In a modest house, Bardr, Esra, and the five-year-old Sinbad sat around the unconscious form of a stranger. The wooden floor creaked beneath them as they adjusted their positions, it was already morning and the man still hadn't woken up, perhaps he never would. Yet as that quick as that thought had come it was gone.
The man, battered as he was with bandages across most of his body, finally opened his eyes. The surroundings slowly came into focus, blurry shapes transforming into three distinct figures hovering above him.
'Who?' the man thought as he gathered his senses, the taste of salt still lingering on his lips from his earlier plunge into the sea.
"Mister," Sinbad said, leaning his head toward the man, his amber eyes wide with curiosity and concern. The child's purple swayed slightly as he bobbed his head, causing the man to crane his neck to meet the child's gaze.
"You had collapsed by the well," Bardr explained, his voice deep and reassuring. "Sinbad found you there. You would've died if he didn't find you."
The man slowly sat up, wincing as his muscles protested, to meet the gazes of his saviors. After Bardr's words, the man looked directly at Sinbad himself, who just smiled in response, his young face beaming with a sense of accomplishment he'd never felt before.
The man raised his hand toward Sinbad. Esra, maternal instinct flaring, wanted to reach out to stop him, her fingers twitching with the impulse to protect her son. But her husband stopped her with a gentle touch to her arm, his expression calm, almost funnily so.
The man's hand fell onto Sinbad's head, fully enveloping the child's skull in his palm. The palm was rough, calloused, the hand of someone who had seen much work and perhaps battle. Esra was safe to say that she was panicking right about now, her heart racing at the stranger's touch on her child, however Bardr still remained calm.
Out of nowhere, the man began to cry, his tears rushing down his cheeks like rivers breaking their banks after a storm. They fell onto the bed, darkening the already worn fabric with each drop.
"Thank you, little boy," the man began, clutching Sinbad's hands with the one he had free while the one atop Sinbad's head moved slowly, almost reverently. "Thank you very much. Thank you."
Over and over he thanked the boy, tears never failing to cross the man's cheeks at his every word. Sinbad, at that exact moment, felt something he had never felt before. It was similar to pride and yet distinctly different, a warmth that spread from his chest to his fingertips, making them tingle. Sinbad didn't know what said feeling was, all he knew was that he liked how it made him feel, this sensation of having truly helped someone.
Once the man calmed down, wiping his tears with the back of his hand, the family and the stranger sat across from each other. Sinbad took his place behind his father, his small head peering around Bardr's broader frame, eyes fixed on the stranger.
"My name is Darius," the man, now recognized as Darius, began. His voice was steady now, though still tinged with emotion.
Bardr looked at the man, thinking back to yesterday night. He had realized once Sinbad led him to Darius that the stranger was an awakened, though not a very strong one by the looks of it.
"The ship I was on shipwrecked and next thing I knew I was here. I can't thank you enough," Darius added.
Bardr knew that this man, Darius, was hiding something, maybe all of it was a lie. But Bardr liked to give people the benefit of the doubt, and so he did.
"Hah, that must have been hard," Bardr sighed, deciding to accept the tale at face value, at least for now. "If there's anything we can do for you..."
"Honey," Esra said, her voice dropping to a whisper as she leaned closer to her husband.
"What?" Bardr turned slightly toward his wife, keeping Darius in his peripheral vision.
"Our home is tiny," she whispered into Bardr's ear, her breath warm against his skin. "I'm sure there is somewhere else..." Her words trailed off, but her meaning was clear—they barely had enough for themselves, let alone a stranger.
Yet as his parents talked, any wariness Sinbad might have harbored for the man was all but gone. His curious eyes settled themselves on Darius' head, specifically his hair, so different from anyone else's in the village. Without warning, he moved toward it.
SLAP.
SLAP.
The parents looked to see where the noise was coming from. Sinbad was standing on Darius' shoulders, balanced precariously as he slapped the man's head, feeling the texture of his unusual hair.
SLAP.
Esra's face began to pale as she stammered, horrified at her son's behavior. The sound of each slap seemed to echo in the small room, amplifying her embarrassment.
"Mister, why is your hair yellow?" Sinbad asked, his voice filled with genuine curiosity. It seemed the boy didn't know about personal space, or perhaps didn't care for it when his curiosity was piqued.
"Sinbad, what are you doing!" his mother was finally able to ask, her voice tight with worry and mortification.
"Haha, it's alright," Darius laughed, the sound genuine and warm. He grabbed little Sinbad from his shoulders, his movements careful as he placed the boy in front of him. "Have you ever been outside the village?" he asked.
"No," Sinbad replied, shaking his head vehemently, his purple hair swaying with the motion.
