Outsider

Ingvar, with a slightly pained expression on his face, was cleaning his wounds in the stream. Well, at least, he was trying. The tooth marks were embedded in his forearms, his wounds left his flesh exposed and burned as if on fire.

After the wolf attack, he wrapped his shirt around his forearms, tearing some of the fabric and leaving his chest bare. The small boy sought refuge in some tree in the forest. Not too high, because he could not move very well with his injuries, but high enough to not be caught by any other creatures.

He hadn't been able to sleep, the pain was too much. He had been awake all night, he was more than tired. His stomach hurt from hunger.

The boy sighed, his exhausted blue eyes stared at the red that stained the water. He had survived, somehow, even he couldn't believe it.

His gaze soon turned to his forearms, those strange runes on his flesh, glowing red, disappeared at the same instant he saw them. In the same way as his parents' swords. Which was rather intriguing, because the rings were no longer on his fingers, as if they had disappeared.

He spent several minutes, many hours in desperation looking for the rings, but no matter where he looked, he just couldn't find them. But he remembered well, it was as if the rings had been absorbed by his flesh.

And after a few hours of despair, getting even more tired than he already was, he gave up, just accepted the fact that bad luck was now his only company. Not for nothing, it even seemed that the fish had migrated somewhere else, for there wasn't even one in the stream.

Again, Ingvar felt his throat closing, but he held back, he would not cry again, he would not allow himself to show such weakness.

Without even an ounce of strength in his body, the boy stands up and, after looking once more at the stream, he turns and walks away.

He had nothing left there, it was no longer his home.

With a short breath, the boy watched the bodies of the wolves lying on the ground. It was like a dream, he would never imagine that he would be responsible for such a vision.

His stomach rumbled, and for a few moments he considered the idea of eating the meat of those wolves. He knew how to make fire, all he had to do was cut some of that meat.

But how? he had no blade at his disposal, not even a knife. He could use the swords, if he knew how to pull them out.

The boy shook his head. He was hungry, yes, but not yet desperate, not yet on the verge of starvation, so he just dismissed the idea.

Ingvar searched among the rubble for anything useful he could use, which wasn't much. All he got was a small bag stained with ash, a single wooden spear, and an old rag, small enough that he couldn't even put it around his head to hide his hair.

No money, no food. The odds were against him.

Minutes later, he found himself in front of his parents' graves, looking at them once more. He honestly didn't know where he was going, his initial plan was just to get to the city. He didn't know how long he would be away, where he would get to, much less if he would come back. So he concentrated on just looking at the graves of the most important people in his life.

That could very well be the last time he would see them.

With his throat locked, the boy began to walk away, each step seeming like a weight was placed on his back, each movement making his being yearn to turn around.

He was abandoning everything he knew, and he knew it, but he tried with all his might not to think about it.

Nothing was as hard as walking away from the place he had lived all his life.

The little boy focused only on reaching the city, remembering the path he had rarely taken. He could count on the fingers of one hand how many times he had gone out to the city with his father, but it was enough times for him to remember part of the way.

Ingvar didn't know what it was, but the more he walked, the more he felt suffocated by the surroundings. Maybe it was the fear of the unknown, a fear he had always read and heard about, but never felt. Not like he was feeling now.

At a certain moment, his eyes stopped on a wagon abandoned on the road. A large cloth covered the wagon, probably to hide whatever was in that.

As he approached, he noticed the two broken rear wheels. He recognized that wagon, how could he not? He had helped his father repair it countless times, not to mention always helping to put the items and goods inside, he even played with it a few times, where he wrote his name inside the wagon, in the lower left corner.

Ingvar needed some time. He clenched his fists, ignoring the pain he felt in his trembling arms.

With his left hand he slowly pulled the cloth from the top of the wagon and looked at his father's goods. Normally, his father always returned with an empty wagon.

And for that, the boy didn't know whether to be grateful, or sad about it. at least he now had something to eat, and enough to take with him.

"Thanks, Dad." The redhead didn't know if he should thank him. In fact, he didn't know if he should be thankful at all, but he didn't care, he was thankful just the same. Thankful, and just as devastated as before.

The boy then devoured some fruit and put the rest in his small bag, as much as he could carry.

Ingvar then took one more look at the wrecked wagon before turning and continuing on his way.

During this time of walking, the boy felt a little intimidated. He knew that the road was not very busy, he knew that few people passed by, that's why it was the way to his old home. But he didn't find a single living soul, neither people nor animals. He didn't even heard the birds.

