Min Familie

~ Norge ~

Running, he tried to ignore the loud footsteps of his pursuers, and their even louder shouts. It was not the first time the boy had been chased, and he was sure that many young boys and girls like him went through the same treatment, so instead of pitying himself, he took a deep breath and sped up his pace.

You see, the boy was special. He was born from the land, rather than a mother. His purpose was to protect the people of this land, as he was the personification of it. There were many like him, orphaned, hated, and often alone. Some were big and strong, but others were smaller and frail. Our boy was small, and ridiculously thin, but he had just the right amount of strength he needed to protect himself and flee from danger.

Unfortunately, the people of the lands fail to see the remarkable powers these children hold. These people hunt down the personified nations, preferring to believe that they are witches and should be killed, preferably by burning them at a stake.

In fact, only a small handful of the personifications, dubbed 'de dårlige seg' in the boy's land, were actually able to do witchcraft. This boy was one of them, although he kept his talent secret, knowing that if the village people were to find out, his punishments and torture would only get worse.

Ragged pants escaped the boy's lips as he continued through the dark woods, the gnarled branches of pine trees reaching out, desperately trying to grasp him and send him to his doom. That was when the boy had an idea. He ran straight at one of the taller trees and, with as much strength as his tired body could muster up, he jumped and threw his hands up high, his bony fingers gripping a branch. The boy climbed up the tree quickly, and sat down near the top. He threw his khaki cape over his blond hair and smothered himself in leaves. He kept one blue-violet eye open, his iris scanning for any sign of the men.

Nothing.

The boy sighed in relief, and used this valuable time to relax his sore muscles. His legs were jelly and his hands were numb. Steadying his breathing, the boy shifted into a more comfortable position, carefully so that he did not fall through the gaps in the branches that would send him plummeting. Next, with both eyes open, the boy's gaze fixed on his hands. They had turned a sickly blue-grey colour. That was expected, though. After all, the boy had spent hours running in the freezing northern wind, with the icy snow at his feet. Both his body and his mind was exhausted, so, despite his discomfort, the young boy closed his eyes in an attempt to sleep.

His moment was short lived, however, as the threatening bark of an Norwegian elkhound pierced the silence. Eyes shooting open, the boy crouched in fear, and the louder the barking became, the more his body trembled. Soon after, however, curiosity got the best of him and he peeked over the edge, where his suspicions were confirmed. Below him, at least seven elkhounds had gathered, growling and howling. A few near the front of the small pack jumped up and clawed at the trunk of the tree, letting their masters know that they had found something or, in this case, someone.

Minutes later, a large group of twenty or thirty men arrived and looked up. In spite of the boy's attempts to hide, a few
of the big, burly men spotted him. They shouted at him in strong accents to come down, but the boy stayed still, and tried to hide again, although he knew it was in vain. He knew, deep in his heart, that he couldn't hide up there forever.

"Oy!" One man near the back hollered, "I 'ave an axe. I'll knock th' tree righ' down. 'E ain't got no chance against me, so move outta' mah way!" And soon enough, our boy heard a crack, and felt the tree shake viciously. He clung onto a thick branch, and stayed there for a moment. Then he realised that if he were to stay like that, he'd fall straight into the angry arms of his pursuers. Desperate, the boy rose to his feet, and took a deep breath. Head and heart pounding alike, he took a leap of faith, landing almost perfectly on a tree that was nearby, but not close enough to fall down along with the tree the boy had been on previously. He knew he was lucky, though. In his mind, he truly believed that it was the adrenaline alone that allowed him to succeed in such a feat, and that if he wasn't completely wracked with fear and an urge to escape, he'd have missed completely. Not wanting to risk climbing down and being caught, the boy carefully travelled through the forest by jumping onto branches of conjoining trees.

Like I said, the boy knew he was lucky, and it was only fifteen minutes later when a disaster struck. The boy had leaped onto a branch, and it simply cracked beneath his weight. A stifled but audible yelp escaped the boy's lips as he fell, but the small boy, barely eight years old, couldn't prevent the pained screech caused from coming into contact with the hard floor, landing right on his leg.

Watching the men and dogs approach, the boy knew he was done for. He was helpless, and powerless. He did something he hadn't done for years; he cried. Fat tears streamed down the boy's cheeks and his wails drowned out the barking of the hounds. Blubbering, he pounded his fists into the ground, angry at himself for being so foolish. All he could think of was not his demise, however.

It was his brother.

Emil was at home, all alone. Emil was like the boy. He represented land. But he was far younger, only five years of age. The two had paired up when they'd encountered each other a few years ago, and Emil followed the boy - his big brother - everywhere. Now, the poor kid won't even have a meal, because his brother wouldn't be alive to provide him with one. There will be no one to sew his button back on his coat, no one to tuck him in at night, no one to kiss his tears away. He'd have no one.

The boy's blubbers turned into noisy shrieks of agony, and he shuffled away, still sitting on the bumpy ground, away from the men, whose torches were ablaze. The furious flames engulfed the boy's mind so much that he wasn't looking where he was going. He found himself against a trunk. The boy tried to stand up, but the tiniest bit of pressure on his leg caused him to yelp and drop to the floor. It was over. In a faint voice, hoarse and scratchy from his previous screaming, the boy whispered what he believed would be his last words.

"Emil...bror...jeg elsker deg."

Now, the dogs were so close that the blond boy could no longer make a sound, fear so intense that he couldn't even cry. Without warning, one dog bit the boy's wrist. After that, it was a free for all. Tears trickling down his cowering body, the boy felt surges of pain all over; his wrists, arms, legs, feet, maybe even his face, although the boy couldn't tell if the pain in his cheeks were caused by a bite or just the embarrassment of getting himself caught so easily.

Vision blurring, the boy could hear satisfied cheers from the men, who towered so menacingly above him, praising their dogs every time they pierced the child's skin.

Then, out of nowhere, two figured landed on the floor, either side of the pack of dogs. Must've jumped from the trees, the boy decided. The red-caped one began kicking the snouts of the dogs, forcing them away from the boy, before using his axe to slay them individually. The other one, clad in a blue cloak, went for the people, using his large sword to stab each of them, if they didn't run away first. For whatever reason, the boy felt a strange comfort by these two people, and it was not just a feeling of being saved, either. It was a feeling that was indescribable, and the only time the boy remembered feeling it was when he met Emil. Both the dogs and the some of the people put up a fight, but the two hooded figures were far stronger and it was obvious that victory would be theirs.

Unfortunately, the boy wasn't able to see who won this battle, because his eyes closed and he went unconscious. The last thing he remembered before fading to the black was a gruff voice muttering, "Oy, get th' kid."