Arkeal's beginnings.

At the edge of the forest, Arkeal hesitated, looking across the muddy plain at the small, walled village. Despair threatened to overwhelm him, and he leaned against a birch to catch his breath. What number was this? He had lost count. There were so many... all similar, almost the same. He remembered very few things about his home, but never once had he recognized a place, never once had anyone known his name. But there was that little nagging iota of hope...

Sighing, he raised the goggles that hung around his neck and snugged them in place over his eyes, then raised his hood and the attached piece of cloth that covered the lower half of his face. Swathed in baggy black robes, prying eyes had little to spot. He preferred not to be remembered, and this getup was less memorable than his undisguised appearance. He double checked the narrow waterskins he wore hidden beneath his arms, patting reflexively to make sure, but he didn't need too. He could feel the water tucked against his ribs, warm from his body, loose and relaxed. Feeling that relaxed him a little and his shoulders dropped a tad. As he struck out across the open area he watched the few sentries atop the wall notice him. No alarm was raised. The gates remained open. No one stopped him as he stepped through. A single oddly dressed traveler was nothing to fear in these parts.

He made his way to the center of town, where it seemed there was a little market day happening. He could see there were more established booths and tents that were there permanently, but many other small tables and booths where scattered throughout the square. People were selling handmade crafts. Clothing, leathers, preserved food, jewelry, carved wood and stone, pottery... Arkeal smiled. He didn't have much money, but the dried and canned foodstuffs would be very useful for longer journeys, if he didn't find what he was looking for here. Plus, half the village was perusing. If his questions had positive responses, they could be here, in this sleepy, slow moving crowd.

But it was not to be. Inquiring at the more permanent merchants and a few older looking townsfolk turned up families with missing children that were too young or too old to be himself. So he asked about the nearest villages and towns to the south and pulled out his map. Three more places to visit were marked. He marked the village he was in with red. There were so many red marks it almost brought him to tears right then, but he swallowed it down. He quickly bought enough preserved food to fill his satchel, and left.

Four days later, Arkeal was high in the mountain pass. His food stores were holding up beautifully, and he foraged as he went. Two days ago he had killed a nice fat quail, quickly and noninvasively, so the meat was perfect. Boiling the creatures brain in its skull had made his joints ache a little, but it had been afternoon anyway and losing a quarter of a day's travel to rest and clean and cook had been worth it.

As he walked under a canopy dotted with autumn colors, he noticed a little meadow off to the right that was heavily shaded in some places so that some glacier snow had survived through the summer. He smiled to see clean ice beside the sparse green grass dotted with wildflowers. His smile faded into a thoughtful look, and his steps slowed, then stopped.

It would be good practice. Working with water that was already frozen should not drain his energy overmuch, and he got so few chances to work with ice... he could rest an hour or two in the meadow, the climb was steep and his legs could use the break. Decided now, he walked to the place where the grass looked the thickest and sat down with his legs crossed. He reached out to the ice, felt its solidity, its great age. It didn't really wish to change, having been this way for so long.

"Only your form, not your function," Arkeal whispered. Taking inspiration from the wildflowers around him, he shaped the ice into perfect petals, propped up the fuzzy looking snow into the shapes of leaves and grass. It was harder than controlling water, but easier than freezing water into ice himself. Rather than letting it flow, he had to coax it to build itself differently, to exist in a different arrangement.

It only took him about ten minutes of work to be satisfied with the practice, and with the way the ice looked now. He released the ice, then sighed and wiped sweat from his brow. Perhaps a nap. He tucked his satchel behind his head and lay back, looking at the clouds. He let his thoughts wander for a time before lifting his hood and tugging it down over his eyes, dozing in the thin sunlight.

"Is it very far?" Arkeal heard his young voice ask. He looked up, but as always, the face of the man was blurry, a suggestion of dark hair and a smear of dark eyes. But his hands were still clear, big, rough hands. One of them reached out and Arkeal automatically gave it his own small hand, but his dreaming mind struggled against it. No! Don't touch me! he wanted to scream, but instead kept walking at the man's side.

"Not too far." A male voice boomed from high above. It had no distinguishing features and the tone was flat.

"Good. And mommy and dad will be there?" The surroundings blurred and swirled around him, indistinctly green and gray. He strained to see, to force it to be clearer, but it remained insubstantial.

"Yes, Arkeal. They sent me to fetch you, and bring you to your fun new home."

The dream accelerated into a smear of images, each seeming to pound at him like blows to the head. Forests, mountains, rivers and plains, always with the man there, making him walk, walk, walk. Those big, awful hands darting out to strike him. Walk, walk, walk. Walk, or he'll hit me again... Then one last image of blurry green, this time smeared with red and black...

-

Arkeal gasped as he woke. The sun still shone, the shadows had barely moved. Angrily, he sat up, yanked his satchel strap over his head, and stormed out of the clearing. He marched for some time like that, fighting tears, rage pounding out his pace. He was so stupid! If only he had just said no, had run back to his home, he wouldn't be here now! Lost on some mountain!

"Alone!" he screamed into the trees. "Damn you!"

He felt hot flashes of pain on his cheeks, and little puffs of mist floated up before his eyes. He swore again, less explosively. He hated when he lost control. Gingerly he reached up and felt where his anger had flashed his tears to steam, leaving little burns crusted with salt. He soothed and washed the spots with some clean water from his storages. He felt empty now. His emotion had drained into his power and he had hurt himself because of it. "Damn you," he again cursed the stranger dully as he stumbled on, unwilling to lose half a days travel because of his own disgusting stupidity.