The God of Children, Unwanted.

King Drunjin stood upon a sharp yet numb pain. Gout racked his once muscular calves. His hands shook more than he wanted them to so he gripped the edges of his velvet robe. He could not display weakness, especially now. He hoped the robe covered enough of his trembling knees.

He ruled over Pathilis, an ancient polity on the northern coast of the Greater Stonesthrown Island. His dynasty claimed to stretch back at least a thousand years. They supposedly received their crown from the legendary Stone King himself. Most noble houses on the island made similar pronouncements with less evidence. Throwners cherished traditions, even the inaccurate ones.

The king, clutching himself, silently acknowledged the various dignitaries in his presence. The domed throne room buzzed with pleasantries and idle chatter. Messengers had scattered from his court at first light the day before last. Echobirds went out to the border estates. Now, most of the called-upon could be counted. The messages insisted upon all haste from all of his loyal retainers. King Drunjin attempted to smile at a few of them as his eyes scanned the gray room. His bottom lip trembled under the weight until he found the eyes of an elderly man near the front of the gathered nobles.

This man, a distant cousin of the king, excused himself from the conversations swirling around him. He ascended a few steps of marble set in silver and stood at the court’s single pulpit, a few strides beside his relative. The din of the crowd gradually died out as he cleared his throat. The king’s cousin declared, “We, the court of Pathilis, have answered the summons of our king. Let there be order before crown and throne! Drunjin, first of his name, has our loyalty and our regards in all matters befitting his station and remit. To order! To order! To order!”

The crowd responded in half-attained unison, “For king and order!” Their declaration echoed around their king. The high dome above him collected their voices and returned them to his ears.

The elderly man left the pulpit, bowing slightly but respectfully as he walked past his younger relative. He reclaimed his place near the front of the crowd. No one knew why they were there that day, even the more trusted members of court. The messages demanded loyalty, haste and little else.

King Drunjin released the grip on his robe. His hands immediately met each other, rubbing together briskly in the silence. Then he said, “I have called you here in my darkest hour. You must listen and prepare to act. You are here for the sake of your very children! All of your families, your legacies, are at risk!”

Emotion nearly took him by the throat. Generally, Throwners detested visible displays of any sort of feeling. They considered themselves a people of stone, after all. Drunjin could do nothing to dam this particular flood though. Tears dripped from his dull, green eyes. He found enough space to whisper, “My son has been taken.”

Everyone around him, whether battle-hardened or soft-skinned, gasped in response. Air left the room as people held onto their breath. Silence nearly smothered the court of Pathilis. Then a woman with touches of gray in her auburn hair spoke up. She was the boy’s tutor, an intelligent and levelheaded woman, and she needed to know more. She fought a battle against her own tears as she asked, “How did this happen, your Highness?”

King Drunjin snapped more from frustration than anger. “I do not know! That is the worst of it. He was put to bed, as usual, and vanished before the nurse began her nightly rounds. She raised the alarm and my guards were quick to act. One of them spotted a tall man leaving the grounds around the same time. He gave chase but was outpaced quickly. Too quickly for any mortal man.”

A flurry of hushed worry ruptured the placid exterior of the well-to-do types. Piqued tones, protestations and exacerbations alike soared into the dome. There was a reason that spies and order-keepers across the Macrocosm adored such designs. Imp agreed with them as she sat on her perch in “the spymaster’s well”, just out of sight of the crowd. The queen of Pathilis, soft hands wrapped around herself, stood but a few steps away. They heard much while exploring this well of secrets. Unfortunately, any indication of a conspiracy eluded them. They continued to listen for even a scrap of a strand to pull at this knot.

Soon, a shout to form another search party rose above the rest. Declarations of other support, aid and sympathy filled the dome. Queen Malla could only hear so much. She ran from the spymaster’s perch, holding a hand against her face. Her attendants nearly lost her in the tight hallways of the old fortress as she ran towards the quiet of her private quarters.

Time harassed the queen. Only one option remained before her; the monster’s proposition. Queen Malla detested the idea. What was left to her though? She found a dark corner and threw herself against the cold, gray wall. The queen of Pathilis wailed and wept bitter tears. Word of the weeping reached her husband and he adjourned the gathering.

King Drunjin wiped sweat from his wide brow. He rubbed his temple as he declared, “Rooms have been prepared for all of you. Some will stay on the grounds. Others will find our inns the most comfortable on the island. Be patient. The ushers will see to everyone.”

The monarch rushed to his wife. They embraced each other and shared in their singular sorrow. Their sadness echoed through the cramped tunnels of the king’s fortress.

