A quiet day. The sun floods the world with waves of melancholy light, that flow over the earth, leaving in their wake a spell of stillness woven into still air. In the heat of the day everything is leeched of color, to be replaced by a faded, dun yellow, except the sky, which remains cool blue, white, and grey. The world is in mourning, he thinks, eyes closed, seated lotus-style in the shade of an elm tree. But for what, for whom, he doesn't know. Nor does he really care. The sun is warm, and he finds the feel of it distressingly unfamiliar on his once-tanned skin. He lets the thought flit away, to join the butterfly-yellow leaves of the tree above him, which are just beginning to fall, drifting slowly down in their multitude to cover the floor in a brilliant uniform sepia. More leaves are falling than he would have expected of tree of that size, like an icestorm in slow motion, like curtains cascading on the last notes of a slow swan song. It's still too early for autumn. Some of the leaves fall into his hair, his ungloved hands, and he crushes them in the involuntary shudder that ripples through his body at their touch, the leaves crumbling into shards and dust in his clenched hands. This, he thinks wryly, should be the time for the tragic hero to burst into impassioned stanzas of rage and grief, a warsong, railing against the injustices of life, against.. Against..? He leans back, uncrossing his legs to settle in a more comfortable position against the trunk of the tree, one corner of his mouth twisted into the faint parody of a half-smile. He's still clutching the crushed leaves, their sharp edges digging into the skin of his palms. Blood stains their faded gold a brilliant scarlet, the fire of the wounds under the bandages that swathe his body a sharp reminder that he's not a hero, not in any sense of the word. If only he had been one- In the end everything boiled down to ifs, and it was too late for that, he knew, the pain paid for the learning of it still fresh in his heart. If. He had never wanted to be a hero before, had never wanted to be a fighter, something which set him apart from the other boys his age. There had seemed hardly any need for it, after all, as peaceful as their village had been. But he remembers laughter, and he remembers the green, remembers how the two mingled in lazy summer afternoons colored by the scent of bright wildflowers, the sun's light on their faces never harsh or scorching, but gently, kindly, as if in benediction. Cecille had always loved wildflowers, so he learned to make garlands of them, braiding masses of powder blue and soft white, thinking it would please her. And she had laughed when he'd brought them to her, in that joyful way of hers, even though his first efforts had been lopsided, the blossoms falling out of her arms as she moved, in such profusion that it appeared that they sprang from the touch of her feet on the ground, as if she were some spirit of spring. She was his little sister, and he loved her more than he loved anything in the world. He had been so lonely before she was born, and although he hadn't believed what his parents said at her birth, it seemed later that she was the answer to his secret boyish prayers, an angel come down to earth to take away the quiet pain, the quiet cold of loneliness and ostracism. A silent boy- wimpy as a /girl/, the others had sneered. He had never joined in any of their games, partly because they never invited him in as they did each other, and partly because he didn't care to, preferring instead to sit and read in the peace of solitude. His parents never had any time for him, as absorbed in their business as they were. He didn't like the roughness of the other boys' games, had no interest in the lives they spoke of leading when they grew up. "When I'm grown up, I'm going to be a great hero. I'm going to be as great a hero as the Warrior of Light! I'm going to have a tragic story all the bards sing about, and I'm going to win tournaments, and I'm going to kill zillions and zillions of bandits, so that when bad men hear my name they tremble!" He heard that all the time, and had never commented on it, although in his heart he had always held a secret, knowing, smile- in a place like their village, where would they find bandits? And, assuming they found some, would they have the courage to face up to them, much less fight them? An old thought, which viewed now tasted bittersweet, echoes of that half-grown boy, foolishly secure in his mental superiority and complacent in the dream world he had built for himself; cynical, but a cynic born of innocence. How easily such innocence could be shattered. It was the middle of the day when the men came, bearing swords and torches. Maybe they were bandits, maybe they were assassins, maybe they were simply enemies his father had made. Dias' father had been the richest man in the village, respected by everyone, despite his eccentricity and uninspiring physical appearance. Everyone in the village, even the mayor, called him Master Flac. When he took a walk down the road, everyone he met would always stop to greet him, to ask if there was anything they could do for him. But no help arrived that day; the villagers too frightened to stir from the safety of their houses. Not when the bandits cut away his mother's life, as she screamed and gasped and gurgled, blood gushing out of her wound to stain her dress a brilliant, crimson red; not when his father took his turn, swift, merciless strokes severing his spine along with his life. Not when the bandits tore him away from Cecille, flung him aside spitted in the gut, his arm broken. Together his wounds hadn't hurt as much as.. the sight of what they did to Cecille, barely a heartbeat later. The villagefolk eventually came, but there was no help they could offer, no protection; only pity. That pity ate into his wounds, in the days after the bandit attack. They'd placed him in the mayor's own house, gave him the best care they could afford. Not one daylight hour went by without someone dropping by his sickbed to inquire after him, or to offer some tonic or other. Even the boys who'd called him names came, their bravado now turned to somber concern. Suddenly adult, suddenly they were more strangers to him then they'd been before. The bandits who had killed his family hadn't meant to leave anyone alive; with a broken arm, a concussion, and a bad gut wound, he could hardly move. In the first few days of his convalescence there wasn't anything to do but lie in bed, brood, and ignore the voices of his sickbed visitors. Rena stayed at his side, as sweet as she'd always been, but he couldn't bring himself to face her. When he looked at her, it was not his friend he saw; the sweet gentle girl who'd sought him out one Sunday afternoon and shyly asked for a garland, not the innocent soul who was one of the people who liked him for himself; but Cecille. They were almost the same age, the same height; they shared the same sweet smile. He could almost have hated her for being alive when Cecille had gone, and he hated himself for even being capable of thinking that. Hate festered in his heart like a deep wound; he had closed it to the world. His soul was incapable of feeling anything else. He hated those unknown men who had come without warning to destroy his family and his life; he hated the villagers for not doing anything when they could have. But most of all, he hated himself, for living when his family had died, and for wanting to live on. It was a shoddy feeling, and being around people only made it worse. So he left. Without thinking, his hand reaches to finger the hilt of his sword, a recent weight, but now as familiar to him as if it were a part of himself. The leather wrapping of the hilt, though new, shows signs of hard use, but the blade itself is well cared for and well-forged. The sword is almost half as tall as he is and broader than his wrist, yet he knows he can wield it as if it weighs nothing. It is with this sword that he hunted down the men who killed his family. They were bandits, after all; the life of a mountain bandit is traditionally the refuge of the man who has been wronged by the law and now wishes to live beyond its reach, traditionally the subject of a hundred songs of human freedom, of romantic disillusionment with secular life. Dias had read through perhaps half that number, half a lifetime ago. But there was nothing romantic in the deaths he dealt them. He had had no one to teach him the arts of the sword. Purely by coincidence, some time after his arm healed, he came across one of the men he recognised from the attack, camping alone with two packmules laden with goods, some of which had belonged to his father. Consumed by blind rage, he attacked. In the caesura after the first element of surprise, fighting for his life, he seized the first thing he could find, turned, and with all his strength, lunged- He spent the next few hours alternatively heaving and crying as if his tears could drown the world, as if they could wash clean the memory of his innocence, stained with bitter vomit and dead man's blood, smeared all over the front of his tunic. The mark of his first kill, his first step towards revenge. A laugh, low and mocking. Vengeance. How sweet the taste, he thinks. His mouth is full of bile.