Nameless

Prologue: The Forest

On a quiet night in a forest on the borders of Paradise, a desperate man ran for his life.

The details of the man didn't matter. He was not the first, nor would he be the last to attempt an escape from the one place in existence no one ever thought to leave, until it was too late and the thought consumed them. The details didn't matter, not even to him. He forgot his childhood and the parents who had raised him. He forgot the lifelong friends who already knew not to look for him. He forgot his wife and the two young daughters who already mourned for him quietly in their home by the sea on the other edge of the forest. The only details that mattered anymore were the black mark on his palms that told him to flee, the scattered moonlight that showed him the way, the absence of night sounds as he ran, gasping for breath, deeper into the forest than he had ever been in his life, and the overwhelming need to find himself on the other side.

Despite his panic he never stumbled, and never faltered from his path. The undergrowth was not thick, and the night was clear, so the man did not fear the possibility of losing his direction. The trees seemed to part before him, creating a path where none had been tread before, inviting him, urging him to be the first to find the way.

No one knew what waited on the other side of the forest. Wilderness, most likely, but no one was really sure. No one wondered, really, not even those few who decided to flee. All the man knew was that if he could only reach the edge of the dense forest and step past the dark trees that towered overhead, he could at last be free.

When at last he stepped away from the confines of the trees and into the cool, open air, the man collapsed to the ground, seizing as he gasped for breath. His legs ached and his lungs writhed from the pain of overuse. For a brief moment he felt relief, respite. A fine mist parted gradually before his eyes like a curtain being pulled away to let the sunlight into a darkened room. A light appeared in the distance, then another, and another, each blurred by the fog, warm and unreachable.

The man lifted his head, then forced himself to his feet, his body trembling from uncertainty and exhaustion. A whimper passed his lips as the mist parted further. An orange glow from the lights reached him, forcing him to shield his eyes. This was not the open wilderness. This was home. He had fled for hours, only to reach his starting point. A cobbled street lay before him with houses of white stone and roofs of tile or thatch to either side. The lights from the windows revealed small glimpses of the lives within; dinners set and about to be enjoyed, lovers lost in the comfort of each other's arms after a long day, families gathered around a fireplace to take refuge in a little more light before they retired to their beds.

One by one, as the man banged on the doors until his fingers and palms bled, shouting and pleading for his life, the lights went out, shutters were pulled closed, and the quiet village by the moonlit sea fell silent.

Only Ronin, a young boy tucked safely in his bed beside his mother and father, lie awake, his eyes wide and staring at the darkness as he listened to the screams outside. He held his breath until they stopped, then pulled the quilt his mother had made him over his face and did his best to forget, just as he had been taught.