The royal couple retired to their apartments well after night embraced the Middlings. It was the start of Dusk Summer. Vapors from the earth mingled with the heat of the Sun. The steady, deep breeze from the Melodies cooled much of Pathilis. The sound of waves crashing against dark cliffs competed with winds dancing through the old town. Imp listened to the coastal chorus until one of the royal attendants came to retrieve her.

Queen Malla and King Drunjin could not eat. They could not sleep. They only wanted to know what to do next. They did not know the girl nor her monster. Drunjin would have honestly preferred not to know them at all but his wife insisted. Her aunt knew much about the mainland, having sons in nearly every major polity kept her informed. Malla trusted her aunt’s counsel more than nearly any other. Her aunt insisted that the girl and the monster were worth their weight in gold. Luckily, they were traveling the roads of the Greater Stonesthrown that entire Season. Malla’s aunt ensured that the carriage rolled into Pathilis Town.

Imp joined the royal couple on their veranda. The redstone platform overlooked the churning waters of the Melodies. The lights of Pathilis Town burned brightly below. The cool night air was too good to waste in dreams. Taverns, playhouses and public squares hummed with life. The recent influx of nobility and their gold also helped keep the lights on so late. However, no one on the veranda could hear the merriment below them. Melancholy alone reigned in and around the royal apartments.

Imp pulled every ounce of empathy from her tired heart and held it in her gaze. She could not imagine their pain. Yet she also needed them to act. “We believe that you are being targeted by someone.”

King Drunjin whispered the words he refused to say earlier, “By who? This Wheelbarrow Man?”

“Possibly,” the young woman offered distantly. “He may only be a tool. There are discrepancies to consider.”

Queen Malla’s hands slid towards her husband’s. They piled together tightly on the king’s lap. “What do you mean?”

“My friend insists that this god is not a frivolous one. The Wheelbarrow Man only takes children truly unwanted by their kin. So, pardon my presumption but, either you are lying or something else is going on here.”

Queen Malla declared, “Imp and I heard nothing suspicious from the spymaster’s well. If one of your retainers did this, then they have covered their tracks.” She shuddered at the thought of such duplicity in her husband’s court.

Imp nodded slowly. “Your people can continue to investigate that while Ogre and I look elsewhere. Every avenue should be explored.”

King Drunjin nearly snarled, “And your monster is trustworthy?”

“My friend deserves your trust more than most humans.”

The queen added, “He will have far more than our trust if he can bring our son back.”

Imp looked out over the dark waves of the Melodies. A gentle song touched her ear, almost like the memory of music. The locals knew better than to focus on it too long. Imp shook her head and remembered their wisdom. The Melodies were treacherous.

Imp’s dark gaze found the queen’s eyes. “He says he can have a conversation. Hopefully that delivers the results you desire but–”

“But what? Out with it, girl,” the king barked past the yawn stalking his throat. Exhaustion racked his aging body.

The young woman shifted to face the queen alone. “The implications could be dire for a great many people.” Imp got to her feet quickly before she had to explain herself. Instead, she bowed respectfully and said, “Your daughter will be safe with me. Your guards should follow at a considerable distance. Hopefully, both of your children will return to you with the dawn.”

“You can guarantee that,” the queen of Pathilis asked with a heavy heart.

Imp tried to look her in the eye but failed. “No.”

The queen nodded. “Your honesty is refreshing, Imp.”

“Then be honest with me. Is there anything you’ve neglected to mention?”

The queen glanced at a husband unwilling to meet her gaze. Then she said, “There have been arguments lately–”

The king pounced, “Not this again.”

The queen held her ground. “Yes, this again.”

“You coddle the boy too much. He must learn to stand on his own if he ever expects to be king.”

Queen Malla rolled her eyes. “And you face every challenge alone, right? Then what are all those people doing in our house, Drun?”

The king’s head sunk into his chest. He huffed and frowned but eventually spoke truly to the stranger. She listened until the young princess was brought to her parents’ apartments.

Less than an hour later, Ogre led his friend and the princess to a shrine not far beyond the town’s ancient walls. Imp held the young girl in her arms. The child whimpered softly but tried her best to stay quiet. She wanted to hear her brother’s voice again. Her mother and father said to go with the strange woman’s voice. The young princess wanted to be brave for all of them. So her tears were infrequent. Eventually, the trio approached a clearing hidden among a thick copse of pine trees.

The young princess whispered low, almost too low. “Can you see him yet?”

Imp shushed her gently, almost tenderly. Then she offered a breathless whisper of her own, “No. He will be here soon though.”

“How,” the girl’s curiosity pulled at Imp’s heart. The young woman bent low to place the girl on the ground. She was not yet six years old. Her bare feet felt warm on the black stones. “Hot,” she declared regally before reaching back for Imp.

