Fidrohir lay on the ground. Cursing out every word he had at Vlad, but it seemed that Vlad did not care. Fidrohir raised himself to his full length again and cursed the stone that made him trip. He played around with the idea of his crossbow. One arrow was all it would take to get rid of the horrid Vlad.
Why he staid was still a mystery to him. Just like always, nobody liked him. He had hoped on some comradeship in this group, but everyone seemed to mistrust everyone. Much did he longed to go and find his parents that sold him away. Not to kill him, but to find what he had never experienced in his entire life: Love and affection. Just a kind word was enough. But no one ever gave it to him, only making him harder and more hostile to his environment.
From the very beginning Vlad had questioned if Fidrohir was to stay when he arrived. He was young and had been very hard to control. And now he still was. Many times did Vlad have to strike him down and never was there a hand to help him up. Always on his own, except when they needed something done. Than they were ordering him around. Even though Fidrohir was older. But Vlad had more experience in those things. So he just accepted the fact that his life had failed and that there was no cause whatsoever.
Khalad was muttering something to the elf and the elf was babbling about high kings. Fidrohir could not imagine what a high king was. He himself was pretty tall, so they should be enormously big. Fidrohir wondered what they were. Never had he heared tales of ancient times. Only orders and insults. Fidrohir envied this elf. He must have someone loving him back home and parents willing to tell him stories of old. No doubt he had been in those stories as well. And where was Fidrohir himself? In a pig stable. He walked away from the group, he had enough. In the dark he leaned against a tree and softly started sobbing.
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