Noises move toward them through the village. Crashing. Screaming. The boy looks up at his father.

“Run! Get out of here!” the man shouts. He shoves the boy forward. The boy’s mother looks back, and the father makes a shooing motion with his hand. Go!

They run, the boy in front, the mother close behind. At a shout from behind, the boy looks back. His father is holding a piece of wood like a club, facing the oncoming men covered in cold metal. A sword flashes and the father falls without a sound.

The boy turns, sobs driving all the air from his body, and keeps running. He reaches the edge of the village, not stopping as he frantically pushes forward into the waving grass that reaches to his shoulders.

He hears his mother running behind him, voices shouting from the edge of the village. The rough grass tears at his arms and legs, slowing him down. Something speeds past him with a whisst. An arrow. The boy's breath comes in short gasps, his chest burning. He stumbles on a twisted grass root, nearly falling, then rights himself.

The boy hears another whisst. This one does not fly past him. Something heavy falls and hits him from behind, knocking him face-first into the grass.

He cannot look.

Tears falling into the cold earth, the boy crawls forward through the grass. The voices behind him become fainter. He does not look back.