Seized

content:

Atro stood before the man he had stabbed to death. His floppy sandals slithered over the wet, bloodstained grass. The bitter smell of iron tainted the fresh air. The drip-drop of blood from the cold blade in his hands uncharismatically wetted his foot.

Atro knew what he’d done, what irreversible crime he had committed. There was always that feeling you’d get when you were in trouble. Atro knew the feeling well, he was always in trouble - for scaring Mama by climbing a tree too high, or for doodling on Papa’s antique maps. There was always a feeling - the Trouble Moment - that you feel right after you’ve done something very wrong and an adult has just taken notice.

He hated the feeling: his legs quaked with a fear beyond fear. His heart hammered in utter horror. His hands were frozen, caught red-handed with his father’s sword. Just moments ago he had been fetching a bucket of water for Papa from the river. He was going to help Mama with the next batch of bread. And tomorrow they would all celebrate his 13th birthday.

But now all of that was gone. For a man was dead, and Atro was to blame.

Trample and clamour: three soldiers turned the corner from the other side of the shed. First they saw Atro, shaking and pitiful. Then they saw the body, blood pooling from its chest. And they saw the gaping door of the shed, from which Atro had pulled the sword.

All the soldiers were clad in loose robes and crimson brigandines, the imperial army uniform of The Orrient - Atro’s own homeland. When Atro had spotted them from the riverside, ransacking their cottage and interrogating his parents, their intent had been clear. The fire of conscription had finally reached this lonely cottage farm, and by Emperor’s decree they were to whisk him off on a ship to fight in the war.

The War. Atro’s vision blurred at the sudden prospect of battle - swords swinging, spears splintering, helmets cracking and breaking open. To be stolen away from Papa and Mama, to be sent across the sundering seas, to die… And never see home ever again.

He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He had to protect Papa and Mama. He had to protect his home. Nothing else mattered. He would kill them all or die trying. Nothing would make him bend a knee and join the Empire’s tyrannical army.

Atro stepped over the body, but as he did so the soldiers swarmed him. He lifted the blade to swing, but he’d underestimated the steel sword’s weight. The cumbersome thing slipped from his fingers and it tumbled to the ground with a shimmering metallic thump. The soldiers grabbed him.

Atro fought like a jackal; he punched, he kicked, he scratched. But he was no match for the armed men. They dragged him away from the shed and towards the cottage, where the rest of the army regiment was waiting. Atro’s knees scraped painfully through the dirt. Could he call for help? These were the Wheat Fields, as far as you could get from town. And what help would come, if everyone in The Orrient was to be stolen away to foreign battle?

His sandals dug furrows in the ground, watered with his blood.

“He was hiding in the forest, General,” a soldier was explaining. “By the river.”

Atro dared not look up, not with all the guards digging their fingernails into his shoulders, his hair and his arms that were forced outstretched. He dared not even to peep at Papa and Mama, who he figured were similarly restrained by imperial guards. And splayed around them all, he could hear the tense footfalls of dozens of soldiers. Right in front of him there was a pair of large, black leather boots polished to a mirror shine - the boots of a General.

“Crept up to the shed while we weren’t looking,” the soldier continued. “Knew what to go for. We turned our backs on Julio one moment, then the little goblin stabbed 'im right through the chest. It was quick.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Atro tried to say, but he could barely manage a whimper. Papa had told him never to touch his sword except in the most dire of circumstances. He figured this had been it.

The General’s boots stomped closer, and a large haunting shadow enveloped him. Atro felt a Trouble Moment that dwarfed all the other Trouble Moments of his life combined. Nausea doused him and he had a sudden urge to collapse and scrunch up into a tight ball, but the guards gripped him tightly. What would the General do to him?

“Boy,” the man boomed. “Look up at me.”

Atro looked up. The General’s face was in shadow. He imagined a horrible, pale, monstrous face, pitted with scars. A face befitting of someone who could enact this evil.

“My name is General Stacy”, the man continued. “I wouldn’t care to know yours.”

“Atro.” What was supposed to be a spitted reply came out small and timid instead.

