O' children

Chapter 1: Origin

Aron, at only six years old, had been sent away from his home in at the Lyrus Palace in the capital city of Oksall and left in an ugly, dirty town far south-west called Garni.

Aron, at only six years old could not understand why he had been taken away from his siblings and parents and staff, all he knew was that Garni produced the greatest dragon-slaying knights in the realm and Aron was expected train with them.

Aron would never forget the looks of the villagers and knights. How much they stared at Aron, whispering behind their hands, had his face going hot and cold and his stomach in constant free-fall. Eventually his head was so dizzy that every time Aron noticed someone staring at him, it made him want to hurl.

He didn't want to be near any of those grubby, snarling people anymore.

Aron spotted the edge of the forest and ran for the tree line. Tears smearing the landscape into blobs of colour.

Aron huddled up against the biggest oak tree he stumbled across and wailed until his voice finally gave out and he could only give quiet gasping sobs.

"Are you injured?" Aron sobbed again and looked up through teary eyes. The child that had asked looked nothing like any other person Aron had ever seen before, he had dark brown skin and a tightly shorn head, a wide nose, and thick lips. The other boy cocked his head like a fancy songbird and chewed the inside of his mouth. He was dressed like an Imran nun, a pale blue shirt with no sleeves or even cover for the back, just some string that was tied behind the neck and long, loose pants. No shoes too.

Aron sobbed again and hid his face back into his arms and knees.

"Does that mean you're injured?" the boy asked again. Aron's face felt hot, and his eyes were beginning to itch.

"Go away" Aron shouted into his knees, "I don't want to talk to any of you!"

"Oh," the other boy said. There was a long second of silence before the other boy spoke up again: "If you don't want to talk, do you want to see my chickens?"

Aron lifted his head in confusion, his throat felt hardened and closed up, but his sobs had finally stopped. The nun-boy smiled and nodded.

"Chickens don't talk," the boy said, "and they're really cute."

Aron stood up slowly, looking around in case there were other children around pointing and laughing at him, but it was just him and the nun-boy. The boy was taller by a bit, and in his hand was a small straw basket full of blackberries and crab apples.

"Who are you? You're dressed like a nun." Aron frowned at the boy.

"I'm Caysa and I'm not dressed like a nun, we all wear the same clothes." The boy grinned brightly; his skin gleamed in patches, where the sunlight managed to drizzle through the branches and leaves. He held out his arm for a handshake and Aron glared down at it, a long smooth hand with a lighter palm. The boy, Caysa, quickly put his hand away when Aron didn't grab it.

"Aron," Aron mumbled out, looking at the ground when trying to look at Caysa's face became too difficult. His brothers and sister had always made fun of him for not looking at other people when they spoke to him, his father usually called him churlish and stubborn.

"Aron? I like your name." Caysa said, he had bouncy voice like a kitten batting at a string. Aron's throat tightened up again, he missed his kittens. "We can feed them black berries, but we have to leave the apples because Sola likes apples."

"What?" Aron said dazedly as Caysa began to walk off around the tree, Caysa turned back and smiled again, different this time, a soft, fae-like tilt to the lips.