The road was silent save for the distinct chatter of crickets and the mad ramblings of toads. Melancholy rumbled in Roy’s mind uninvited, searing poisonous ideas into him. They had been plaguing him for days. Roy felt a burn in his throat. He could see a campfire surrounded by other nomads. He heard laughter and the strumming of a zither. Roy focused on the music, the warm feeling in his throat started to soften as the thoughts were left at the edge of camp. A mother sat with her child, holding her with one arm as she reached for a meal handed to her by a doting husband.


    Hungry dogs looked up at Roy curiously, growling until they recognized him. The hairs on their backs lowered. Their tails began to wag. Instead of an hand in anger swatting their emaciated bodies, soft fingers caressed their fur. Roy spoke in a low, comforting tone. The dogs melted into his hands. Roy smiled at a particularly mangy beast chewing on a sheep bone. It didn’t mind when Roy approached to pet his balding head.


    Sicchus collected his daily income as usual. Men and boys alike approached him at the end of the day, handing their earnings to him. Their clothes clung to their bodies like torn blankets draped over fence posts. The gold in their hands were snatched up by a man wearing a gold-trimmed coat. Roy doubted he would notice being short three sterna.


    Roy snuck into the camp, stepping where the campfire’s light was dimmest. His tent was set up near the herbalist’s wagon. Roy entered the shambling abode. There was nothing inside save for a sheepskin bedroll and a backpack. Everything Roy owned fit on his shoulders.


    The pack sat near the head of his bedroll. He shuffled through it, searching for that which he held dear. When he failed to find it, he tipped the sack upside down in frustration, spilling out its contents.


    An empty corked vial rolled across the ground. Flint and a small scrap of fur fell into his lap, followed by a sheathed knife and some pieces of string. Roy turned his head erratically as he tossed the sack to the side, his panic subsiding when he saw a small leather-bound notebook beside an unlit lantern. Roy snatched it up and placed it next to his leg. He took a piece of flint and rubbed it at the lantern. It sprung to life on the first strike. Roy believed luck was at play.


    The notebook was filled with drawings. Trees, animals, birds, and flowers inhabited its pages. Some were jagged and imperfect, crafted while walking beside the wagons. He held his small bit of charcoal to a fresh page. He drew imperfect bears, men with armor, and mountains. He practiced his name again so he wouldn’t forget what the letters felt like. They were the only ones he cared to know.


    Roy could walk and talk before he had a name. It was given to him by a stranger who misheard ‘boy.’


    Roy started drawing pictures of crows. His thoughts turned to campfire just moments before. He imagined the birds cawing away at the thoughts in his head. When they continued, he compromised.


    What would my father look like? He started simple.


    A man appeared on the page. Roy ran fingers across his face, funneling what he felt into the coal. He ran his finger down the bridge of his nose and mirrored it on the parchment.


    “Boy!” A masculine voice boomed into the tent, a powerful hand shaking the supports. The charcoal snapped as Roy jumped, pressing it into the notebook. Roy tossed the book next to the lantern, “You didn’t put yours in.”


    “My-“ Roy hesitated, still shaking from the rattling of his tent.


    Roy stepped out of the tent. He could feel a few pairs of eyes on him as Sicchus stood outside. The man’s unkempt jawline gyrated as he chewed on a tough piece of meat. Sicchus held his hand out demandingly, but Roy only stared at his empty palm. A few seconds passed, and a vein grew on Sicchus’ sweaty forehead.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.    “You daft?” Sicchus waved his hand like a nagging mother’s soup spoon, “Your purse.”


    “I-“


    “You got the gold or not?”


    “No.”


    “Then what the fuck are you doing back here?” Sicchus closed his empty palm into a fist, “Where’s your share?”


    “I didn’t get paid.” Roy said, trying to keep his eyes on Sicchus’ massive squared face, “I was offered food. Nothing more.”


    “Food?” Sicchus sighed.


    “Arthur hasn’t paid me yet.” Roy felt a flush of heat on his face as Sicchus stepped towards him.


    “I’ve given you more chances than most, boy.” Sicchus said, “Give me what’s owed. Steal it from them if you have to!”


    “I have nothing!” Roy shouted, startling himself. His eyes grew wide as Sicchus stepped up to him.


    “You fuckin’ liar.” Sicchus grabbed Roy’s wrist, pressing his thumb deep into the center. Roy winced, trying to escape the deathly grip.


    “I don’t have it, I swear!” Roy begged, trying to pry his hand free. He was much weaker than the man standing over him. The grip only tightened. Roy felt as though the bones in his forearm were about to snap. He whimpered, his desperate attempts to get away only led to more pain.


    “I find you, weak and defenseless, your naval string still stuck to ya. This is how you repay me? With lies?” Sicchus spat disappointingly, “If it weren’t for me, you’d still be squirmin’ around where your parents dumped you.”


    “I’m sorry.” Roy closed his eyes tightly, “I’ll pay! A-as soon as I get it.”


    Sicchus’ release was like a breath of fresh air after a storm. Roy clutched his left wrist tightly, trying to stop the throbbing pain as Sicchus stormed away.


    “Nine sterna. Tomorrow.” Sicchus’ mouth contorted into a smooth, unwrinkled smile. He put a hand on Roy’s shoulder, but it was about as comfortable as having an eel around his neck, “Don’t lie to me again.”


    Sicchus’ grip on the boy’s shoulder tightened. He released when Roy nodded in quiet defeat.


    The crackling of the bonfire grew louder until it overtook even the crickets and toads. Sicchus departed with heavy, beer-sodden footsteps as he laughed his way to the center of camp. Roy stumbled back into his tent, nursing his wrist. Sicchus returned to the fire pit, arms raised triumphantly as he laughed with his friends. Roy sat on his bedroll, slowly pulling his notebook back into his lap. He reached for the coal. His fingers felt numb.


    Roy sighed. His nose felt like he had inhaled water. He stared at the drawing, angling his chin upwards as he felt his eyes well with tears. He looked up at the tent ceiling. The orange flutter of the lantern was mesmerizing. He closed his eyes, his head falling between his shoulders. A tear fell onto his drawing. After a few moments, he smelled smoke.


    Roy looked over at his lantern. The small flame shrank, then grew to a size that gave him pause. Small embers leaped out from the open lantern door, scattering across the ground. A tiny flame stuck to a dried pine needle stuck to his boots. He swatted the flame with his hand, smashing it into the dirt. When he turned his palm towards himself a small ember stuck to his finger. His stomach churned as he tried to extinguish the tiny glow, succeeding after a few swats into the ground. A cold sweat ran across his body until the ember was fully extinguished.