The young woman’s voice was firm yet comforting. “You must stand. But you may stand on the grass.” She took the girl by the hand and led her to a softer spot. Grass, weeds and black flowers stretched up from spaces between the blackstone slabs. If anyone had tended to the shrine, they had abandoned their sacred duties quite some time ago. Nature reclaimed its own space again.

Ogre approached the central container, carved out from a solid block of blackstone, and ran his gnarled hand across the edge. Shrines like this once dotted the Middlings. Time or vandalism destroyed most of them. Green life obscured the rest from view. Luckily, Ogre could see with more than sight. He had cleaned and cleared the shrine while Imp and the queen had listened for hidden plots.

The blackstone container held kindling, branches and needles from the pine trees surrounding them. Ogre bent down and retrieved a long, thin branch from among the rest. Then he placed the point directly into his burning eyes.

Imp knew that those flames only burned when Ogre wanted them to. Their source still eluded her. She had traveled with the coachman for years now. If she was ever going to ask, that time had well passed her by. She did not need to know everything.

Dull, blue light rose among the darkness around them. Ogre held the burning branch aloft for a few moments. Then he plunged it into the container. Wood, flame, needle and sap mixed and merged and eventually fell into the space below. Thin wisps of blue flame licked above the rim of the container, joining together into a bright flame before too long.

Ogre stepped away from the shrine, watching the container with a diminished gaze. He found a large rock and took a seat. His attention did not waver from the flames. Imp led the princess to the same rock and helped her sit beside him. The princess was blind yet her cloudy eyes stared upward. She sensed something in the dull warmth. She felt strangely safe as her mind slipped into a deep slumber. Soon, Imp joined the royal daughter of Pathilis.

A creaking groan of iron and wood rolled through the approaching fog. Ogre continued to watch the flames. The princess of Pathilis snored gently, swaddled in the edge of his somber cloak. Imp rubbed her nose and shifted to her side but remained asleep. The creak stretched into a steady, squealing cry. Nightmares overpowered their sleeping minds. The princess clutched tightly at the coachman’s cloak, grimacing at the sudden misery.

“Another one of the same blood,” the Wheelbarrow Man growled from the edge of the blue light. He towered over even the tallest of men. A wide, brown hat covered much of his gaunt face. His wide, toothy grin stretched below the brim. His skin was as gray as a summer storm. A pale coat, ripped and well worn, dragged along the forest floor behind him. His wheelbarrow was wide and deep, old yet sturdy. A large sack of burlap sat inside the chasm. The fabric shifted and squirmed yet made no noise.

The earth shook when the Wheelbarrow Man released his handles. The squealing sound stopped immediately. Sweet dreams returned to the minds of Imp and the princess. Ogre finally looked away from the wavering flames. He pulled himself to misshapen feet.

The Wheelbarrow Man asked through a hiss, “What blood rejects so much of itself?”

Ogre gestured towards Imp.

The Wheelbarrow Man heard the wisdom yet folded his arms nonetheless. “She could have been us, too.”

Ogre shook his head. No. He stepped towards the shrine again and took the flames back into himself. His gaze shifted to a slightly darker shade of blue. A message passed from the flames to the godfolk’s ancient mind. Ogre was easy to hear, if one knew how to listen.

The Wheelbarrow Man relented quickly thereafter. Imp gasped sharply as her eyes fluttered and eventually opened. Suddenly seeing the god nearly sent her backward over the large rock. She reached for a gun that was not at her hip. Her coat was still in the carriage. Slowly, her mind caught up with her instincts. She looked at Ogre and asked, “So this is that friend of yours?”

“There was a time when we served the same faithful,” the Wheelbarrow Man whispered just above the wind. “He was different then. We were not.”

Imp asked directly, “Did you take the Prince of Pathilis?” Her tone lacked subtlety; a symptom of the sleep still pulling at her mind.

“We take no one!” Anger coated his words yet his grin remained as drawn as a bowstring. He tilted his towering body to keep the brim of his hat low, even from Imp’s lower vantage point.

“Fine,” the young woman heaved through a sigh. Her eyes darted about the rustling branches of the surrounding pine trees. “Have you seen the Prince of Pathilis lately? He’s a boy, about twelve years old. His parents said he’s been struggling lately. He feels unwanted.”

The Wheelbarrow Man pointed down at his namesake. Spheres churned against the thick fabric of the bag. Wails and somber sobs suddenly soared into the evergreen branches. The princess stirred as one shriek in particular fell into her ears. Trembling fear carried over the seaborne breeze. “Brother”, she sighed as her hands reached for him.

Imp needed no further evidence. She pointed at the wheelbarrow and asked, “May I take a look?”

Excitedly, the Wheelbarrow Man pulled at the rope dangling before him. The large bag opened slightly as he invited her to come closer. “Please! Be our guest.” Imp would make a wonderful addition.