It was as if he was the only one left there, and that even the animals were either killed by some creature or, like him, decided to leave as soon as possible.

And this made him fearful. His already paranoid mind kept thinking that at any minute, at any instant, some monster would come out of the Forest to attack him.

His eyes focused at all times on the forest around him, his mind perhaps playing tricks on him, because he always saw shadows following him around the corners of his vision. And his ears heard strange noises, noises that he didn't know if they were real, or if they were just figments of his imagination.

Whatever it was, it made him careful and scared, it made him hug his own body and hurry his steps.

But the more he walked, the more it seemed that there was something behind him, the more it seemed that he was being followed by some kind of creature, the more it seemed that he was not as alone as he imagined.

His throat closed up, he felt a difficulty to breathe, he was panting. His trembling legs gave out without strength, he started to break into a cold sweat.

His desperate eyes stared at the dirt on which he had knelt. Sweat began to drip and he began to pant more and more. His heart beat fast and it seemed as if he would suffocate. A feeling of death assaulted his chest.

The noises around him began to get louder, his whole body shivered and his instincts screamed. Ingvar put his hands on his head and winced, putting his forehead against the ground and closing his eyes tightly, wishing to whatever divine entity to make it stop.

He heard the sound of something breaking. His arm throbbed.

He heard someone scream. The taste of blood sprayed from his mouth.

He heard a roar. And he stood up suddenly, his wide eyes running around him looking for the creature that was about to kill him.

He couldn't find anything... the noise had disappeared, the figures had hidden themselves. He could no longer taste the blood in his mouth.

The boy remained seated for some time, still panting, his mouth ajar, his throat unable to produce a single sound.

Confusion overwhelmed him, the fear still present prevented him from looking away.

He didn't know what it was, but he didn't want to go through anything like that again.

Drying the sweat from his forehead, he gets up and practically runs from there. He wanted to get to the city, that's all. Maybe that way he would feel some kind of protection, however small it might be.

He would be near people, at least. They couldn't be any worse than that creature.

He ran and ran. The sweat already soaked almost all of his torso. His legs ached from exhaustion and he breathed as hard as before. But at least he felt some sense of relief when he saw the sign that showed the direction to the city. Finally, the boy was getting close.

He didn't run, he didn't have that much strength, but he walked as fast as he could, and he couldn't stop the sigh of relief that escaped his lips when he saw the city walls ahead.

With hurried steps, he approached the city, his eyes watching the few guards taking their turns guarding the entrance.

Finally a bit of life, a bit of civilization to remind him that he was not alone, although he certainly felt that way.

As he approached, the guards moved in a strange way when they saw him. Something that did not go unnoticed by the boy, but he chose to ignore it. He thought it was because they did not recognize him.

"Hold it, kid. what are you doing here all alone? Where are your parents?" A young guard, through his voice, asked, his hand on the hilt of his sword and his sharp gaze toward Ingvar.

The boy in turn stopped short, slightly intimidated by the way the guard was looking at him. He knew him... or rather, recognized him. In all the times he had accompanied his father to the sales, he had seen that guard.

If he was not mistaken, his name was Olav... or something like that.

"I... i-I am... I am alone... t-there was an... an attack and... a monster destroyed my house." Ingvar said, loudly, but stuttering with each word, not just from fatigue, but from the bad feeling he felt just from the mention of the subject.

The guards looked at each other, suspicious, perhaps? He didn't know.

"... Where was this? When?" The young guard asked again, still standing in the same spot.

Ingvar swallowed a bit of saliva, glancing over to observe some guards whispering among themselves.

"Two... two days ago... on the... on the east boundary of the main... main road." The boy said, and silence reigned for a while. Ingvar was nervous... those guards were acting weird.

But, he was also a bit curious by the look of the young guard, who after a few moments of watching him, slightly widened his eyes... a strange gleam in his eye.

"East side... it's in the direction of Conrad's house... no fucking way, Ingvar?!" The guard asked, surprised, certainly, confused, a little.... but... worried? Hesitant? Couldn't tell, it was confusing.

The boy, in response, just shook his head slowly in confirmation, clutching the strap of his small bag somewhat tightly and gluing his arms to his body.

The guards looked at each other again. Most of them knew who Conrad was. A simple but kind merchant, he always greeted them as he entered and left the city. Not to mention that his products were of good quality.

Olav brought his left hand to his forehead, apparently, bothered... sad even.

"Argh, shit... I should have done something..." He said, more to himself than to the others, but both Ingvar, and the other guards nearby, heard.

