He deliberately took his time as he made his way back. He tried to understand why Pataran was so cold to him, was his honor hurt, being rescued by a child?

But no one had seen it and Apollas would have lied for him.

In his heart he knew Pataran wasn't like this, when it came to rallying his troops, he was very dramatic, a great speaker, Apollas loved the fire in his words, they made his heart pound like it wanted to jump out of his rib cage, but when it came to strategy he was always calm and he wasn't quick of temper or one to hold petty grudges, Apollas must have offended him deeply.

Was he so mad because Apollas had defied his orders? But he did good, he had saved him, he had proven himself. While he walked back to the camp motives ran through the boys head, he tried to understand what had happened with Pataran, he tried to see his face as clear as possible before his inner eye, again and again, to gain understanding of what had happened.

The boy purposefully took his time to get to the landing spot and he intentionally stayed off the main road, avoiding his fellow Sherden which, no doubt, were already carting back loot to the ships.

He instead followed the beach along its rocky shore, slippery stones rounded by millennia of water caressing them.

Up and down they carried him as he made his way through the labyrinth of wet stone, all the while the waves showered him with salty water whenever they crashed against the shores defiant skin.

The horizon turned from dark blue to purple to orange as the sun rose in the east and the coldness of the early morning suddenly took hold of the land.

He had a boding feeling of damp heaviness in his stomach, for he knew something had happened and he didn't knew exactly what.

The first time in over a year he didn't immediately felt at home and happy as he approached the Sherden camp. In his head the boy had decided that Pataran was just dazed by the battle and would see what a great thing had happened as soon as his head was clear again and so would the others.

The boy tried to approach the camp with the good spirits appropriate for his victory, still he carried more then the weight of his treasure alone, the greater weight he carried was in his stomach and it was crushing his insides as he approached the war parties victorious leaders.

Almost all the hope he had build up in his heart turned into grey goo and sunk down on top of the already massive pile in his belly, weighing him down even further and making every step as hard as if he was wearing plated armor.

His knees were shaking and his heart was pounding, for the moment he entered the camp all talk was gone, once loving eyes were staring at the boy in a way he couldn't interpret and as much as he wanted to tell himself that this silence would turn into a celebration of his victory, the grey goo in his stomach made it clear something was broken tonight, something that wasn't to be fixed.

Still the goo could be wrong, it still could all be good.

"See all the treasure I have conquered!"

The boys voice was cracking, as he uttered the sentence, now fully convinced of the futility of his effort.

Pataran stood there in a group of three men discussing something not taking notice at first.

Finally he turned around to face the boy, the look on his face scared the boy.

More then for his own father, he felt love for Pataran and now this man looked at Apollas as if there was nothing left of worth in the boy, the last remnant of hope was pressed out of the boys heart and filled the last crevice of his being with gray goo.

All the boy could do now was to stand on his feet and await his judgement.

"What do you expect man? You have captured loot, that's your right as a sherden soldier. Do you want me to congratulate you for doing what every man here has done tonight?"

There was a great pain carved deep into the features of Patarans face. A pain only to be overcome by time, Apollas could sense this and understood the futility of any attempt to mend what he had broken today.

Numb limbed he slung his canvas sack over his back, he turned around and walked over to the boat of his unit, along the way he tried to find a understanding look among the men he thought his friends. A reassuring glance only, something which could have told him that all was not lost, but all he got were cold stares. There was to be a time when the boy would learn to appreciate what had been done and what had happened was right, but in this moment he just wished it could all go back to what was before.

He had violently taken what he desired, regardless of the implications of his actions.

There was a warrior born that night and as he had to learn, a warrior had to earn his keep.

Love and affection formerly given freely to him was now denied, it was as if the last year hadn't happened and he was the captured slave he at first expected to be.

People which had shared thoughts and dreams about the world with the boy now didn't look into his face as he crossed camp.

A wretched month passed, there were plans to attack a village in Canaan, established by a hardened desert tribe, to colonize the untamed eastern coast of the aegis.

The men were farmers and fierce warriors alike and Apollas was unsure if he should join in the attack now that he stood alone at the bottom of the Sherden hierarchy, but armor and weaponry were provided for the boy the night before. It had been decided, he had to earn his keep from now on.

The first charge was in the morning, the sun was barley visible over the horizon.

Thick and cold salty air from the sea blew over the plain, both armies ready to engage each other.

Apollas walked between men towering over him, from afar he heard horns and rhythmic chanting, like roars of gigantic beasts.

Apollas didn't remember much of that day.

When the men charged he tried to keep up with them, then there was the stone of a sling, smashing a mens face next to the boy into a bloody pulp, the same way a similar stone smashed his shine bone before the battle had even begun.

Untold hours he lay in the bloody sand going in and out of consciousness, before he finally was picked up.

In a tent made for the casualties of war he lay between screaming men and standing pools of blood with a braced leg wishing only for a quick death.

And as the slow grinding days of pain continued for the boy, his heart was struck with bitterness.

Not even as a humbled Pataran, finally ready to sit by the boys side in the third week of his ordeals, could ease the sting of betrayal.

His keep he had to earn and he did.

At first they would talk of a boy fighting for the Sherden which made them overconfident in their superiority. Then after there was talk of a boy-slayer, they were insulted and became rash in their actions. Finally they were scared of the Sherdenwolf a young man of seventeen with a long black mane, his pack always around him, unwanted youths, short lived, fiercely loyal and feared on the battlefield for their unconventional fighting style, defying what hundreds of years of ritualized war had made the natural way human conflict was to be handled.

There was a leader born in that tent, between the pools of blood, the screams of the dying, the stench of rotting flesh and bodily fluids, a mind was formed, which would achieve whatever goal it set for itself, for there was no one in this world who was worth caring for.