Ogre nearly lunged forward to take her place. He turned to Imp, held his hand up and then pointed at the princess. The young woman understood well enough. She shuffled herself closer to the girl.

With palpable disappointment, the Wheelbarrow Man expanded the opening enough to allow Ogre to climb inside. The coachman sank into the darkness, down and under and over until he arrived in an entirely different place. Pale trees grew tall and hollow from purple, mossy soil. A dense fog swirled between the ghostly pines. Winds like blades cut through the forest. Trees fell, crashing without sound into the dense undergrowth. The moss consumed the dead wood, driving immediate and violent growth. Then the winds returned again. The process took mere moments to repeat itself across the expansive forest.

Ogre remained at the archway between spaces until greeted by the Wheelbarrow Man himself. The winds could not harm him in his own home. He extended this safety to visitors to his realm, if they stayed close at hand. The coachman and the Wheelbarrow Man walked together silently through the ever churning, ever howling forest.

The Wheelbarrow Man eventually filled the space between them. “You believe we have been tricked?”

The pale coachman nodded affirmatively. A wide horizon of rolling hills appeared after a sudden tempest. Pink skies bathed the pair in rose light before the pines and fog returned anew. They continued to walk at a steady, unbothered pace.

A thick leather mitten rubbed against the god’s tight, gray chin. He hissed through that unceasing grin, “We were only ever tricked once. Could it have happened again?”

The forest fell away completely. The pair drifted through soft, pink light until a profound darkness appeared far below them. A perfect circle of utter blackness sat like a drain in the sunset sky. A miserable herd of pitiful creatures shambled around this new place. They were children with eyes as hollow as those dead trees. They watched the god and his visitor sink down to their place at the bottom of everything.

Only one cried out to the approaching pair. A single boy reached out from the marching, swirling misery. The shadows of words spilled out into the pink sky. Ogre could not hear them. The boy’s distress sat plainly upon his face.

“He said he was unwanted,” the god proffered gently. “We took him at his word. The tethers are not always severed before we find ourselves.” The Wheelbarrow Man waved his mitted hand, drawing the boy from the crowd effortlessly. The boy was ragged, haggard and afraid but alive and whole.

None of the other children reacted to the change in their surroundings. They watched but continued their march at a steady, even pace. One slipped from the precipice, tumbling silently into the utter darkness below them all. Again, the march was unbroken and the marchers were unbothered. Small, tired feet dragged themselves ever forward.

Though frightened, the boy took the hand Ogre offered to him.

The Wheelbarrow Man bent low, looming over the boy and watching him with eyes unseen. “Did anyone tell you about us?”

Shallow breaths and heavy tears escaped the Prince of Pathilis. He trembled through the words. “You told me you would listen if I just played along.”

“Us?”

“You visited me in my dreams.”

“We never saw you before that night by the crossroads, boy.” The god shook his head and tilted it towards Ogre. “He lies.”

“I’m not lying!”

The Wheelbarrow Man’s mitts closed around the boy’s shivering head instantly. Jagged yellow teeth bore down upon him. “You were never unwanted!” Ogre’s hand touched the god’s tense arm gently. The Wheelbarrow Man pulled away but remained close to his old friend. He released the boy from his grasp. The prince scrambled to get behind the silent coachman’s wide frame.

The grinning, towering god joined the children as he spoke old words. He walked among them, turning his back on Ogre and the young prince. “We are the forgotten. We are the unwanted. We find solace in the suffering we share. We will never take those still tethered. Your sadness is not our suffering. Learn the difference or we shall teach you.”

As he returned with the crowd, the Wheelbarrow Man’s grin was gone. A heavy frown reached out from under the wide-brimmed hat. New words found the wide-eyed, trembling royal child. “Liars stole our hearts and trampled our souls. They will never join us. You are unwanted here.”

A flash of warm, morning light pierced the canopy of evergreen branches. The rising heat roused the princess from her slumber. She stretched a hand out into the familiar darkness. A touch met her fingertips and then gripped her thin wrist. Her gleeful squeal echoed across the rocky shores of her family’s kingdom.

“Brother!”

Pathilis entered a period of feasting and celebration that would stretch on to.Dawn Autumn. The royal family, whole again, showered Imp and Ogre with gold and gifts. They were always welcome in Pathilis and periodically called upon that hospitality. During every single visit she found a quiet moment or two to steal away with the young prince.

They often walked the grounds and discussed a number of topics. The boy grew into a thoughtful and reasoned young man. He might even make a fine king, one day. Even still, she always asked the question.

“Is there anything you need to talk about?”

Sometimes, he did; other times not. That never mattered to him as much as the question itself.