49th Ashan, 710
It was but one word, but it carried all the youthful conviction a child of nine could muster. It was enough to give Pharan pause. In the silence of the granary, Heather stared at him with old eyes. Again, he pointed at the basket sitting in the corner. Barley had spilled from a tear at its side, pooling on wooden floorboards. Heather shook her head. “Swine,” was all she said before lifting an arm to point at a bag on top of a nearby shelf. “Chicken.”
He pointed at the basked a third time. “It’s grain,” he insisted and a part of him was sure there could be no difference in what you fed a beast that would eat their own given the chance.
The girl looked at him with an owlish expression. She pointed first at the barley and then the shelf. “Swine grain. Chicken grain.” She sniffled and nodded towards the bag again. “Chicken.”
Pharan set his eyes upon the shelf with a dour expression. Speckles of silver dust danced in the warm Ashan sun. The bag was some six feet off the ground, but it might have well have been twenty. With Heather’s help, he dragged a barrel of winter apples from its corner and towards the shelf. It was only a few feet, but he felt winded from the exercise, and shaky as he finally mounted it to angle for the bag his young taskmaster had set her sight on. Careful to not drop the feed, he braced himself against its weight.
The bag slipped his hands still.
With a loud thud, it hit the ground. Somehow, it hadn’t burst. His eyes searched for Heather, but the girl had stalked towards the door. With a curse, he picked up the bag.
Pharan followed the trail of his ginger-haired overseer through the barn and onto the path outside until the tug of his chains stopped him. Adhering to the rules of an all too familiar dance, he put down the bag and stepped back. Heather turned to drag her prize out of his reach. No child was supposed to get near him now only the length of his chain that kept him off their throats (or so he had heard parents caution their brood) but Heather rarely heeded her elders’ warnings. She didn’t fear him. Or rather, she feared him no more than she feared the dog old Merle kept behind his tavern—a scrawny beast known to bite anyone and everyone.
It wasn’t a dignifying thought.
For a moment, he watched her pour grain into a shallow bowl. Concentration furrowed her brow. She couldn’t have looked more serious had some obscure puzzle been sat before her, he thought sourly. It was only when Heather walked off, to feed the chicken roaming free on the road, he relaxed against the door frame and took a shuddering breath.
After the long cold, the pollen-laden air was mild and pleasant. Clouds, cream white and thin as feathers, drifted over a sky so blue it seemed painted over the fields in a single, vibrant wash. In the distance, villagers toiled on land only recently ploughed. So far away, they seemed small, insignificant; not at all capable of controlling his life the way they did. Pharan made motion to retreat into the barn when a caterwaul of children’s voices stopped him.
Lured by the shrieking, he took a step over the threshold just as Heather thin figure slipped past him. The band of children that had followed at her heel, jeering and razzing and calling her names, slowed. Pharan spread his wings. A year in chains had worn him more than only physically but the span of his wings, wider than some of the village’s sheds, gave sudden substance to his haggard figure. The pack stopped in its tracks.
All but one.
A pudgy boy of ten, propelled forward by its companion’s cautious cheers, continued to march on. He had almost reached the door when Heather was suddenly upon him, shoving against him and pushing him into the mud.
The boy cried in surprised, then just cried. The gathered crowd stared at him, startled. Another, older, voice broke the spreading silence.
“What’s with the ruckus?”
Everyone froze. A man, raw-boned and pock-faced, staggered around the corner. Sweat gleamed on his balding head and in one hand he carried a thin crook cut from a hazel rod. The children gave him but one look and ran. A girl, younger than Heather, grabbed her crying companion by the back of his shirt and hauled him to his feet. In the next trill, they were gone, too. The shepherd’s gaze set on Pharan and Heather.
In an instant, the two of them shifted backward. Heather came to stand to the left of the door, Pharan to the right. His wings, once more folded behind him, touched rough, weathered wood. The man looked between them. Neither of them met his eyes. His attention shifted to Pharan. The stink of bad teeth and sour ale swapped over the Avriel as the old man stepped close. The shepherd slurred something unintelligible. His accusing gesture, towards the path where the boy had fallen, was less of a mystery.
“That wasn’t me, you bedraggled fool.”
Pharan had spoken in Lorien, his tone quiet but sharp. The shepherd knocked him across the head with his crook. Spit hit his chest, as the old man began to shout at him. Pharan understood less than half of it. Something about being a burden. Something about Athart. When the man motioned at his hands Pharan lifted them hesitantly to receive his three, four chastising blows with the rod. The shepherd was close enough for Pharan to have grabbed him at his thin throat. He would have been no match. The man’s hands were gnarled with age and weak and there was too much skin for his bent form. But Pharan knew there were people able to hit harder than the old drunkard and would. It was fear more than self-discipline that stilled his hand.
The shepherd turned to Heather. “You—stay away from him. And you—“, he looked towards Pharan again, “—you, put that way.” He waved towards the bag of corn sitting forgotten on the path. He pulled away, reeling, down the path and towards the tavern.
Pharan and Heather exchanged a glance behind his back.
