't care.

The boy crouched down and grabbed the base of the lid, grunting slightly as he pushed hard.

As soon as he had pulled the lid tight enough, he quickly descended a few steps down the small ladder that was there. Before descending completely, he lifts the lid a little above the floor and puts it in place.

Ingvar climbed down the ladder and remained motionless for a few moments, trying to ignore the strange, icy feeling of the dirty, stinking water touching him halfway down his calf.

The smell was just the way he thought it would be, only times worse than he had imagined. With a grimace, he put a piece of the torn cloth over his nose and focused his gaze on the lid above.

He could still hear the noise of the market going on, although it was muffled. And within moments, he heard certain footsteps nearby, along with shouts and muffled orders.

The boy remained motionless, without even realizing it, he had held his own breath. Anxiety grew in his chest as he heard the seemingly angry voices just above him. His heart was pounding so hard that he could swear that it could be heard from up the street.

However, his chest was filled with relief as he heard the voices hurry away, and the noise of the marketplace filled his ears.

He felt his legs weak. He didn't know whether it was because he was tired or because of relief. Probably both.

Ingvar leaned against the wall. He didn't want to kneel down in the filthy water, much less let himself fall by any slip. His wounds were not yet completely healed, and there was no way he would get an infection from that place.

He would die before he even left the city.

The boy moved a few steps away from the wall after some time resting. He had no idea which way to go. The only thing he knew was that the sewage flowed into the river. And once he reached the river, he would officially be out of town.

He remained motionless for a few more minutes, wondering what he would do.

Was it really a good idea to get out of there? He could tie that piece of cloth over his head and hide his hair now.

But still, it was not a good idea to stay there either. He had no other clothes to wear, his body was stained with blood, and the guards would now most likely be suspicious of any boy out there.

If he tried to walk down the street with only a cloth over his head, surely some guard would stop and search him.

Ingvar grunted in pain and bent forward slightly. Slowly he raised his trembling arm and ran his eyes over the claw and bite wounds.

His body ached in so many places that it was hard to tell exactly which hurt most. He felt weak, as weak as he had felt when he was sick.

Then his eyes fell on his hands. The swords were gone.

When? When he fell, perhaps? It was obvious that there was some requirement for him to be able to pull them out, but what would it be? A sense of danger? The adrenaline?

Well, whatever it was, at the moment he had something else to worry about.

He could stop and rest for a while longer, but he wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. So, even without much strength left, he started to walk through that sewer tunnel, hoping that he could find his way out.

As he walked, he tried to keep an eye on where he was going. His tired eyes roamed the length of the tunnel. He never imagined that at some point in his life he would be in this situation, walking through a filthy sewer with rats all around him, surrounded by rot.

In those last few days he felt so many things that he had never felt before. It seemed that his life was in constant danger, no matter what moment, or what he did, where he walked... there was always something seeking his death.

First the creature, then the wolves... after that, the guards, that priest... and now that sewer.

Ingvar coughed from the strong smell. He felt his throat burning and his eyes watering. The boy pressed the cloth tightly against his nose, hoping that he would soon find his way out.

At a certain moment his eyes focused on the light ahead. The sound of civilization in the distance entered his ears.

What little relief he felt in that brief instant vanished. He remembered a conversation he had had with his father some time ago, how much he disliked going through certain streets in the city because of the open sewage.

The smell seemed to permeate all the surrounding houses and businesses. Evidence of how little hygiene they had in the city. And the strangest thing was that people didn't seem to mind, already used to that smell. Or, used to ignoring it, at least.

The boy approached with slow steps and stood close to the wall while observing the place.

Above him was a street, he could hear people's voices talking, the sound of horses' hooves stamping against the ground, and wagons being pulled.

There were two other streets around, one on each side, leaving the open sewer right in the center. He could see some people going in and out of houses. There were a few women fiddling with some clothes further ahead, and even a bar on the street to his left, where there were some men talking just in front of the door.

There were small bridges over the sewer to ease the transition between one street and another. A few street lamps were still lit.

Ahead, the sewer ran through another tunnel.

The streets were high up, much higher than where the boy was standing. But still, the sewer was very open and visible.

He could pass through there without being seen. And even if he was, there were no guards around. Although surely anyone who saw him walking by would tell the guards if asked.

He decided it was better than standing there, surrounded by garbage.

Ingvar tied the cloth over his head and followed the wall, walking as fast as his limited strength would allow. His eyes focused on the tunnel that was not approaching as fast as he wanted.

The sound of neighing horses caught his attention, and the boy looked back, watching the approaching mounted soldiers.

He hurried his steps, using the little debris that lay in the sewer to try to camouflage himself, for what little it was.

Getting through that place hadn't really been difficult. Neither was walking through the sewer, despite the smell that constantly made him want to vomit.

The hard part was always walking through long tunnels and corridors and always finding dead ends. The hard part was going further into the city instead of finding the way out.

The hard part was staying down there for hours and hours... days even.

The hard part was having to sleep on that filthy ground with the rats. The hard part was getting thirsty, and the only water around was rotten.

The hard part was getting hungry, and the only thing he could eat there was the rats.

The hard part was feeling his wounds burning more and more as time went on.

The hard part was trying to retrace his steps and realizing that he had gotten lost.

The hard part was staying awake when his body insisted on falling asleep. The hard part was resisting fatigue, and all he could do was find a place to rest his body before he fell into the darkness of his own consciousness.