House of the Seven Roses

In Which Armin's World is Shattered

"Grandfather?"

The wooden door to the small farmhouse was pushed open by tentative hands, revealing a small figure cloaked in soft green wool.

The old man in question looked up from his wood carvings, and almost instantly, a smile broke out on his weathered face.

"Armin, you're back early."

The smile disappeared as soon as it had come when Armin pushed the hood back from his face.

The boy sported a bleeding, swollen lower lip, and a cheekbone bruised an angry purple and smeared with blood. 

"They said I don't belong here," Armin whispered, tugging at his golden hair and hiding his cerulean eyes. "Why can't I look like them?!"

The old man rose unsteadily from his bench and hobbled over to his grandson, resting a gnarled hand on his shoulder.

"Oh Armin, they don't understand. They're jealous because they don't have the sun in their hair or the whole blue sky in their eyes. You are more beautiful than they could ever be, because you're beautiful inside too," he chuckled, and Armin gave a weak smile.

"Thank you, grandfather."

-

  Armin Arlert lived with his grandfather and a flock of sixteen sheep and eleven chickens, on the outskirts of a small village in what you might call Hungary today. Most of their days were spent tending to chores about their small swatch of land, or selling their wool and eggs in the market.

  In the evenings, Armin and his grandfather would have dinner, and his grandfather would tell stories of Armin's parents before they had died back in his homeland of Germany, or they would read by the fire until Armin fell asleep dreaming of the sparkling blue seas he had never seen and the acceptance he had never felt. 

It was in the middle of one of these nights that Armin was awakened by a strange noise. The boy stirred on his straw mattress, drowsily gazing to the dying embers of the fire. It had sounded oddly akin to a war trumpet. How strange...

"I must have been dreaming," he mumbled, pushing sleep-tousled locks from his face as he rolled over and prepared to fall back asleep.

It sounded again, and this time, it was accompanied by the shouts and hoofbeats of an advancing army. 

Armin's heart lept into his throat.

A raid. 

"Grandfather, grandfather wake up!" He gasped desperately, shaking the old man in his bed. "It's the Ottoman Army, we have to get out of here, now!"

The elderly man was out of bed faster than the blink of an eye, and to Armin's shock, he was reaching for the sword they kept as an ornament above the fireplace. 

"Grandfather, no!" He choked out, feeling his stomach lurch. "You'll be killed!"

"I'm old anyway. Besides, I might buy you some time," he responded with one of those almost-childish smiles.

Armin had heard the stories. The Ottoman army was merciless, pillaging and burning villages, killing anyone who resisted, and taking the rest to work as slaves. It was an utterly terrifying thought.

"Be safe, be wise, be kind, and always be yourself, Armin," the old man murmured, and before Armin could respond, the door was kicked in in an explosion of splinters, and his grandfather gave a yell and ran at the intruders.

From that point on, everything was a soundless, monochromatic blur.

  Armin saw blood, so much blood, he was screaming, but there was no sound coming from his throat.

They grabbed him and he thrashed, desperately trying to wrench free.

Then there was a dull pain in his head, the metallic tang of blood in his mouth, and then-

Silence.

Darkness.

Nothing.