Clinbing out of the timbers of the smoking ruins that had been his home the boy surveyed the damage. The events of the past twenty-four hours had left him exhausted. I knew he should feel the pain of his loss, the rage against the raping pillagers that invaded his home and left his town a smouldering wasteland, the hunger and thirst of starvation lying trapped where he was lest he be found and sent to join his community in the afterlife, but all he felt was the need for sleep, and a safe place to do it. The question was- where? There wasn't any place left in town. The nearest town would be next on the invaders' list to attack.
He ran. Into the woods. Uphill. To the wild highlands, where the mountain goats, and giant eagles ruled. He didn't care where he went, his only thought was away from the invaders to some safe cave where they would never find him. HIs footing was unsure in his flight and he slipped several times. Then he came to a place where he had no choice but to climb and in his adrenaline-fueled flight he leapt to it with more vigor than his tired frame told him he could, or should do. He climbed until his muscles ached. He could not believe that he could feel more exhausted than he already had when he left his late village, but he became so tired that his grip just could't last.
He fell. Exhaustion was replaced by pain. Pain dark and sweet. Sweet because it told him he was still alive, could still feel, but he might not be for much longer. He lay there still for quite some time, willing the pain away. The last thing he heard before darkness came was the shriek of vultures.
Somewhere in the fever dream he thought he saw a furclad silhouette, but he was too tired to know fear and accepted whatever fate it might give him. In his dream it took on the visage of the berserk chieftain that led the invaders that attacked his village. It frothed at the mouth and hungered for his blood. HIs blood. The blood of his father. Blood smeared over his father's face bashed in by an invader's axe. The hidey-hole where he kneeled didn't protect him from the warm spray of red. The warmth was chilling.
The warmth of bare skin bordered by fur reached somewhere into his fever dream and reminded him of being cradled to his mother's bosom as a babe. He didn't know he could still remember that. Shouldn't he be too old to remember that? He'd known thirteen winters. The warmth of skin was replaced after a rise-and-fall of a slowing climber's pace by the heat of a fire, smells of meat and herbs. He drifted back to sleep feeling strong, tender hands administer to his wounds.