He should have known. Who else could it have been, aside from Runrick's brave little champion?

True to his self-proclaimed righteousness, Buck stood imposingly between him and the people he had come forth to protect. His face was set in a grim and confident expression, slightly upturned to stare him down, but the wideness of his eyes betrayed the courage he was trying to exude with all of his body. Nevertheless, he had come far closer to him than either Chief Slatrim or Priest Santr had dared.

Whatever Luric thought about the boy's obnoxious sense of self-worth and his childish dreams of gallantry and heroism, Buck at least did all he could to live up to them. He was everything Luric was not. Spirited, hardy, overly passionate, but in a way that most found charming instead of annoying. His antics were tolerated, and even applauded, because he was an amusing and honest kid. And he was brave.

Last year, he had illicitly participated in Suin’s trial, a contest meant only for the young men of Runrick as a rite of passage into manhood. Buck had jumped in the ice-cold waters of the recently defrosted lake before anyone was able to stop him, but then had swum faster and surer than any of the older boys, and won. He was the one to retrieve the wooden sword and bring it back to Priest Santr. His face and behind got slapped thoroughly for his insolence, and he was made to stand there in the cold late winter air, wet and naked, while they tossed Suin’s sword in the lake again and until one of the young men brought it back. He hadn’t been as fast as Buck, though.

His parents, the priest, Chief Slatrim, and other grown-ups, all had severely chastised him, but Luric had also heard them praise him under their breath. A child had to be disciplined, be respectful of his elders, but boldness was an admirable trait if it was backed up by strength and skill. Luric had looked at Buck while he had been standing there, freezing and bruised, and noticed that the self-satisfied smile never left his lips, even as they were turning blue from the cold. He was cocky. Buck never backed down from a challenge and could hold his own in a schoolyard fight. He had all the makings of a fine northerner, and would grow up to be a great man. All the adults said so. Even his parents had given him a name that preordained how he would turn out: Buckcrown. It suited him well, even if it was a little old-fashioned and presumptuous.

In a way, Luric looked up to him as much as he resented him. He was funny and fun to be around, and everybody wanted to be his friend. Luric was no exception. But Buck and his friends barely knew he existed.

He would often look forlornly at their hassle and horseplay in the schoolyard, trying to convince himself that he didn’t want to be asked to join in. He’d pretend to read his book at the base of the large beech tree, but he’d glimpse at the other kids more often than not.

He and the other orphans didn’t fit in so well, even though the school was technically their home. Mr. Carshtin never differentiated between his wards and the other kids during learning hours; everyone was his student then. Being a little friendlier with the host would’ve been a nice courtesy, Luric often thought sourly. And unless a serious fight broke out, Mr. Carshtin never intervened in the children’s dealings. He gave advice, he encouraged you, but he wanted you to learn to deal with your peers on your own. That was his way. Which is why Luric also never went to Mr. Carshtin when someone was picking on him. Izver, usually.

There were plenty of kids that were mean to him, but Izver was his only real bully; a brash, impetuous brute that tried a lot to be like Buck, only he was completely unlikeable. If you didn’t look too closely, Buck and Izver might appear to be best friends, always together, with the same ideas and attitude, but Luric did look closer and therefore knew better. Izver was jealous of Buck. Under the guise of camaraderie, Izver would always challenge Buck to games that pitted one against the other. He rarely won. And every time he failed to match up to his rival, Izver looked for someone to take out his anger on.

Luric wasn’t his favorite target, but he went after him often enough. Luric would sometimes even provoke him, because Izver’s favorite target was Sivale. Sivale was an orphan like him; a meek and gentle boy that never did anything to deserve anyone’s ire. He might even consider Sivale his best friend of sorts, even though he knew they hung out together mostly because no one else would. Outcasts of a feather.