“Let’s just kill 'im! Kill 'im for Julio!” the first soldier said. “We’ve executed people for less.”

A sob - Atro stole a glance, and beheld Mama crouching by the cottage door. A guard was holding her as still as he could while she rocked back and forth, tears streaming through her clutched hands and down her grimy face. The Trouble Moment took hold again, and a tremor coursed through Atro’s limbs. How dare these soldiers reduce his mother to such? Papa stood not far away. His head was drooped, just another still figure in this wheat field courtroom. Atro longed to rush over and hug them both, if only to say he was sorry. To say he could fix all this.

But there was no chance at all for any of that.

“He’s just a kid!” another soldier retorted. “He’s a kid, for Spock’s sake.”

“He killed someone,” the first soldier said. “I’d say he’s well grown if he knows how to kill.”

“Let’s just take the father, let’s take the father-”

“Shut.” The General lifted a hand to silence the troop, then the glint in his eyes slid back to Atro. “An interesting name, you have. I see potential in you. I can see you becoming a grand soldier of the Orriental States, Hero of the Island.” Atro detected almost an encouraging tone in the monster’s voice, but that all ebbed away as the General sighed. “But you killed one of my men. And you know what happens to those who commit treason and their families.”

General Stacy’s eyes stayed transfixed on Atro’s, and Atro felt as if he should be feeling deathly afraid. But not anymore. Now he could only feel a heavy coldness in his heart, a ravenous hatred. A hatred for the soldiers; for The Orrient; for the War; for the General. Was it not the General’s own fault that Atro had to take such drastic measures to protect his home? Any child would have done the same to protect their family from being forced into a pointless war against some neighbouring kingdom.

The General straightened. “Guards, light 'it! We’re leaving. We take them all, and the parents to the slammer.”

Light it? Atro thought.

A few soldiers left their posts and trod over to a horse-drawn cart not far away. Each man removed a long wooden campfire stake, and one man pulled out a gleaming shard of steel and a stone. One by one, the man tenderly lit each stake on fire. All stakes aflame, the soldiers trudged back to the cottage. Only then did Atro realise, with nauseous horror, their hideous intent.

Atros’ attention was diverted by a bloodcurdling scream.

“No!! that’s our family home!” Papa was now breaking free of the guard that held him. “It’s been ours for five hundred years!”

Mama continued to weep, while Papa made a break towards the closest arsonist. He punched the soldier in the face and leapt onto his back. The General barked an order and guards left Atro’s side to stream towards Papa. Already, the other men had set fire to the wooden walls of the cottage. Atro choked in horror as the flames licked the thatched roof, the walls of the house blackening and wilting like a flower in the summer. The flames ate loud and hungrily.

Atro had been born in this house. He had lived in this house his entire life. And as the roof caved in with muffled crackle, he realised it was final: he would no longer live here. This was his home no longer. The harsh scent of burned bread - Mama’s bread - caught the breeze one final time, before it was corrupted into the stench of dark ash.

Papa gave another loose cry as he fought in vain. Then he stared deep into Atro’s eyes, and for a split second Atro could see him mouth one word: RUN! Then the soldiers consumed him, kicking him and pulling him off the poor soldier at the bottom. With a shock, Atro realised that his father was creating a distraction. He was sacrificing himself to save his son. Three men still restrained Atro, but now he had one arm free. He could do something.

Atro shut his eyes. He pushed away the noises of shouting men and flaming wood. A plan formed in his mind. Not just for the next few seconds, but perhaps the next defining moments of his life. He knew what he had to do. It meant turning away utterly from his home and his family. It meant a true end to his quiet life on the Wheat Fields. It meant not celebrating his 13th birthday tomorrow. It meant perhaps never seeing his parents again.

The Trouble Moment arose once more, but this time Atro grabbed it and choked it under the fire of his rage. His breathing deepened as the Trouble Moment quailed, and then it went limp and still. Never again would the Trouble Moment return to Atro - not for many years indeed.

He knew what he had to do.

This is a revised version of a story from 4 June 2021. 820 words -> 1741 words. Pretty decent, I hope that dialed down the cringiness.