Year 1459 of the Holy Calendar – Kingdom of Horsin, Village of Shuru
"Alaric! If you chase those chickens one more time, I'll pluck you and roast you myself!"
Marla's voice rolled over the wheat like a storm. The little boy in the middle of the field froze, one hand still reaching toward a fleeing hen.
"…Sorry, Mom."
He pouted as the bird vanished between the rows, feathers fluttering behind it. The hen was faster than him again. Totally unfair.
"You're not sorry at all," Marla sighed, striding up the narrow furrow with a basket on her hip. "You're supposed to be helping your father, not terrorizing the flock."
"I was helping," Alaric muttered. "I was… guiding them. So they don't get lost."
"Chickens don't get lost. Chickens go where the feed is." She thumped the basket into his hands. "Take this to your father. And no more chasing."
The basket was heavier than it looked, seed and a few tools piled together. Alaric staggered a step before he caught himself.
…It's heavy. But I can carry it. I'm not a baby.
He bit back a complaint and started toward the far side of the field, where Tomas was working.
Rows of wheat reached to the low stone wall that marked the edge of Shuru. Beyond that, scrub and rock, then a hazy line of hills. Alaric's world fit inside those lines: from the creek to the mill, from the fields to the village well. Shuru was everything.
Tomas straightened when he saw him, leaning on the worn wooden handle of his hoe. Sunlight caught the pale scar along his left leg where the trouser cloth had worn thin.
"Brought the basket, did you?" Tomas smiled, taking it with an easy motion that made Alaric's arms ache in comparison. "Good lad."
"Mom said I'm not allowed to chase chickens anymore," Alaric grumbled.
"Truly, a dark day for Shuru." Tomas ruffled his hair with a calloused hand. "Since you're here, make yourself useful."
He pressed the hoe into Alaric's smaller hands. The wood was smooth and warm from long use.
"You remember how?" Tomas asked.
"Uh-huh. You push it in, then pull the dirt." Alaric set his feet, tongue peeking out in concentration. The blade bit into the soil with a dull thump, and he dragged it toward himself. Crooked, but it was a line.
"Good. Try to keep it straight. Plants like tidy rows."
"That's silly. Plants don't care."
"Maybe they don't," Tomas said. "But it makes the work easier on your old man. So pretend they do."
Alaric sniffed. That… did make sense.
They worked in silence for a while. Wind carried the smell of earth and distant cooking smoke. A dog barked somewhere. Chickens complained near the house.
"Dad," Alaric said at last, breathing hard, "were you really a soldier?"
Tomas's hands paused. His face tightened for just a moment, then smoothed out.
"A long time ago," he said. "Before you were born."
"Did you fight demons?"
"No." Tomas shook his head. "Only men."
Only men. The way he said it made it sound worse somehow.
"Were you scared?"
"Sometimes." Tomas looked out past the fields, as if seeing something far away. "Mostly it was just loud. Men yelling, horns blowing, steel banging on steel. Then suddenly it's quiet, and you realize half the shouting stopped because they're not getting back up."
Alaric tried to picture the wheat replaced by people with swords. The image wouldn't come. Instead something else flickered in his mind, tall buildings of glass and stone, bright lights, a sky the wrong color.
He winced. The picture shattered, leaving a dull ache behind his eyes.
"You all right?" Tomas asked.
"Mm. Just… a weird thought."
Tomas chuckled. "Already thinking strange things at six, huh? Better than bullying chickens, I suppose. Tell me later. Finish this row first. If we're quick, your mother might actually let us eat before she finds something else for us to do."
"…Okay."
Alaric gripped the hoe again. His shoulders burned, but he kept at it, his father's words echoing inside him.
Only men.