Memoir of The Last

Individuals live their lives separately from others in the land of Izria. It’s how everyone across the land chose to live, and with little conflict as possible. But even with the natural order of things, just like a predator or prey, these lives will clash eventually. A war would most likely break out if races like the Salamanders and Ice dragons were to co-exist in the same lands. So on their own, they build cities, villages, homes precisely for their kin. Not many would dare to bother the neighboring residences that surround theirs, for possible conflict hangs at the end of a thin thread. Though many species bare fang at the others with poison in their gaze, not all wish to be isolated from the rest. The Gnomes and Fairies, for example, get along quite well. They trade goods and gather once a year to celebrate their alliance with each other as they are both very gentle creatures, proving that mythical creatures of any race could get along. As result, their countries prosper in wealth, equality, and some even say good serendipity.

But in this village lies the most mischievous race that is hated by all. They are thieves, liars, and con-artists from birth. Proud of it, as well. They are known as the Salamanders. Eyes like the reptiles they were named after, with sharp teeth and mostly smooth texture—but scales were also common on the skin. They live in the warm plains of Swindlook, where the Earth sweats itself, but also where it snows nearer to the slums as they touch the backs of the windy plains further north. It was so cold. Cold, and burning. Snow layered the ground in a few inches. But a small young boy was thrown out of his house in any case––nothing but a crop top and shorts on his person. He sat up and rushed backward in the snow in fear, staring up at the silhouette of his grandfather who threw him out.

“You come home every day with nothing but dirt on your hands while the rest of us work our butts off! What good are you to this family if you can’t even bring home a little gold?!”

A woman silhouette came into view and held onto the man silhouette’s shoulder, “He’s just a boy, Papa, he can’t help that he’s useless.” She didn’t sound alarmed that the child was in the cold with nothing on his body, even though the woman’s voice belonged to the boy’s mother.

The two then vanished behind the dark as they closed the door to shut him outside, not giving him a second thought. He could hear his grandfather shouting inside, “Who gives any crud if he’s a kid? Huh, useless is what he is. When I was his age I’d come home with at least a couple of silver. We’re struggling enough as is with Kida gone. If he can’t earn his keep then he deserves to be out there with the dogs. No one needs him so he may as well die.”

The boy sat there in astonishment for a few seconds before he stood up and dusted the snow off. But it was to no avail, as the sky had begun to shed snow and land politely in the child’s hair. He walked aimlessly, shoeless, his stomach growling painfully from hunger. He felt his bottom lip quivering as he remembered what his family called him. “Useless is what he is!” Tears filled his eyes but he refused to give in to the sour feeling in his throat. He puffed his cheeks and slapped them gently with both hands, forcing an aggressive facade. Maybe if he made a face like this he could lie to himself and fake his emotions. At least, that’s what he figured.

“Oh, dear… Isn’t he the boy of that one family nearer to the slum? Do you know the father who ended up dying had a boy who refuses to steal? Wonder if that’s him…” Said a woman to her husband, dressed to the nines in warm clothing as if a single drop of snow could kill them. The husband looked at the boy, then scoffed and gave a disapproving look.

“Just keep walking, hon. We don’t need to give the time of day…to a boy who won’t act like a proper Salamander. Just look at how he’s dressed—in this weather for Saints’ sake…”

More heavy expectations. The boy sniffled hard from his nose running, then began to walk with no destination. Just away. Walking turned into running, and before he knew it, the boy had exited the village on foot. He ran through the woods with his bottom lip tucked under his teeth. Twigs and rocks were cruel to him, slashing his skin and making his feet bleed. He was happy he was used to running around without shoes, but that doesn’t make the cuts and bruises less painful.

After running for so long, he stopped to throw up, leaning on a tree for support. But there was only dry gagging because he hadn’t had a meal in three days now. His stomach squeezed indicating it was empty, and it made him dizzy. The boy began to lose consciousness, and the freezing feeling was consuming him enough to make him feel numb. His feet, hands, even the nerves in his face were hard to move. He hugged himself to no avail, and tipped over, landing in the snow. His eyes quickly began to feel heavy, and his heart slowed gradually. But then, the familiar sound of snow crunching beneath feet echoed in his ears, and he was hoping he wasn’t hallucinating. He struggled to look up with his orange-brown eyes at the blurry pair of feet as they got hazy in his vision. Then, black.