When the baby came out, his father was set to be furious. Purple skin and white hair came tumbling out bathed in glowing light. He was set to be angry, but when he saw his son’s face, he knew there could be no other father. So, he took up his son and called him “Ari-Sen”, which meant “Halo’d” in the dialect of his mother’s people. He barely cried when he came out, and when they placed him in his father’s arms, the he coo’d softly and went to sleep. Jo’gehn, father of Ari, found out from his mother’s mother that they were descended from a line of women who were blessed by angels.

Occasionally, a child in their family would be given a heavenly gift. That child would appear strange, but be filled with the holy light of Iomedae. That child would do great things. They loved him, as much as any child is loved and maybe more so because they knew he was special. He received many gifts and was as spoiled as any babe could ever be. He was well liked by their family and friends. The community did not mind Ari’s strangeness. Instead they embraced the blessing of Iomedae upon their town. “Good boy, that ‘un,” people would say.

Their town was not poor, but neither were they rich. Many of their things were made by their own hands, and not the hands of craftsmen or any of the mystic races. Humans, they were, pure and simple. They liked it that way. Ari stood out like a purple flower in a field of daisies, but he did not mind. The other children did not tease him, and he was well included in their games. They were happy. Ari grew to be a tall, strong boy with all of the facts of life, simple as they are, well in place, but there was no darkness. Death was a thing that happened to the old or the infirm. Sometimes it took someone too young, but that too seemed like a fact and not a curse. Ari was a quick, smart boy. He prayed at the temple, practiced his skills, and began to take up learning his father’s trade — leather craft.

Ari was outside tending the cows the day that everything changed. He heard the hoofbeats, like a thunder clap, coming from the other end of town. Ari ran toward the temple at the center of town, where the four roads met. He saw them, large orc warriors were sweeping through the town, collecting the people, and herding them into the square.

He dodged around the back of a house scampered into their dust-cellar. There was another child huddled down there. Ari recognized it as his friend, E’lethe. They huddled there in the dark until an orc came tromping down the stairs and carried them like barrels, one under each arm. He deposited them with the rest of the children.

Men, women, and children were segregated apart. He saw his mother, her eyes ringed with redness from crying. His father was bloody, but standing tall. He was full of rage. Ari could not make out what the orcs said, so when they started killing the men, he was totally surprised. He watched them spear or shoot down every man in their village. Then, they chained the women and the children together and set them walking.

Ari and his mother walked until his feet were bleeding, cracked, and beyond pain. He cried until he had no more tears left. Then, he withdrew into a stone faced silence. The orcs avoided him, but he began to pick up a smattering of their language. He would recite the words he knew under his breath as he walked.

His mother said, “you have a gift, but keep it to yourself lest you get us killed.”

Ari listened. He learned. He discovered. They were sold as slaves at an auction. A man bought him, his mother, and three other boys. They were taken to his farm. The boys were used to pick fruit from the trees. His mother was used for house hold duties and something he couldn’t understand. When he was twelve, he ran away.

It was the morning of his 12th birthday. They’d been at the farm for three years. His mother was barely speaking most days. Her eyes were always far away except for she came in at night to look at Ari as he slept. She’d made him a bunny.

It wasn’t much. It was made out of rough, draft cloth and black thread. It had black cross eyes and a tiny nose. When he woke up, it was lying in bed with him. There was a note, “happy birthday, Ari’sen. You are special. Be great.”

They found her hanging in the barn. Ari ran that night. He took enough food, clothes, and money to make it to the next town. And, of course, he took the rabbit.

Ari was captured three days later. He was taken back to the farm. The man beat him. Ari ran again. He was captured and dragged back. The man tried to drown him. Ari ran again. This time he made it to a temple of Iomedae. He asked them for sanctuary, something his mother had once told him about in a story. When he got close to the statue of Iomedae he began to glow softly.

The priestess of the temple kept him. He did chores, but he also learned. They schooled him on all the things they did there. He met many travelers, and he began to realize how big the world really was outside of his small experience of it.

He met traders, craftsmen, artisens, and concubines. He met thieves and priests. Then, one day, he met his first paladin. The man rode into town on a white horse. He had a large sword, blessed by the priestess. He was a champion against the evils of this world. Ari stood on the temple steps, the bunny securely tied in a pouch at his waist. The Paladin dismounted.

“Boy,” he said, smiling to Ari.

“Me?”

“Would you take my horse into the temple’s stables and find her a place for the night?” Ari did as he was asked, and then clung to the shadow of the Paladin for his entire visit. The paladin, Jorga the Bold, enjoyed having such an attentive squire. He took Ari as an apprentice. The rabbit came too.

They travelled together for many years. Ari learned to fight well. He prayed. His faith was strong, but there was a darkness in his heart that nothing seemed to mend. He rarely slept through the night. Sometimes he would wake up screaming for his mother. Other times, he’d shake himself awake as he screamed in the vile orc tongue and thrashed in his blankets. Sometimes Jorga would shake him awake.

“The dreams again?” He would ask.

Ari would nod and wait until his mentor had gone back to sleep. Then, in the middle of the night, he would sit on his bed or his bedroll and hold the bunny in his hands. He would pray to Iomedae for strength, honor, and righteousness. Then, clutching the bunny to his chest, he would lay back down and try to fall asleep.

Jorga was a good mentor, often prone to lecturing. He took Ari to many towns and villages. They saved people, helped the poor, re-built temples, and fought evil. Ari continued to learn languages like a sponge, preferring it to reading faery stories or drinking. His master thought it was a strange hobby, but did not dissuade him. Learning was honorable understanding others was something that even Iomedae herself would say was a right thing.

Most nights they sat together. Ari would listen and Jorga would tell tall tales. One night, they were out in the woods. They’d been through a rough fight with a band of orcs. They’d killed them all, burned the corpses, and blessed the site around the pyre to keep the corruption from spreading. It had not been a usual fight, though. Most of their fights were only punctuated by orc screams and quiet, calm communication between them.

This time Ari recognized one of the orcs. He’d been one of the orcs that took Ari’s town and killed his father. Ari killed him, screaming in a blood thirsty rage. His eyes had gone from silvery-blue to black.

Sitting around the fire, Ari had his rabbit out of its pouch and was holding it in one hand. Ari was going over verb-tenses in orcish. His eyes were distant and full of tears.

“What happened today, Ari’sen?”

“I recognized him, Jorga. I knew him, and I hated him. I know, we’re not supposed to hate them, they can’t help being the spawn of evil, but I hated him. I still do.” Ari closed his eyes and held the rabbit to his face, inhaling the vague scent of herbs that his mother had mixed in with his stuffing. They were losing their potency.

“Sen, tell me about your rabbit.” Jorga’s face was serious.

“It’s private.”

“Even from me, the man who’s practically raised you, fed you, clothed you, trained you, and given you your sword?”

“Even from Iomedae, though I’m sure she knows without my telling her.” He smiled to himself and stared at the fire.

“My mother made it for me. It was a birthday present. It’s all I have left of her, of who I was when I was a child.” He sighed. “There’s something wrong with me, Jorga. I can feel that anger inside me.”

“Believe in Iomedae. Follow her path. Use your mind and you should be fine. You are strong.” He looked down at his hands. In a whisper, he added, “still, I am worried about you, my son.”

“I know. So am I.”