Sadly, the trial didn’t have any fun in store for Bran.
A couple trials ago he had made friends with some children who lived in the city, and they’d played together in a courtyard that was just about large enough for them to be able to run around in. One of the children had had a ball made from a pig’s bladder with them. They’d played games where the point was not to let the ball touch the ground, but you couldn’t touch it twice in a row or hold it. They’d come up with different variations, like one where you could only use your head, or where there were two teams and interrupting the other team’s rally was allowed.
He’d had such fun that he hadn’t been paying attention to the time that once he left he had to run like the wind to make it back before sunset, and still arrived late. As a result, he’d not been allowed to go out and play the next trial, and the trial after that he’d been too busy with chores. It was a good thing he’d told one of the other children he probably wouldn’t be back for a couple trials, so they wouldn’t feel betrayed when he didn’t show up for a while.
When he arrived at the little courtyard, Oberan was overjoyed to see everyone from the previous trial was present. He waved at them with a grin on his face, but no-one greeted him back. His smile diminished, and he froze in place for a moment. Something was wrong. He saw Samuel looking at him and he waved again, but the other boy simply turned away. Oberan’s hand dropped to his side. His smile faltered.
Everyone was doing their best not to look his way. As if he was that one boy who’d been terribly burned, sporting more scar than skin on his body. As if he was something very uncomfortable to look at, something they knew was there but did not want to acknowledge.
Oberan took a deep breath in trying to relax. He felt his fingers uncurl themselves. His knuckles were white. Putting his smile back on, he approached a small group of children. He noticed they weren’t sure what to do, so they stuck to looking away until he stood as part of the circle they’d formed. Oberan tried to figure out what was going on, his dark orbs wandering from face to face. They all looked really uncomfortable, all staring at their shoes.
“What’s going on?” he asked, his gut telling him all he needed to know already.
“Bran,” one of the few girls spoke, “my parents said I’m not allowed to associate with you anymore.”
He felt as if he’d been punched in the gut.
“Mine too,” Aren said.
“Mine too,” Bart chimed in.
The others said nothing, instead simply staring at their toes.
What about Lizzie? Did she too—
She was deeply uncomfortable, and though she didn’t say anything, he could read it off her face. Even Lizzie? What about last time then? What about what she’d said to him before he left, when they’d been the last ones on the courtyard? Did that mean nothing anymore? But— This was— How— It’d been on his mind ever since, only for this to happen? Why? What had he done? Why, why, why, why?
“Why?” His voice cracked.
“Because you’re one of those thieving gypsies.”
He could only see a vague blur anymore, so Oberan wiped his eyes with his upper arm, glad that nothing had leaked yet. A bigger boy had pushed the other children aside and stood now in front of the young Mortalborn, at least one head taller, and a lot wider. He didn’t recognize him.
“My dad says that since you lot have been in town, more wallets have gone ‘missing’ than is usual.”
“That’s not true!”
“You’re the type of people to put on a show to get people to watch, and then you steal their money when they’re not paying attention.”
“He’s lying!” Oberan yelled again, looking around for support, but he found none.
“Am not! My dad has a friend in the Hand and she said you’re filthy thieves!”
“Take that back!” he hissed. He was trembling, his fists were clenched. Oberan’s eyebrows dipped into an impressive scowl.
“Or what?” the boy taunted.
Oberan punched him. He punched him as hard as he could, right in his stupid face.
It was too high up however, and too much power was lost. A vise-like grip tightened around his forearm.
“I barely even felt that,” he said, but his tiny evil pig eyes burned with anger.
Oberan tried to pull away but the boy’s grip was too strong, and soon a second hand latched onto his shoulder, pushing him down while a knee drove itself hard into his stomach, and then into his face. Oberan stumbled back, nose bleeding, lungs desperately trying to suck in air. A punch hit him hard in on the cheek, then a kick in his side—
Before he knew it, he was on the ground, unable to retaliate before, unable to retaliate now. The assault continued, and Oberan curled up in a ball, only barely aware of the insults hurled at him. Despite not having trained ever since his father died, he felt ashamed.
This was just like what had happened then. A one-sided beating. A shameful display.
He gritted his teeth.
Oberan could still picture it vividly in his mind. His mother’s disappointment as he laid in the sand, defeated. His father’s hollow smile when he’d returned. He could still hear the sobbing and the begging for forgiveness coming from the man’s room at night, the shame something he never did seem to forget. There had been no word from Oberan’s mother after that event. No signs. Not one. Apart from the message the boy had received right before he’d been returned to his father.
He clenched his fists once more.
His body protested as he rose up from the ground, trembling like a newborn deer, slow like an old man.
“Take… it… back,” he rasped.
Oberan aimed another punch, this time going for the stomach. It never even reached. He was forced back to the floor easily, and received a beatdown more ferocious than the last. It seemed to go on for an eternity, until Oberan barely responded anymore and someone called for it to stop. The impacts ceased. The pain remained.
“He’s not worth it anyway,” the older boy sneered, then commanded the rest of them to leave and go somewhere else. Oberan saw Lizzie cast one last pained and saddened glance in his direction, but he turned away.
He lied alone on the floor until sunset, staring into the void, tears rolling down his face.
The troupe packed up and left the very next morning.
