Henry flicked his shirt into a corner of his rented room, beside the small wooden-framed bed. It was a cheap room, but he was a wandering minstrel, and one who often didn't bother asking for money. He accepted gifts, but he played to spread the joy of music that he felt, not because he wanted to make money from it. It was a hot, sweltering day in the middle of summer, and outside the air hung hot and heavy with moisture. Henry had been playing for the last few hours, but it had finally gotten to be too much, and he had retreated inside, to finally get into the shade, and to switch out of his sweat-soaked clothes. It was the first time that he'd been in the room, and he looked around as he stretched - and froze, his eyes widening.

The musician had a problem. A problem that he did his best to mitigate to its fullest, and never think about. Down the center of his chest was a long, ropey scar, tugging at the skin around it as it hung on his flesh, ominous and bleak. He tried to avoid looking at it - he avoided mirrors for just this reason. In fact, usually requested rooms that didn't have a mirror in the room at all. A bit odd, but as mirrors were expensive, it was usually overlooked as a musician trying to stay cheap. Apparently, though, the person who gave him his key and sent him upstairs had either gotten mixed up, or been trying to be kind to him, because there was a large, ornate mirror against one wall, above a desk with a chair in front of it. Henry's slender, muscled body shone in the light coming through the mirror - and his scar stood out in stark contrast with his pale, pale skin.

Henry trembled once, - but then there was a scream outside, in the distance. It didn't matter what the scream was - a child playing, someone laughing in joy - none of that mattered. The scream, the heat, the painful tugging on the scar as Henry's mind swirled -



"Honey, honey you need to stay inside the closet ok? Please, sweetie, stay inside for mommy." A gentle, frightened voice tried to distract the young boy from the sound of voices screaming outside. The young brown-haired boy shivered, as the soft, warm hand of his mother shoved him into the closet of their small house. Over her shoulder, the boy could see his father standing at the door - the wide-bladed pokey stick that he was told to never go near held tightly in the man's hands. The boy flinched as another scream sounded out - this one far closer. And now he could hear yelling, angry angry yelling. The door that his father was standing in front of shuddered under an impact, and his father gritted his face.

"Honey. Stay in the closet, and stay quiet. Please." The woman successfully shoved her son deep under several blankets and cloaks, muffling the world around him. He thought he heard the door close - it was blocked by the fabric around him. The blue-eyed boy could feel hot tears welling up in his eyes as he curled under the blanket, pulling it tight around his face as he heard the yelling and thudding outside. He didn't know why people were so angry - they'd been yelling for a few days now, but but -why? He didn't know why?

It was so hot, so sticky in the small closet as he huddled and cried under the clothing, waiting for his mother to come back for him. His face was getting wet with tears and snot, buried deep as he tried to keep his crying silent. He didn't know what was -

Crack The sound shattered the silence that he could hear. There was a scream, another one - then an angry yell, fury and rage.

"Get out of my house!"

"I think not. We have things to requistion here. Need to fund the war effort, you know."

"Get. OUT." The boy didn't know what was going on, but his father was yelling at someone, with the super angry voice that he had only heard once when he tried to play with the really bright and warm place when it was cold outside. There was some muffled sounds - then another scream. This time, a voice the blue-eyed boy recognized. It was his mother. He couldn't - he couldn't stay any more.

"MOMMA!" He burst from the closet - to a terrifying sight. His father was thrown against one wall, with a large, burly man standing in front of him, holding a sharp thing to his neck. Beside his father, his mother was doubled over, red spilling onto the ground. The boy rushed to his mom, tears streaming down his face. She looked to him weakly, her eyes unfocused as he hit the ground next to her. He could see that the red was coming out of her tummy, where he sometimes had tummyaches.

Momma rubbed his tummy when he had tummy aches, right? He started doing that, rubbing his tiny little hands against her tummy, trying to push the red back inside. His mother reached up with a trembling hand, brushing brown bangs aside with a bloody hand - leaving a streak on his forehead.

"Oh, honey, no..." Momma fell over, and the boy tried to hold her up. There was a muffled sound, he didn't see what was happening.

"Boss!"

"Oh, just kill him. His wife is already dead." There was a grunt - and then a heavy thud. The brown-haired boy couldn't keep his mother up, and fell beneath her - and saw lifeless, glassy eyes peering back at him from his father's face. He felt his heartbeat once, heavy in loud in a sudden silence - and then he started crying out loud, bawling, tears pouring down his face unobstructed. "And will someone shut this kid up?"

There was some shuffling - and his mother was pulled off the boy. Above him was the large, burly man. In one hand was his mother, who wasn't moving anymore, and the red was still coming out - and there was more red on the shiny thing the burly man was holding. The boy didn't know what was going on - but the stranger threw his mother to the side. The child tried to get up, to crawl to his momma - but his hair was grabbed and yanked sharply, lifting him to his feet and then into the air. Then his chest was hot, really, really hot - and when he looked down, the red was coming out to, and the stranger's shiny thing was going away from him.

"Alright. You boys find anything?"

"Nah boss. Only thing of value was the spear, and some small jewels. Fake, the lot of them."

"Damn. Well, leave the bodies here."



----

He didn't know how much time had passed. He did remember being really, really cold for a while. Shaking hard, cold all the time like he would never be warm. Voices, muffled and blurred - shouting, then calm and soft, trying to speak to him, but - but they weren't momma, they weren't poppa, and he didn't listen to strangers. So he ignored them and stayed in the cold, for a long, long time.



Henry let out a gasp, a shudder running over his body as his knees hit the ground and he retched, bile splashing against the wood beneath him. His body shook hard, his fingers scrabbling at the wood as he tried to keep himself from landing face first in his own vomit. It had been - a long, long time since he'd had that memory thrown in his face. He didn't need to check to know that tears were streaming down his face. It was the only time he remembered either of his parents - the only memory of them he had. He threw himself back and sat against the wall, staring up at the ceiling with blank eyes.