Young Writers Society

Clanny is probably one of the last people to still use this system since it had been lost with the dissolving of the hunters guild.

Wearing hope as a badge marks you as a lesser man in the eyes of a hunter.

It becomes a weakness to be extorted, and they seize the moment to stomp out the remains of that flickering flame without any hesitation. Because any hunter knows that a truly hopeless man will not fight.

So we learn to keep our sacred hoped closely guarded in our hearts; too afraid to even give a whisper to their name, like one breath would blow them out. We wear resignation on our faces like a garment, and dole our quiet defiance out in small glances. Sharp gazes. Waiting quietly for the opportune moment to-

A memory fought its way to the forefront of his mind. A chill ran down his spine.

Breathing. Slowly.

The cold night of the forest wrapped his skin in a cold blanket as he burned underneath, pain and fever causing sweat to drip down the back of his neck, down his back. His body ached from malnourishment and mistreatment, all amidst the discomfort of being tied to the tree, with his arms above his head, feet barely touching the ground, like a sack of meat.

Out of the corner of his eye he closely watched his tormentors sleeping. There laid Butch, the bounty hunter whose massive chest rose and fell far too peacefully for a man filled with so much wrath. And then there was Dagger, the only name he knew the slimmer man by.

The two of them laid on the ground with their blankets wrapped snugly around them. The light of the small fire sent sharp shadows over their faces, and the sliver of a moon in the sky laughed at them.

It was the worst night to try and escape. Without the fire, the forest was a formless, black void; a labyrinth of darkness that he could just as easily get lost in as caught in. But it was also the only night that the medic, keeping watch for his nighttime shift, seemed vulnerable enough to take pity on him.

Day after day, the medic look away as Butch and Dagger made his waking hours a nightmare, and cleaned him afterwards just like he was told. "You job is to keep him alive," Butch would tell him, like it were a joke, that James's life had value to anyone.

And then obediently, the nameless medic would bow his head, and tend to James's wounds but never meet his eyes. Though the medic could bear the aftermath, it was clear that he did not share the others' morbid fascination of toying with their bounty before delivery.

But the days were running together, and he knew it was only a day or two before they'd reach the kingdom borders. If he wanted to escape he had to do it now. All he had to do was pull on the medic's weak stomach. All he had to do was look pitiful, and work up a few tears to draw the man close.

"M-my leg," he whimpered as he held back tears. "Please."

The medic's face fell to his bound up legs, and the axe-length bandaging below his left knee. And he knew he had won.

Regret. Pity. Sympathy. All of it made itself known on the medic's face as he loosed James's bonds, freeing up his legs.

And that was when James swung up his leg, and watched with a giddy, adrenaline and fever-filled relief as the medic fell with a thud to the ground.

At least, until a wave of dread washed over him, and realization crept in like a thick fog.

He'd become just like his captors.

James closed his eyes.

Had James been writing on a piece of paper, he would have crushed it in his fist and thrown it up against a wall. But it had been exactly four days since he'd written on pages and it had been close to four years since he'd had the liberty to do something as petty as pelt a ripped out journal entry at a wall. Nevermind alone, in the privacy of a room, without the fear of someone reading over his shoulder, psychoanalyzing him and undressing him of his fake persona with one gaze.

He took in a deep breath and rolled his shoulders, straightening up in his saddle. Tension that he wasn't even aware was there made itself known in knots by his neck, and by his shoulderblades. His stab wound ached like a bone-deep bruise and itched on the surface where his skin rubbed against the bandaging.

They were one day out from Ruddlan. They'd spent three days hurrying towards the city, away from Alexander and out of goblin territory. The anxious uncertainty that hung in the air between him and Clandestine was left unspoken, but he knew what she was thinking. What anyone would be thinking in her position.

Wondering if he was worth the trouble. If he was trustworthy. If he was anything he said he was. Things he could never prove in words, even if he wanted to.

He reached up to rub between his eyes in an attempt to clear his mind and ease his lingering headache, but his hand shot down to the horn of his saddle as Elliot's weight shifted to step over a rotting fallen log. As if to spite him for his inattentiveness, the sun pierced through the trees overhead and right into his eyes, momentarily blinding him. He winced and squeezed his eyes shut, looking away as spots of light danced beneath his eyelids.

"Maybe you should put your hat back on."

James squinted over at Clandestine, who had stopped a pace or two ahead of him. She was a blurry shape atop a bigger black blob for half a second, but a few persistent blinks brought her back into focus.

She was grinning, and something about the way she was looking at him made him feel like she could see right through him, but in a way that was almost pure. Something in her vibrantly green eyes evoked a kindness that made James feel... seen. It made him want to put his hat back on to hide his face.

But as he stared back he realized, for the first time since her rescuing him, he was actually looking at her. Not just past her. Not just to catch every outward tick and emotion. He noticed that she'd pulled her ponytail up higher, and her thick black bangs were starting to grow past her eyes, resulting in them getting pushed to the side in a wavy swoop.

He could feel his empty stomach flutter, and he looked down to his hand gripping the reins. In their few seconds of eye contact he'd completely forgotten what she'd said.

"You okay there, cowboy?" Clandestine asked, tilting her head to the side.

James nodded sharply and rode Elliot up beside Clandestine and Billy.

"Does that mean 'yeah, I'm okay,' or does that mean 'nah, but I don't wanna talk about it?'" Clandestine asked, leanding forward in her saddle in an attempt to catch his eye. He flicked a glance at her, and set his jaw, taking in and letting out a short breath through his nose.

"I've just got a lot on my mind," he admitted.

Clandestine's eyes lit up at his confession, but just as she started to open her mouth, he spoke.

"That I don't want to talk about."

Immediately the light was distinguished, and she looked forward with a pout. James's lip twitched to the side in a frown before he set it back to neutral. He brought both hands to the reins and gripped them a little tighter.

He knew - no, he feared - that if he stayed with her long enough something would slip out, and that the moment it did he would get attatched. He was afraid he already was.

With flexed fingers he buried the thought deep in his stomach, and he reminded himself again that: she doesn't even know you.

Yes. And that was how it would stay. And when they reached Ruddlan, he would say goodbye, and