10 years earlier, continued...

At first, Ren tried to avoid Brenin when he was drunk. But two months after his arrival, things came to a head when Brenin was busy sitting by the fire and drinking and he heard low sobs coming from over where the boy was sleeping. 

Brenin snarled, “Why are you making noise? Stop that!” 

The sobs stopped abruptly. But a moment later, they started again. 

Furious, the drunken warrior stumbled over to the boy’s bed, grabbed his arm, and yanked him to his feet. “I said stop it!” he shouted. 

“Let go, old man!” Though Ren’s face was streaked with tears, he was also angry. “Don’t you touch me!” 

“Stop crying!” Brenin shook him hard. “Stop it!” 

“I’ll cry if I want to! And I’ll scream if I want to! I’ll do whatever I want, because you’re not my parents. You’re not anyone I love or that I care about, and you’re all alone because you’re so mean no one cares about you! Just go away!” 

Brenin hit him, hard enough to make him see stars. And Ren, in typical Ren fashion, hit back without hesitation. They struggled briefly, but in a moment Brenin shoved him away and stumbled back to his seat by the fire. “Worthless brat! Why don’t you just go home?” he grumbled. 

“I WANT to go home! I’d love to go home! But I can’t, because my family don’t want me.” Ren held up the crumpled, tear stained letter from his parents and then threw it at Brenin. “You old bum!” 

Ren grabbed him by the shoulders, and Brenin was surprised by the grip strength in those ten-year-old hands. “I hate you! I wish you’d go and die. Why won’t you die already? You don’t even want to be alive, do you?” 

Brenin shoved him aside and threw the empty bottle in his hand at him. Ren caught it out of the air and threw it on the floor where it shattered, spraying glass everywhere. Brenin jumped up and gripped his arm. “That’s enough!” he snarled. 

“I agree. It is.” Ren shook him off and went back to bed, stifling his sobs in his pillow. Brenin watched him for a minute, swaying slightly. Then he sat by the fire, opened another bottle, and continued to drink. 

The next morning, Brenin opened his eyes blearily and glanced around for Ren. He didn’t see him. But he heard him outside, yelling energetically as he attacked a training post. The sound grated on his ears. He grumbled as he got up and put the blanket that had been covering him away. 

That was when he realized he hadn’t been using a blanket the night before. He glanced at the table and saw that breakfast had already been made, along with a big cup of coffee. Brenin picked up the coffee cup and stared at the black liquid suspiciously. Then he put it to his lips and tried a sip. 

He immediately spat it out. It was like drinking sand. “Is he trying to poison me?” he muttered. 

Twenty minutes later, he came out of the cabin. Ren was busy training and pretended not to notice him. Brenin watched him for some time. 

Finally Ren came up to him, panting, and held up his stick. “I’ve been training a lot. I can beat you now,” he said confidently. It was as if the violent encounter of last night had never happened. 

In reality, Ren felt ‘all twisted up’ inside, as he liked to say. He still hated Brenin. But what Brenin didn’t know was that just before he drifted off into a drunken stupor, he always mumbled the names of his dead wife and son. Ren had heard it. 

Brenin sparred with him, with of course the same result as on the first day. Ren bemoaned, “I haven’t gotten any better!” 

“Of course not. It’s only been two months,” Brenin said gruffly. “Now, come on. I’ll show you how to make coffee.” 

The days and weeks passed quickly. Brenin would never admit it, even to himself, but he came to expect the cheerful blue eyes and eager face each morning. It felt natural, like his son had come back to life. And that made him feel guilty, because in reality, his son was lying in a cold grave, and this boy belonged to some father who cared more about earning status than caring for his child. 

When Brenin felt guilty, he drank. Ren avoided him, and every morning after a night of drinking, Brenin woke up with a blanket over him and a cup of coffee nearby. Finally, he decided to address it. “I’m not asking for your pity, you know,” he said gruffly as they sat at the table together. 

“I don’t pity you. I hate you,” Ren said calmly. “I’m going to beat you up real well some day.” 

“Ha. I’d like to see you try,” Brenin muttered. 

But that night, they nearly had another violent fight. Brenin opened his cupboard to look for his bottle, and to his horror, it was gone. “Where’s my bottle?” he asked sharply. 

Ren looked at him quite coolly. “It’s gone,” he said. 

Brenin grabbed him by the shoulders. “It can’t be. Why would you touch that? Go get me another!” he ordered. 

Ren shook him off. “No. I’m done watching you act like a fool, old man. If you bring another bottle in, I’ll break it before you can drink it. Don’t think I won’t.” He folded his arms. “You’re going to be sober from now on.” 

“I can’t!” Brenin was really desperate now. “I can’t. You don’t understand at all. Just get me my bottle, you little brat!” 

“No! I won’t now, or any day. And if you try to get it, I’ll just keep hiding it and breaking it. You’re done drinking from now on.” Ren glared at him. “You don’t remember anything when you’re drunk, but I do. And I’m sick of it. I’m the one who gets hit and yelled at and cursed at, and I’m the one who has to drag you out of bed with a hangover and make sure you don’t choke on your own vomit. How pathetic does that sound, old man? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” 

Brenin was ashamed. But he was also angry now. “You don’t get to talk to me like that!” 

“I’ll talk to you however I want. We already had this discussion, only you don’t remember, ‘cause you were drunk. Brenin.” Ren took his hand, suddenly quite gentle. “You drink ‘cause your wife and kid died, right? But now I’m here. And I don’t want you to drink anymore.” 

Brenin shoved him away. “Do you think you can replace them? How dare you!” he shouted. 

Ren’s eyes suddenly filled with tears, bewildering his old mentor. “I know I can’t,” he whispered. “But I do care about you, even if I don’t want to. So stop hurting yourself. Please.” He put his arms around Brenin and buried his face in his shirt. 

Brenin pushed him away again with trembling hands. “Stop that,” he said. “You’re not my son.” 

“I know. I know I can never be. But, you stupid, rotten old man, I don’t hate you anymore; can’t you see, I care about you?” Ren grabbed Brenin’s hand again and dragged him over to the painting of his family. “I know you still love ‘em, and you wish they were here, but they’re not. Just imagine if they were and they saw what you do every night.” 

“Ren, you’re crossing a line.” Brenin’s voice was low and deadly. “Get out.” 

“No.” Ren glared at him, brushing his tears away resolutely with the back of his hand. “I’ve already decided. You’re sobering up, whether you like it or not. If it takes me a day, a year, or ten, I’m going to sober you up.” 

Over the next year, Brenin really did try to get drunk. But his bottles got smashed, or every single bottle at the tavern ended up broken somehow. As much as it frustrated Brenin, for the first time in a very long time, he felt something totally unexpected. He felt loved. And inevitably, finally, he sobered up and was able to offer the boy the same thing in return. 

Present day

Brenin thought of Ren as a son, and he knew the young man viewed him as a father. So it was no wonder that he was struggling, as Illian had said. “He can take care of himself,” Brenin tried to remind himself as he prepared to move out with the other soldiers. “If anyone can keep the princess safe and come back alive in spite of those animals, it’s him.” He’d just have to have faith that was true.