"I see," the man began, settling more comfortably as if preparing for a longer conversation. "I come from outside this village, far away from here, a foreign country in fact. I like to think of myself as pretty well traveled. Outside this village, there are all kinds of places. There are people like me with different colored hair." He ran a hand through his own yellow locks for emphasis. "Different countries and cultures. There are lots of different kinds of people."
It would have been impossible for Darius to know, but a feeling had erupted inside Sinbad from Darius' word, one which would shape him for the rest of the young boy's life. A feeling of curiosity and, above all, adventure. His amber eyes widened, like a cat's would whenever they wanted something.
"There are lots of mysterious fruits and food that you've probably never seen," Darius continued, his hands moving expressively as he spoke. "The world is full of things that you don't know, there are even more things that I don't know. The world is a vast place, and adventure is so much fun."
As Darius spoke, Bardr watched his son's face light up with wonder.
"Although I guess these are things too difficult for you to understand right now?" Darius finished shyly, mistaking Sinbad's silent awe for confusion.
"No," Sinbad shook his head vehemently, his voice filled with enthusiasm. "I want to hear more."
"But I—" Darius began, glancing at Bardr and Esra, unsure if he should continue.
"It's okay," Bardr interrupted, his decision made. "You can stay in our house until you're cured, but we're scraping out a living day to day, so promise me just one thing, that you won't get into trouble." He paused, considering. "Oh, and you'll indulge Sinbad a bit, if that's okay with you."
Esra wanted to speak up against her husband, to remind him of their precarious situation, of the risk of harboring a stranger when they barely had enough for themselves. But she held herself back, swallowing her concerns. After all, she knew her husband best, trusted his judgment even when she didn't understand it. And she also didn't feel well at the thought of throwing the injured Darius from their home, especially after seeing how he had connected with Sinbad.
Darius didn't know how to feel about all of this unexpected kindness. So he just closed his hands so hard that his knuckles began to turn white, the physical tension a reflection of his emotional state, before finally saying, "Thank you." The words seemed inadequate for the gratitude he felt, but they were all he had to offer.
"Then welcome to our house, Darius," Bardr said, a small smile spreading across his chiseled face, lines crinkling around his eyes.
And so, like this, a few days went by, each one melding into the next in a pleasant rhythm. Each day, without fail, Sinbad would listen to Darius' stories, hanging on every his every word. His stories lasted late into the night, sometimes continuing until Sinbad's eyelids grew heavy with sleep, though he fought against it, desperate not to miss a single detail.
"What kind of story do you want to hear today?" Darius asked one evening as they lied in Darius' makeshift bed in the living room, with a lantern placed in front of their faces. "Do you want to know about a country that's surrounded by ice? Or a desert country burning ablaze?"
Sinbad's eyes lit up at both options, unable to choose. "Both!" he declared, settling closer to Darius.
Darius was knowledgeable, his stories rich with details that could only come from firsthand experience or extensive study. He was also a good storyteller, his voice rising and falling with the narrative, it was as if he had an inexhaustible amount of stories for Sinbad to enjoy.
The world kept expanding in Sinbad's mind with each tale, and his passion and excitement stirred in response. How big this world was and how little this village was in comparison! To a child that had never gone outside its boundaries, Darius' stories were like fairy tales come to life, windows to a world he yearned to explore.
As the days passed, Darius' wounds began to heal, the bruises fading from purple to yellow to nothing at all. Though he never spoke of it, there was a growing restlessness in him, a need to move on that became more apparent with each passing day, that day soon came as well.
The sun shined through the windows of the house, illuminating the entire house in yellow light. Darius stood in the sunlight, feeling the pleasant heat on his body as he strapped a canteen to his body, his movements fast and quiet.
"Good morning," a female voice reached Darius' ears, the voice of Esra who had been the one to take care of most of his wounds. Darius turned around to see her standing in the doorway, a small tray balanced in her hands, steam rising from the food she had prepared.
"Here you go," she said, placing it in front of him with the care of someone used to making every morsel count. Esra's eyes seemed to finally register what he was doing. "Oh, you've got your baggage."
"Actually, I'm leaving today," Darius replied, his voice tinged with a mix of regret and resolution.
"What? You aren't healed up yet." Esra said, concern evident in her tone. Despite her initial reservations, she had grown fond of the stranger who had brought such joy to her son.
"No, I've rested enough," Darius insisted, avoiding her gaze. "I'll never forget your generosity."
The atmosphere was calm and placid, it really seemed as if all had gone well, Darius would leave with nothing but gratitude and good memories. Yet, as with most of the world, the calm never lasted, because a voice reached Darius' ears from outside the house, a voice that he recognized, a voice that sent a chill down his spine and made him grit his teeth.
"Is anybody home?"