Harvest 3, 855
The sawmill’s basement used to frighten Buu when he peered down the rickety stairs. The blades and wheels stood as ominous silhouettes, chains and ropes stored overhead occasionally dangling down to brush against any unsuspecting passersby — a chill touch in the darkness that would send Buu skittering away.
These days, Buu spent most of his time in this basement, ignoring the slate his uncle left for him so he could learn his letters. Forced into the familiar, shadowy space, not knowing what had become of his uncle, or old lady Fira, or anyone else he knew, he found that old fear creeping back in.
Buu sat directly beneath the small window, wishing he could at least attempt an escape through it. He would fit, certainly, but his tree-climbing attempts had drained what little energy Anaya saw fit to bless him with. Even dragging one of the room’s heavy crates over to stand on felt like an impossible task.
As Buu drifted off, his escort kept watch over him with a carefully blank expression. Buu woke in complete darkness, the sun outside having set on a moonless night. Taking careful breaths, he warded off panic with his constant routine: Breath rattling? No. Fever? Perhaps some. Headache? Nausea? Dizziness? No, no, and yes.
As he checked for aches and pains, the door at the top of the stairs swung inwards, a candle testing its strength against the shadows. The general stepped past the threshold, closing the door behind himself and descending with care down each groaning step. When his eyes found Buu, his mouth twisted, eyes sad, shoulders set.
Buu stood, facing the large man with as much courage as a small boy could muster. His knees shook, clattering painfully, but he kept his fear from his face. When he spoke, his voice reminded him of a sparrow, small and chirping against the harsher world.
“What happened to everyone else?”
The general sighed, rubbing his eyes as he regarded Buu. His drawn face caught the meagre candlelight, shadows pooling in the circles beneath his eyes and catching on wrinkles. He looked ancient.
“They’re okay. Most people cooperated. They’re being kept in the chapel until we’ve gathered the supplies we need and they understand where to send their taxes. It might be a harder winter than they hoped for, but they’ll be okay. They’ll be fine.”
“But not me,” Buu guessed, voice quivering as he read the reluctance on the general’s face. That pig-killing expression had returned.
“No, not you.” The general sighed, looking out the window above Buu’s head. “I am sorry, but we didn’t take any wounded this time. The villagers will be more likely to resist if we take someone from the group. They don’t know where you are, and as long as they don’t, they’ll have hope that you just ran away. I’m sorry.”
The general wrapped his hands as he spoke, the long strand of linen mesmerizing as it wound around and around his palm. Buu wiggled his toes as he watched, trying to convince his legs to regain any sense of feeling. They refused, and Buu slumped to the floor, eyes never wavering from the general’s working hands.
“Why?” Buu asked in a small voice, beginning to shake as the general tied off his second hand.
The general didn’t reply as he hit Buu, punching him across the face and knocking him senseless.
Buu woke to the sensation of falling, the phantom cliff making his heart pound. Something rocked him back and forth — No cliff, then. A boat? His body ached all over. One giant bruise seemed to cover him from head to toe, stinging more as he fought to think clearly. Someone carried him in their arms like a sack of flour. Blinking through one swollen eye he could make out the general’s silhouette above him.
Groaning, Buu tried to twist free. If he’d been thinking c learly he would have remembered how fruitless it would be. He would not have bothered putting his body through the extra strain, knowing how useless the effort was. But the thoughts didn’t come, only animal panic as he saw the man who had brought him this pain.
“Easy, son. It’s almost over,” the general spoke softly, shifting his grip so Buu didn’t fall. “You should have stayed asleep.”
Buu couldn’t have said where the rage came from. He didn’t know if he saw red because the general had dared to call him son while trying to kill him, or if his fists and teeth clenched with the long-banked frustration towards his own futile anatomy. Perhaps he felt so fever-hot because this man planned to, in one violent night, invalidate all the effort Buu had put in to not dying his whole short life.
Whatever the reason, Buu simmered with indignant fury. Unable to lash out or writhe without causing himself more discomfort, he settled for glaring daggers at the general. He pictured Yuravi’s pigs on slaughter day. Remembering when Yuravi had shown him the heart of a hog, red and slick and fresh from the animal, Buu pictured himself pulling the general’s, still beating, from his chest.
In his mind’s eye he held it, squeezing, as it beat faster — eager to escape his grip. Buu felt the heat of the organ, felt it tremor and pump in his hand, and clenched his fist tighter, hoping for some satisfaction in this fever-dream fantasy.
The general stumbled.
Buu held his breath, gritting his teeth and channeling his frustration into his hand, clenching the imaginary heart tighter. The coincidence of the general’s misstep had stoked a fire in Buu’s imagination. Fingers aching, he squeezed and squeezed, pretending that, for a moment, he could have an impact on the world.
Panting, the general slid smoothly to one knee, staring down at Buu, a drip of sweat falling from his nose and onto Buu’s chin. The general half-dropped, half-placed Buu on the ground, clutching at his chest with searching fingers. With wide, terrified eyes, he met Buu’s glare.
“What… what are you doing?” the general asked, sounding terribly young.
Buu didn’t know the answer, but he sure as shit wasn’t about to stop. He sat up, aches and bruises fading to the back of his mind as he raised his hand towards the general and kept squeezing. His fingers refused to meet, fighting phantom resistance. Buu imagined the heart, hammering out its staccato panic, and plucked at its delicate surface with his thoughts. He mimed the action with his free hand, pinching the empty air where the image of the heart rested in his mind’s eye.
The general fell backward as blood pumped and gushed from the not-there holes in his heart. Buu felt the warm, thick wet trickle down his arm, though his hand remained empty. Spasming once, twice, three times, the general fell still, the imaginary heart in Buu’s grip stuttering before collapsing, limp and cooling.
Buu knelt, blinking at the general’s body. Not quite believing his eyes, he prodded the general’s shoulder, feeling the stiff, dead weight of the corpse. The general stared, unblinking and unseeing directly at Buu, his empty gaze sending a shiver down Buu’s spine. Dead. Definitely dead — apparently by Buu’s hand.
Shouldn’t I feel cold? In the stories the villains always felt empty and hollow. Anaya allowed murder with just cause, but still. He had never killed anything larger than a mosquito — he should be devastated… right?
But he wasn’t. Buu took a deep breath, feeling his lungs pull in the air with ease, savoring the feeling of fullness it gave him. His bruises stayed distant, lurking at the edges of his awareness but no longer jockeying for his full attention. Shifting his weight, he searched his body for symptoms, performing his own personal ritual: Fever? No. Weakness? Some, but less than usual. Fatigue… no! Energy!
Buu grinned wide at the realization. Energy! For once in his life he didn’t feel like the world dragged against him. However briefly, he existed without resistance. Tears ran down his cheeks as he tried to capture the feeling, imprinting it on his memory. As he knelt in the cool grass, luxuriating in this sudden, unexpected wellness, something wet touched the back of his neck.
Startled, Buu scrambled forward, twisting to come nose-to-nose with a massive, coal-black dog. It snuffled at him, sniffing so hard that Buu thought he might have new bruises the next morning. He shoved the animal away, annoyed to have his moment of peace interrupted by one of the loose wolfdogs that hung around the village for scraps.
The dog froze, face turned aside where Buu had pushed it, eyes wide. Glowing, pupilless eyes. Shit.
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