Before the boy or Olav could say anything, another guard stepped forward. This one was big, burly, and had an expression that showed some experience. His gaze was sharp and serious, his eyes seemed to stare only at one point in the boy's direction.

It was only then that Ingvar remembered... he was not covering his hair.

The boy swallowed some saliva again. Nervousness began to spread through his chest... he hoped nothing serious would happen, even though he had no idea what might happen now that they had seen his hair.

"You've become an orphan, then? It must have been a traumatic experience. We will take you to a safe place. And you can tell us more about this... creature." The guard said, staring so deep into Ingvar's eyes that the boy felt as if his soul was being watched.

He took the first step, hesitating. For some reason, he hadn't trusted the guard, anything he had said... his words seemed to hide something more.

But what could he do? Turn around and walk out of there was not an option. Not with that monster prowling the area.

As he approached, the guard simply gave him space, watching him intently.

Although uncomfortable and somewhat hesitant, the boy kept walking, trusting that he would be escorted by the soldiers.

Perhaps it was foolish of him to be so fearful around so many soldiers. There was no safer place for him, not at that moment, especially not in this situation.

two guards walked in front of him, two others walked behind, among them the guard who tried to comfort him. He didn't know what it was, but mistrust invaded his chest. Somehow, he didn't feel as if he was being taken to a safe place. Quite the contrary, he felt almost like a prisoner.

Maybe it was just something in his head, maybe it was just delirium, maybe it was madness, after all, all those tragedies that happened in less than two days would certainly have a negative impact on his mind.

But the more he walked, the more he felt sure of it. However, the child in himself decided to trust the guards. They knew much more than he did.

As he walked, Ingvar couldn't help but notice that he was practically the center of attention as he walked by. People's eyes went from the guards that accompanied him to his red hair.

Not for nothing, his hair certainly attracted attention. What he didn't know was that the sun made it seem as if his red hair was shining.

Whispering became present and regular. People looked at him as if he were some kind of attraction, confused and surprised, and certainly curious.

But the young man knew that curiosity was much more than something simple and innocent. He couldn't help but hug his own body and bow his head, more than uncomfortable with all those looks.

They took much longer than the boy would have liked, until they reached a church, large with huge windows and bright lighting.

Just in front of the entrance there were some guards talking among a man dressed in a robe. Next to the church was a small square, with a large movement of people, and a loud voice seemed to be saying something to them. Something that the boy couldn't really understand due to the distance, but it made sense to assume that it was preaching.

Which was a little strange... why were they preaching outside the church?

A bad feeling spread through the little boy's chest as he approached the group. His slightly hesitant eyes met with the shrewd and sharp eyes of the priest, who as soon as he saw him, slightly raised his eyebrows.

"For you see, brothers, evil plagues everyone, it is everywhere, in many forms, languages and colors... all to manipulate you and keep you from the truth! Here, you see, the blood of Satan approaches!" the man's shout not only startled the boy, but made all eyes turn to him.

It was then that the red-haired boy felt a lump form in his throat, his eyes widened in fear and disbelief. Right behind the priest were two men and a woman. All of them with their arms tied behind their backs and on their knees.

Blood stained the ground. A large, tall man stood to the side with a bloody axe in hand.

Sighs and grunts were heard, wide eyes watching every step the little one took. Whispers going crazy in his head, insults beginning to hit him.

"It took the form of a child to manipulate those with kind hearts! Oh God, we thank you for the work of the guards in getting the truth! I thank you for your mercy, and your blessing that we eliminate this evil!" The priest shouted, the little boy stopped at his feet.

His eyes widened and he felt like he was short of breath, his heart was pounding, loud as hammering in his head.

He didn't know what to do, much less what to feel, what to think, he only knew that he was not in a very good situation when he saw the guards standing there with swords in hand, watching him as if he were prey, a creature to be slaughtered.

Or, maybe not as a cornered animal, maybe not as prey necessarily said.

Ingvar knew, he always knew, his hair was unique and many people would surely find it strange. But he never thought that what made him unique would be seen as a symbol of evil.

It didn't make much sense, he had never hurt anyone, he had never even seen those people. Why were they already calling him evil? Why were they already after his head?

The guards looked at him as if he were the spawn of a beast, a being to be purged.

He didn't want to think about anything else, his body just wanted to get out of there. The boy with the hair of fire saw, at a glance... It could have been something in his head, of course, but, he saw, a mark on the neck of the priest and the soldiers. A mark that glowed purple.