Sharp Regrets

Harren

 "The carriage will be here in an hour," the man with the tall hat said. "Make sure that your personal effects are in order by then."

Harren nodded solemnly, shutting the door. He latched it and then moved to the window with shuffling steps, cane clicking against the old wood boards. He sighed as he flipped the sign dangling there, perhaps for the last time. His knees wobbled as he looked up and down the quiet street outside, admiring the view. Memories rushed back to him in a flurry.

He was six, watching his father sharpen an axe. His small, beady eyes tracked the whetstone as it moved back and forth, trimming down the edge of the blade. It was the most expensive thing his family-owned. He had heard that the Miltons of the next farm over had two of them. He had never seen them for himself.

He was ten, clutching the same axe in frozen fingers. Discarded slabs of wood littered the ground at his feet. The stump of what was once a grand oak stood rooted before him, a much smaller log placed on top. With a mighty effort, he brought the axe above his head, hurling it down towards the wood. He felt the thick handle crack in his grip, driving splinters into his hands. The pain was so intense that it forced him from consciousness. It was his oldest brother, Peter, who found him lying there nearly an hour later, and it was his mother who had tried to bandage him with the meagre supply of cloth she had been saving for a new dress. Later that same day, his father would trade their only cow to the Miltons for an axe with a chipped blade. He had never complained.

Harren looked at his hands, running his eyes along the scars. He still felt the guilt of destroying that axe. It had cost his family much to replace it, so they could be warm through the winter. He had never been able to properly thank his father for all the things he had done for his children. It had only been three months since the incident before his father was conscripted. He had never seen him again.

Suddenly, he was fourteen, standing between his two elder brothers. Tears ran down his face, several falling into the pit that was now his mother's grave. He remembered Carson putting his arm around him, consoling him. And he remembered Peter fighting with Uncle Marton over the small inheritance that was now all they had left of their parents. He could still recall the blood that had poured down his uncle's face after Peter had broken his nose.

He was seventeen, watching in horror as his family home succumbed to the flames. The blaze illuminated the surrounding fields and the small group who had come to fight it. Their mission had been doomed to fail from the beginning. He remembered falling to his knees in despair and then watching as Peter finally emerged from the burning wreck, clutching a small, wood box under his arm. The box that contained their entire savings.

Part of Harren still regretted parting ways with his brothers. They had each taken a third of the money, leaving them each with barely enough to live off. Peter had decided to take his few remaining possessions to Koan, where the market for lumber was booming, Carson had trekked off to Vornor looking for an enlistment office, and Harren had taken his share and bought himself passage to Ranvein, hoping to find work as a scribe. Until only a couple of weeks ago, he had thought that had been the best decision of his life. How he was now mistaken.

After arriving in the port city of Ranvein, he had found it hard to adjust to the sheer amount of people that he was suddenly constantly in close quarters with. The inn where he had first stayed had been twice the size of the tavern back home, with three times as many intoxicated patrons. He had been forced to stay there for four horrible nights, as he tried to find work. But he found that he either wasn't qualified to do anything or that there were people who were more qualified to do those things than he was. He soon found himself without money, wandering the city's various alleyways searching for scraps of food or discarded goods he could sell.

He liked to compare his decision to part ways with his family to the path that bore through the forest outside his hometown. It began straight forward, with hardly any bends and interesting scenery. But eventually, you arrived at a fork. One path looked to be the same as before, while the other was dark and foreboding. A strange mist hung in the air down that path, and the trees loomed dark overhead, the canopy shielding you from the sun's rays. There was no way of telling what was at the end.

Harren had realised that he had taken this path, and was still travelling along with it. It had started out as a horrible trek, tripping over roots and getting caught in spider webs. But it had opened up, returning to the same sort of trail he had enjoyed earlier. He had been found by a kindly older man who owned an estate just outside the city. The man had taken Harren in and put him to work as a gardener.

That job had lasted for several years, in which time Harren had fully grown into manhood. Eventually, he had saved up enough money to leave the estate and rent out a small, two-story building, with commercial space on the first floor and living spaces on the second. Finally, he had the chance to start a bookstore, as he had always wanted.

The store had quickly turned a huge profit. He found that the space soon became too small for his clientele, so he upsized. Several times. Eventually, he had one of the largest and most well-respected book shops in the city, stocking hundreds of different volumes of all genres. He had even been close to starting up his own publishing firm.

And then came the war.

At forty-two with a crippled knee and ruined hands, Harren had been seen as unfit for service. Instead, he was forced to watch as his clients marched off to defend the nation's borders. His fortunes all but vanished, and he soon found himself struggling to pay off his debts.

He was forced to sell his shop to a real estate agency. He heard they were turning it into a warehouse.

Harren had known the risks when he chose to separate from his brothers. He had heard that Carson had fallen during his military service, saving several lives in the process. Peter had a family of his own now, and his woodworking business was still in excellent shape. Soldiers needed spears, after all.

He hoped that his brother would still take him in, even after all of these years.

Groaning, he lurched towards the stairs, leaning heavily on his cane. The shop was large, but comfortably so. The walls had once been covered in books, but Harren had long since been forced to sell them at heavily discounted prices to pay off debts. Now they were bare, collecting dust. It was unfortunate that you couldn't make a profit off of it.

Harren climbed the single flight of stairs, to the living quarters on the top floor. He hobbled into the large room and cringed at its sparseness.

Now, all that remained was a simple cot, a coat rack, and a rickety end table. A rucksack with his meagre belongings lay at the foot of his bed, and only a couple of small books resided inside. His journal rested on the table, next to a pen, his spectacles, and a single unlit candle. A coat hung on the rack, alongside a black bowler hat.

This is it, he thought to himself. This is all that's left of my fortunes. I can't imagine that Father would be proud if he could see me now.

He hobbled over to the window, glancing down at the street. He did a double-take, gazing in astonishment at the carriage that was pulling up outside. Had it been an hour already?

Harren hurriedly placed his few remaining possessions into his rucksack, put on his coat and hat, and then threw the small bag over his shoulder. Gripping his cane tightly in one hand, he moved to the door. He turned and took one last look at his home, before descending the stairs to answer the loud knocking coming from the front door.

It was time to pay his brother a visit.