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This is how it ends.

He is ten years old, and when he wakes up, there is firelight dancing on the walls of his room. Outside is a cacaphony of crackling and roaring and screaming and the twang-thump, twang-thump of arrows.

He thinks it's a dream, and he grabs his bow from its peg on the wall and goes to investigate.

Just inside the door is his mother, crouched with a quiver of arrows by her side. Standing in the doorway is his father, taking an arrow from the stack on the floor at his feet. Their bows are two tall slashes, dark against the fire outside.

His father sees him, the small slim figure at the foot of the stairs, clutching his bow and arrows to his chest. His eyes are wide and dark and soft and confused, angry and frightened.

"Go," his father says. "Go!"

He goes. He runs down the path, which is well-lit with a reddish glow from behind him. The tall grass in the field waves around him softly. He does not look back, until he hears the crash and roar, and turns in his tracks.

The gallery is burning. Its roof has fallen in. He can smell the varnish as it sizzles and pops. Dark shapes swarm around it, the thin lines of arrows flitting between them in silhouette. They stagger and fall, one by one.

He stands, frozen. He watches from the long grass as they come with their broad shoulders in armor when the rain of arrows has thinned, throwing loops of rope around the wrists of the villagers who haven't found friends to turn their arrows on them. He watches them leading his mother away, alone. She walks with dignity. An arrow flies from somewhere, and she falls...

There is an arrow in his hands, nocked to his bow. He pulls, feels the feathers soft against his cheek, closes his eyes and lets it fly away.

Far, far away, he hears the faintest thud. He hears a rising clamor of shouts. He hears pounding feet, trampling the long grass. He turns, and he runs.

They chase him at their disadvantage, through the burning fields, until they come to the river. He does not hesitate. Clutching his bow in one hand, he closes his eyes, and lets himself fly.

When he wakes, someone is bracing him around the shoulders with strong arms, encouraging him in soothing tones to finish spitting up the water inside him. He makes a faint distressed sound. His bow is still clutched in his hand, but his arrows are not. All his arrows are gone.

"Are you all right?" says the young man, bending over him with concerned eyes under dark, winged brows. A strand of wheatgrass tucked between his teeth bobs as he speaks. "Where are you from? What's your name?"

He coughs. His voice tastes like vomit and ashes, and he spits it out with the water, mouthful by mouthful. When it's gone, there will be nothing left but his bow.

"Longshot," he whispers, with the last of it.

He is ten years old, and he will never speak again.

Description
-1- [link]
-2- [link]

This is how it ends.

He is ten years old, and when he wakes up, there is firelight dancing on the walls of his room. Outside is a cacaphony of crackling and roaring and screaming and the twang-thump, twang-thump of arrows.

He thinks it's a dream, and he grabs his bow from its peg on the wall and goes to investigate.

Just inside the door is his mother, crouched with a quiver of arrows by her side. Standing in the doorway is his father, taking an arrow from the stack on the floor at his feet. Their bows are two tall slashes, dark against the fire outside.

His father sees him, the small slim figure at the foot of the stairs, clutching his bow and arrows to his chest. His eyes are wide and dark and soft and confused, angry and frightened.

"Go," his father says. "Go!"

He goes. He runs down the path, which is well-lit with a reddish glow from behind him. The tall grass in the field waves around him softly. He does not look back, until he hears the crash and roar, and turns in his tracks.

The gallery is burning. Its roof has fallen in. He can smell the varnish as it sizzles and pops. Dark shapes swarm around it, the thin lines of arrows flitting between them in silhouette. They stagger and fall, one by one.

He stands, frozen. He watches from the long grass as they come with their broad shoulders in armor when the rain of arrows has thinned, throwing loops of rope around the wrists of the villagers who haven't found friends to turn their arrows on them. He watches them leading his mother away, alone. She walks with dignity. An arrow flies from somewhere, and she falls...

There is an arrow in his hands, nocked to his bow. He pulls, feels the feathers soft against his cheek, closes his eyes and lets it fly away.

Far, far away, he hears the faintest thud. He hears a rising clamor of shouts. He hears pounding feet, trampling the long grass. He turns, and he runs.

They chase him at their disadvantage, through the burning fields, until they come to the river. He does not hesitate. Clutching his bow in one hand, he closes his eyes, and lets himself fly.

When he wakes, someone is bracing him around the shoulders with strong arms, encouraging him in soothing tones to finish spitting up the water inside him. He makes a faint distressed sound. His bow is still clutched in his hand, but his arrows are not. All his arrows are gone.

"Are you all right?" says the young man, bending over him with concerned eyes under dark, winged brows. A strand of wheatgrass tucked between his teeth bobs as he speaks. "Where are you from? What's your name?"

He coughs. His voice tastes like vomit and ashes, and he spits it out with the water, mouthful by mouthful. When it's gone, there will be nothing left but his bow.

"Longshot," he whispers, with the last of it.

He is ten years old, and he will never speak again.