Rain and Drought by Cirth

Chapter 1

Uldor's first kill.

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Ratings and warnings vary by chapter.

Warning for mature themes and profanity.

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He is twelve when he first takes a life.

The blood-streaked dagger slips from his hand and he falls painfully to his knees, drawing deep, shuddering breaths. Above, the sky is clear, and the afternoon sun beats down on his back. The stench of death hangs in the air, raw and fetid. His mother is safe; the only evidence of the assault is the torn sleeve of her dress. The Orc lies with its belly on the ground, its yellow eyes half-lidded.

His mother gets to her knees, trembling, and says something. He can barely hear her voice; it seems to be coming from the end of a tunnel. "Uldor?" she says. "Uldor!"

I killed someone, he thinks, his heart in his throat. He is drenched in sweat. I killed someone.

When his mother tries to touch him, he clamps his hands over his ears and screams and screams.

Chapter 2

An unexpected meeting.

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Warnings: none

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Uldor puts down his empty buckets, wipes the sweat from his upper lip, and shades his eyes with his hand. Some distance ahead, there is something lying on the ground; it looks like a pile of clothes.

He draws closer, brow furrowed in curiosity, feet dragging along yellowed grass. His jaw slackens when he realises there is a boy in the clothes. Dropping his bucket, Uldor rushes over to him and squats down. The boy seems to be around his own age, his limbs just becoming gangly and long. He is clad in a simple but well-made cream tunic, loose trousers, and leather sandals; his coal-black plait is strung with painted wooden beads. Likely, Uldor thinks, he is part of the wealthier lot – which doesn't mean as much as it used to, if his grandfather is right.

He turns the boy's face up; his skin is darkened from the blistering sun, and his lips are cracked and bleeding. That is not a good sign. In his loose, brittle fingers, there is a metal pail, and there is another one lying nearby. So he had been fetching water, too.

Uldor notes with relief that his chest is still moving, albeit slowly. He puts the boy's head on his lap and lightly slaps his cheeks a few times. "Hey," he says. "Hey, you. Wake up." Nothing. Uldor purses his lips and blows on his face, hoping some cool air will help. "Gods above, I don't want to carry you along," he mutters. He chews his lower lip and looks into the distance. The well is still a couple of miles ahead, and he has to get back home; his brother is ill, and needs plenty of water, fast.

He ponders for a while, and then smacks his fist in his palm, deciding that he will fill both their buckets. Getting to his knees, he dusts his trousers. He feels a prick of guilt for leaving the boy alone, even if only for a while, but he cannot think of a better idea.

By the time he returns, panting and drenched in sweat, the boy looks sicklier than before, the colour drained from his face. Uldor sets down the buckets and splashes some water on the boy's cheeks and neck. The boy stirs, but does not wake. Uldor digs in his pocket for a handkerchief, drenches it in water, and presses it to the boy's open mouth. "This had better work," he says under his breath, more than a little peeved and worried.

The boy chokes, turning on his side and heaving. He almost hacks out a lung, and then, shaking, gets to his knees and faces Uldor. His grey-green eyes are unfocused and blood-shot, and he takes great gulps of air.

Uldor dithers, feeling horribly awkward. "You fainted," he babbles, unable to think of anything else to say. "I filled your buckets and gave you some water."

The boy blinks, and sways a little. "What?" He massages his temples and groans. "Oh, my head..." He tries to stand up, gritting his teeth. He glares at his ankle, which is swollen and pink. "I twisted it," he whispers, as if he cannot believe his ill luck. Then he looks at Uldor with an odd expression. It is as if he's snapped out of a stupor. "Pardon me," he says, and inclines his head in a small bow. "I'm being rude. I am Borlach, of the House of Bór."

"Uldor, of the House of Ulfang. I was wondering at your accent."

Borlach smiles at him at last, dimples dipping in his cheeks. "I thank you, Uldor. I would love to spend time with you, as a friend, but I'm afraid I must hurry on." He picks up his buckets, grimacing. Uldor looks at his ankle, concerned. "Will you be all right? Should I help you along?" Mentally, he curses himself. He needs to go home; he cannot afford to waste more time.

Luckily, Borlach shakes his head. "I cannot ask you for any more aid. Also, you look worried. Is everything all right?"

"My brother is ill. But he'll be fine, if the gods will it."

Borlach's eyebrows rise, and his jaw drops. "I am so sorry I've taken up your time. I cannot help your brother, but you and your family are always welcome at my house."

Uldor cannot help but feel amused. "Is that not for your parents to decide?"

"Well," says Borlach, with a shamefaced laugh, "they will listen to me, hopefully. And I will be chieftain one day. I hope to bring prosperity to my people." He looks up then, steel in his gaze. "I will be a good chief."

Uldor smiles, picking up his own buckets. "You take care of yourself first. I wish you luck. Farewell, son of Bór."

Chapter 3

Uldor's goals.

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Uldor has two goals: to braid his own hair and to be the greatest chief of his people.

"I will be a master of the sword," he declares, rolling on his back on the carpet and blinking when the sun catches his eyes. He turns on his side and waves his right arm. "And I will defend the village from Orcs and other fell beasts." Getting to his knees, he looks eagerly at his father, who is sitting on a wicker chair and reading a book of accounts. "You will teach me the sword, won't you, Father?"

"When you are older," grunts his father, without looking at him. He has not shaved in a few days, and his beard has gotten bushy, which Uldor does not like; he cannot cuddle him properly now.

He pouts. "I want to learn today!"

"Go help your mother with folding the clothes."

Chapter 4

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He hides the cuts and the purple bruises beneath long sleeves, even in the hot season. The village boys do not spare a word he says or a gesture he makes. They grip his arm painfully and hiss, "Are you a girl? Did your parents want a daughter so badly that you act like one? Huh?"

Ulfast asks why he never hits back. His mother merely shakes her head when he insists that he trips and falls a lot.

One day, while playing on the banks of the rapidly drying river that runs through their village, Ulfast steps on his favourite toy – a delicate wolf carved of ash wood – and breaks it. Uldor crouches down, wipes his tears with his thumbs, and says, "You can have my tunic – the one you take from my drawer and play dress-up in."

The village boys laugh at him, clapping their hands over their cheeks and pretending to swoon. "You'd make a perfect mother!"

***

"Uldor," says his mother, "hang out the washing."

Uldor stops kicking his leather ball around and looks at her. A couple of the village boys are lurking nearby, grinning, arms crossed over their chests. Uldor glances at them, then at the basket of wet clothes and the horizontal ropes. His fingers twitch, and he licks his dry lips.

Then, taking a deep breath, he goes over to the basket and begins to clip the wet clothes to the ropes.