And Luric could run. When he was in good health, Luric was a fast runner. Faster than Izver in any case, maybe even faster than Buck. One of the few times Buck had talked to him was when he had literally run Izver ragged around town chasing after him; Luric had thrown a mud ball at his face to get him to back off of Sivale. Buck had complimented him for his speed and for sticking up for his friend. As much as he was ashamed to admit it, it was one of the best moments of his life. Buck noticing him and praising him. He went on to imagine getting closer to Buck, maybe even challenging him to a race. If he won, he might win Buck’s respect too. Or even his friendship. He might become friends with the other kids as well.

Luric fancied himself a cerebral loner, who didn’t need the companionship of rowdy brats, but one lousy compliment had turned him into a giddy, hopeful fool.

Come to think of it, this was how it all began. Trying to get Buck’s attention again. Weeks went by and nothing changed. Luric was still sitting alone at the base of the tree, Buck running around completely oblivious to his existence. It was painful, having all his hopes shattered like that. If he had only known how much worse things could be, he would’ve stayed put under that tree. But no one could’ve foreseen the turn of events, so he made the wrong decision. Luric put his book down, walked out of the shadows and into the center of the schoolyard.

He was feeling great that day. In fact, he had been unusually energetic for a while now. Maybe he was finally growing out of those strange bouts of weakness that struck him so often. He was heading for Buck, who had stopped running to look at him as he approached. Luric was finally going to issue the challenge, race him, and win. And then everything would change for the better. He was certain of it.

But before he could even raise his hand in greeting, a violent push from behind sent him flying.

Most were already giggling by the time he removed his face from the dirt. When he turned around he saw Izver. “What ya think ya doin’, ya little sheep shit?! Go back t’ya tree!” And that’s what he should’ve done. Kept his mouth shut, and left. What he did instead was shoot up to his feet, and push Izver back, hard.

Izver was a little shorter than him, but broader, sturdier. Imagine his surprise when he saw Izver actually stumble backwards until he fell just as gracelessly. This time they all gasped, including Izver. Then the giggling started, and Izver face turned red from rage.

“Ya gonna pay for that, Lulu!”

Gods, he hated that nickname. He was going to make Izver regret calling him that. He was going to make him regret everything he ever did to him. Luric was done running away, done with staying quiet and hidden because people were uncomfortable around him. What had he ever done besides get abandoned as a baby and then be sick all the time? None of that was his fault. Izver was mean and rude and stupid, yet he had more friends than him, had better clothes than him, had a real home and parents that loved him despite his ugly, bloated mug.

It’s not fair!

Izver got up to his feet and rushed him. He knocked into Luric and both went tumbling down. It occurred very late to Luric that he had no idea how to fight, and Izver was always in one skirmish or another. He was also heavier, so Luric couldn’t push him off. All he could do was bring up his forearms to shield himself from the onslaught of random punches Izver was blindly throwing at him. When he got tired of that, he grabbed Luric by the hair and started shaking.

Luric didn’t know what to do. Between the pain and the fear and the shame he had no time to think of a way to escape. If he tried to hit Izver back he’d leave his face wide open for his punches. What if he lost an eye? He wouldn’t be able to read anymore.

Izver started pulling even harder, dragged him by the hair until his upper back arched away from the ground. He was being held up by his hair alone, and it felt like the skin on his head was peeling off. It was too painful, and he instinctively lowered his left arm to brace his elbow on the ground in order to support his own weight and relieve some of the tension; his right hand clutched Izver by the arm that was pulling him. And then Izver slapped him. Not a punch, a slap. 

It was strange; a slap didn’t have the strength and damage potential a punch did, yet there was something about the impact of an open palm against his cheek, and the sharp, burning, stinging imprint it left behind, that made Luric feel it more acutely than the dull, throbbing pain of a punch. He hated getting slapped. There was something inherently humiliating about a slap. He even found the sound of it vulgar and infuriating. No matter the circumstance or how well-deserved it was, a slap always made his stomach burn with indignation. And this time was no different.