It was the spring time. The cherry blossom and apple orchards that nestled the green capped hills of the valley bloomed more and more each day, and rarely did a cloud falter the otherwise blue canvas of the sky. The sun always seemed to linger at its peak, and its warm rays were a welcome delight to the people of the Brooke, the long and cold winter fading into memory.
The Brooke was open to all; no walls marked its coming, nor watchtowers or gates. A single cobble road ran from one side of the farming town to the other, and was abundant with travellers and traders from all corners of the land; foreign wares and mystic goods, cattle and adventurers, all passed through the pathway, surrounded by the small yet elegant homes of the Brookes people, all carved from the grand Oaks that grew rampant to the south. The four-panelled windows of the homes were constantly open wide, with the flowers of reds and blues that the maidens would have picked fresh that morning hanging from the windowsills. Visitors enjoyed a welcome wave, a hearty smile, and even a plum or two from Pickerman’s greenery. Even the river that ran alongside the town was nothing but a calm, quiet, gentle neighbour that offered up fish-a-plenty. Soon, the Doves and sparrows would return from the south, and their chirps would replace the brush of the wind against the mighty Oak tops.
Aaron was never happier than when he ran through the meadows with Gina and Finn. Gina would always win any race, of course; she was taller, slender, and her auburn hair danced with the wind as she’d dart through the fields of green with the ease of the wind. Aaron always had time to appreciate these things from behind, before his small lungs forced him to heel over in the grass and gasp for the fresh, comforting air of the Brooke’s low laying countryside. Gina would always return, of course; she’d fall next to him, and by the time her brother Finn reached them, barely half their age of ten and with a face adorned with the brightest of freckles, they’d all be staring blankly up at the sky, counting the few wisps of clouds that dared tread on the otherwise flawless blue. It wouldn’t be long before Gina would be pulling at the scruff of Aaron’s hay-bale hair once more, urging them onwards into the countryside to see what other hidden troves they could find before the sun settled over the distant, snow-capped peaks of the far west. Once, they found a stash of wild nuts and berries hidden within the bark of an Oak; Finn and Aaron had had their fill, but Gina had protested. She’d berated them about how the squirrel whom had gathered those nuts for the coming winter wouldn’t be happy to find its stash sacked, and guilt-ridden, the three had spent the rest of that autumn morning scrounging for nuts and berries along the yellow, red and brown of the leaf covered ground, before returning what they’d taken and more to the hole within the bark. When the sun had returned from the winter, and the first of the cherry blossoms came to bloom, the first thing the three had rushed to do was return to that tree and search the hole. They’d found nothing but nut shells, and had decided amongst themselves that the squirrel must have forgiven their rude intrusion.
Aaron hadn’t liked the winter months very much. Gina and Finn didn’t live within the close-knit community of the Brooke, themselves residing within the cattle farm their father owned not far along the northern cobble road. When the snow fell and covered the land in a crisp, white blanket for what felt like an eternity, Aaron rarely saw his two friends; the journey wasn’t safe for their father to make, and Gina, Finn and their family had spent the winter secluded within their farm keeping their cattle warm, which they would then bring south to Brooke during the warmer seasons to trade. Every day their father made the short journey, and every day Gina and Finn came along, if only to see their friend who had grown ever so lonely during the cold. Aaron cherished every moment. Now, with the warmth returning and snow melted, they returned with their livestock to the welcome faces of Brooke, where their father was always met with wide smiles and laughter, especially from Aaron’s own father, Trent Buckle. Trent, like his father and his father before him, was a fisherman, a profession Aaron himself would inherit into, and one he had no desire to embrace.
Each bump in the road ran like a knife to his battered spine. His body lay like tattered rags, lifeless and still. His eyes were vacant and wide, his mouth slight agape and dry. His fingers were blistered and raw, the pale of his palms replaced by a red swelling that seared with each clench of his hand; he couldn’t throw a punch now if he wanted too.
Finn wept in the corner of the wagon, his hands clutching at his freckled face and his nails almost burring into his own scalp. His sobbing only broke with his rasped breath, and occasionally he brought his wrist across his face to wipe away the mixture of tears and snot that ran down his skin. One of his feet lay open, bare, and the snow white bone that protruded from the breached skin glistened with the darkened red, congealed liquid that formed the puddle around his leg. He didn’t cry from the pain, however; Aaron knew that.
Gina was gone. Aaron hadn’t seen her since his own awakening, and whilst the growing pit in his stomach told him that it was unlikely, he prayed she was safe. He prayed they’d all be safe. He prayed they’d be free to run the meadows once more, to search the Oak forest and its bed of fallen leaves for nuts and seeds once more, to laugh and play and giggle once more as they splashed through the river of Brooke once more.
He knew better than to rely on childish wishes.
They rode for days upon days. Finn wept for most of his waking hours, and by the end of the first day, Aaron was sick of it. But he didn’t dare deny him that last right, the right to mourn the loss they all felt. The convoy of carts that followed and led theirs held an innumerable amount of captives, and Aaron couldn’t count as high as there were people. Some were chained and tied, whilst others simply lay like Aaron, without the will to run. Some, like Finn, couldn’t run if they wished it with all their hearts; their injuries saw to that.
They long passed the Oak forest and the Forgotten Shore of the Southern Bay. The wagons changed directions with each road, and between sleep and blacking out, it was impossible for Aaron to remember which way they were headed, or how long they had ridden for.
The monsters who held them rode horseback, and didn't seem to sleep; it was hard to tell, with each clad in the same blackened cloaks and hoods; he hadn’t even seen a single one of their faces, nor did he wish to.