Roots - Chapter Four

Chapter Four: The Beginning

Aldon rose early that morning and met the sun with a dark expression, a shadow upon the otherwise perfect start to a new day. The temperature was cool and the breeze warm, the birds chirped and flew about as the bees buzzed to the fields watching Aldon weed around the corners before entering the center. The clouds were none to be seen and the sky a great hall of endless cerulean.
It was a perfect beginning to a late summer and as clear as the sky above. The clouds were long gone and the crops growing on time, the scarecrows smiling and the wind whistling. All in all a picture perfect day like those painted inside houses hung on the wall.
Surely, Aldon thought, things can’t possibly get any worse.
Nearly a month had come and gone and still Lena and Alana remained. He had expected a brief visit and had been unprepared for an extended stay. Muren too was surprised at their stay but elated at the same time. Seven days had passed of Aldon’s exile and seclusion to the fields and his room. Garenford hadn't returned since their conversation and Glenn and Denrir were nowhere to be seen.
The young elf spent nearly all his free time out back away from his family with various sticks, tools and branches he could swing and practice his fencing. He tried several parries and strikes, jumping back for a quick dodge and lunging forward for follow up swings and attempting to dual wield. He wondered if he would ever get to use any of these.
No, I could never strike any of the girls or Muren. Well, maybe--
Muren emerged from the house then, beaming as his prize daughters strode in beside him to the front porch. Aldon didn’t look up and ignored the sweat dripping down his nose. Muren cleared his throat meaningfully and waited impatiently. Aldon dropped the rake and pulled off his gloves, glaring at Muren.
“I need the wagon, as I told you earlier,” Muren said in a matter-of-fact manner.
“It’s in the back.”
Muren frowned.
“Well then bring it to me.”
Aldon looked incredulously at him. Was he really going to make him fetch it for him and do all the harvesting himself? Aldon spat before disappearing behind the house. Muren chuckled as the girls grinned at the sight of Aldon heaving the newly repaired wagon to the front without Biel.
“Where’s Biel?”
“In the stall, she has a busted hoof and needs a week or so.”
Muren, flustered, looked back and forth to Lena and Alana who were beginning to show their temper.
“Now, now girls, don’t fret. I’ll take care of this.” He said as he descended the steps to the yard. He approached Aldon and eyed him coldly. He reached into his pocket and removed a small cloth from within, unfolding it like a handkerchief.
“Aldon, “He began, unfolding the cloth, “Go fetch Biel.”
“She isn’t capable of—“
Muren slapped Aldon hard across the face with a wet smack. Aldon recoiled and stepped back as Muren indifferently wiped the sweat from his hand with the cloth, folded it up, and replaced it into his pocket.
“Do as I have told you. Now if you know what’s good for you?”
Aldon looked into Muren’s cold eyes and saw nothing but the threat of another strike. How his face had changed, the once soft round features seemed hard and statuesque. His grim expression bore more emotion than Aldon would ever show him. The betrayed boy turned around silently and drew the limping Biel from her stall against her protesting and harnessed her to the cart. Muren took the reins from Aldon’s hand quickly and helped the girls into the wagon before following.
“Have dinner ready and make yourself scarce.” Muren called out to him as he snapped Biel to a start. The lead neighed and slowly began walking, the third step falling on the wounded back heel much sharper. Muren snapped the reins several times and gritted his teeth, whipping her flanks a dozen times before they had even left the path of their farm. Aldon watched them go before turning away. He entered the house and stared into the ashes of the fireplace he wanted to start and “accidentally” lose control of. There he saw a glint, a small flicker of light from beneath the coals. He cocked his head and brushed them aside, revealing a small charred flake of petrified wood.
Aldon squeezed it until it crumbled in his palm and blew away in his breaths. His fists balled tightly and shook with the strain. His eyebrows slanted and curled over his burning eyes and scowl. He whirled around from the fireplace and threw the nearest object through the painting of Muren and his family. He kicked the furniture over and yelled, cursing the man he called father and the sun and the stars, throwing over the chairs and dining table with a great ruckus. He flung dishes from their shelves and snapped the broomstick over his knee, stabbing the ends through Muren mattress and the girls’ as well. He kicked over the wastebasket and ripped the bookshelf from the wall which toppled over with a great clamor, spilling books and parchment across the floor.
Aldon stomped to his room making scarcely more than a human’s steps noise and threw his door open, smashing a hole in the wall behind it with the doorknob. He pulled his rucksack from under his straw mat and threw it down, stuffing his few clothes and spare moccasins into it; along with his knife, hatchet, tinderbox and the remains of the food in the house. His pack full and his clothing appropriated, he then proceeded into Muren’s wrecked room and tore his waterskin from its nail on the wall and filled it, strapping it on the side of his pack.
He stormed outside quickly and slammed the door. The emblem of Muren’s forefathers stared back at him. The eagle seemed to crack a wicked smile at him, clutching the sword and scroll as if in defiance. Aldon stared at it for a long while, and then in the heat of the moment, heaved the shovel from against the wall and into the center of the eagle. He growled and turned around for the fields, leaving the door now busted ajar.
The house sat rummaged and in a mess, items broken and scattered like a storm had blown through and found all the windows open. It sat in serene silence as the forest around it seemed to breathe and watch his every movement. Aldon began his quick pace to the forest, confident his footsteps would go unnoticed and rustled almost silently through the bramble and high grass.
* * *
Muren returned home hours later, Biel sprinting as fast as she could, blood oozing from her split hoof with every step. The wagon jumped and bounced about on the road as he sped her on. Several arrows protruded from the rear and sides of the wood and all the supplies he had purchased had fallen off or shattered long ago. They swung around a corner on two wheels and barreled further down the path, sweat running down Muren’s back, Lena and Alana crying and gripping each other in terror.
But Muren heeded them no attention now, he was worried about one thing and one thing only.
Himself.
He leaped off the wagon as Biel slowed in front of the house and collapsed with a great heaving sigh and gasp of breaths. Muren rushed past his daughters who cried out not to leave them, but he did not turn or stop to appease them. He ran to the house and stopped as he saw the door swaying in the wind. Various items lay outside on the porch broken and chipped. The smell of emptiness wafted by as Muren entered the house and froze in the doorway.
The entire house was demolished, anything and everything within broken and thrown about; completely wrecked and asunder. The bookshelf lay on its side among a pile of books, paper, wooden boards, plates, forks, knives, and a cloth. Around it lay too numerous items for Muren to count scattered about. Muren stared into the alienated house and shivered.
“It doesn’t feel like my home anymore,” He said to himself as he surveyed the damage hopelessly. He kicked over the side of a snapped chair and found the shirt of Aldon’s he had cleaned with earlier. Instantly a pang of guilt shot through him.
“Aldon, my son,” He cried and rushed through the rubble and refuse to the back room where Aldon once slept and lived. It still smelled of pine and grass as Aldon always did, though it was long abandoned and dark by more than the lack of light. Muren stepped into the room, eyes welling, and crunched on the glass. He looked up to the shattered mirror and dropped to the edge of the bed, devastated and suddenly out of breath. It was like someone was pressing on his chest with a great hammer and leaned on it. He shook his head and pulled at his hair in tufts, muttering and cursing profusely as he wept.
“Aldon, my son, I have lost you! And from such a terrible mistreatment in which you went! Please forgive me for how I have wronged you my boy, and may those accursed bandits who stole you away and destroyed our village pay with their lives for their deeds!” He exclaimed with his small fists balled tightly, yelling to himself and the skies and everything in between.
Lena and Alana heard the yelling and grew frightened, grasping at one another for support and both attempting to hide atop the wagon. Both squeezed their eyes shut and shook in the warm breeze that scared them more as if the wind sprites were dancing upon their skin. Several minutes passed before Muren reemerged to them, eyes red and swelled and cheeks flustered. His jaw was clenched and his face hard. The girls had never seen their father like this before, especially not to them.
“Father, is everything alright?” They began only to fall silent as he walked past them.
“No, it isn’t you blind dames,” He snapped and stopped mid-stride, whirling on them. “It’s never alright when you come around. You two use your false side to swoon me, to draw my pockets and attention to you. You girls; it is your fault he is gone and we are away from him.”
“’Away from him,’” Lena echoed, “Away from who?”
Muren pressed close to their faces, his fat nose nearly poking their chins.
“My son.” Muren clutched at his chest then and leaned against the wagon. He was aging miserably and knew it in his heart he had not the strength to follow the bandits and rescue Aldon, if he was indeed among the living. He was no fighter or adventurer, he was a mere man.
“Perhaps not even that,” He said aloud to himself. Muren threw himself down to the ground and leaned his head against the wagon. The girls, realizing their charade was over, stood and entered the house slowly. Biel still sat in the grass huffing and sweating, still harnessed to the wagon and hoof bleeding. Muren looked to her then the wagon and several arrows protruding from it.
“Why would they ever come here? Bandits rarely ever pass this way,” He said to himself. “Perhaps we have something they needed, or they were pushed out of their own lands? A curse to whoever is responsible!”
“You are correct,” A deep voice chimed in from behind. Instantly Muren waddled to his feet and turned to face the threat.
“Garenford, how you startled me!”
“Apologies my old friend, I meant no harm nor ill will. I was merely agreeing with you.”
Muren’s eyebrows rose.
“Agreeing with what?”
Garenford’s smile faded as he stared down at Muren, suddenly devoid of any humor.
“The bandits, who attacked Town, were of the Open Fist; usually located north near Brundt, but they were forced from their land.”
Muren’s gaze dropped to the ground as he registered this.
“But what could force a group of bandits to flee their own town?”
“The new king of Iirrodyl, Holden Heavyhammer, ordered them all away—“
“Well that’s awful nice.” Muren interrupted.
“--to make room for his new army of forced recruits.” Garenford continued.
They fell silent then, Muren uncomfortable with the news and recent occurrences, and Garenford giving him his time.
After several minutes of silent thought the pause was broken.
“Anyway, Muren, I recall why I came here to find you.”
“Whatever it is Garenford I’m sure it’s lost any importance now; Aldon is gone.”
“Actually, it concerns him.”