Gordon's hands trembled as he struck the flint and steel again and again, sparks flying uselessly into the pile of dry tinder. His heart pounded in his chest, a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. He was sweating, his forehead slick with a cold sheen, but the wood remained stubbornly unlit.
He felt a growing sense of despair, a heavy weight settling in his stomach. He couldn't understand it. He had lit fires countless times before, effortlessly. Now, he couldn't even manage a flicker.
"Really?" Markus spat out, his voice laced with contempt. "We've done all the heavy lifting, and you can't even light a simple fire?"
Gordon flinched, his gaze falling to the ground. He couldn't meet Markus's eyes.
"What are you, a baby?" Markus continued, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Can't even handle a little spark?"
Gordon's cheeks burned with shame. He felt a lump forming in his throat, a mix of humiliation and frustration. He wanted to say something, to defend himself, but he couldn't find the words.
He tried again, his movements frantic, his desperation growing. The flint scraped against the steel, sending a shower of sparks into the tinder. Still, nothing.
"Just give up, Gordon," Sharon said, her voice laced with a cruel amusement. "You're useless. Always have been."
Gordon's heart sank. He felt a wave of hopelessness wash over him. He was failing, utterly and completely. He was a burden, a disappointment. He was nothing.
The rest of the trial was a torturous procession of failures for Gordon. Every task, every challenge, became a new opportunity for Markus, Sharon, and Edi to heap scorn and ridicule upon him. He fumbled with knots, missed his targets, and stumbled through the forest, his every misstep met with sneers and harsh words.
Markus, once his closest friend, now seemed to relish Gordon's humiliation, his voice dripping with sarcasm and contempt. Sharon, her eyes glittering with cruel amusement, never missed a chance to deliver a cutting remark, her words like poisoned darts finding their mark. Edi, their instructor, his face a mask of disgust, berated Gordon with relentless ferocity, his insults echoing through the silent forest.
"Clumsy fool," "pathetic excuse for a hunter," "useless burden"—the words became a constant, agonizing drone, hammering against Gordon's heart and mind, chipping away at his self-worth. Each failure, each insult, deepened the wound, fueling the growing sense of self-loathing that consumed him.
He felt a profound disconnect, a sense that he was watching himself from a distance, a helpless observer in his own life. He couldn't understand why he was so incompetent, so utterly useless. He remembered being capable, competent, even heroic. But now, he was a shadow of his former self, a broken, hollow shell.
By the time the trial ended, Gordon felt nothing but a deep, gnawing hatred for himself. He was a failure, a disgrace, a burden to everyone around him. The words of his tormentors echoed in his mind, their voices a constant, mocking chorus. He felt a profound sense of isolation, a feeling that he was utterly alone, abandoned by everyone he had ever cared about. He was broken, and he felt like he could never be fixed.
Gordon walked back to his cottage, his steps heavy, his spirit crushed. The forest, once a place of adventure and wonder, now seemed to mock his failure, the trees whispering his inadequacy. He felt hollow, empty, the cruel words of his companions echoing in his mind.
He reached his cottage, the familiar sight offering no comfort. He opened the door, expecting a warm smile, a comforting embrace. Instead, he was met with a barrage of angry words.
"Gordon!" his mother snapped, her face flushed with anger. "What do you think you're doing? Taking the hunter's trial without even talking to me? Are you completely out of your mind?"
Gordon flinched, his gaze falling to the floor. He couldn't meet her eyes.
"Don't you realize how stupid and useless you are?" she continued, her voice laced with contempt. "Taking the hunter's trial? It's a waste of time. You'll just fail, embarrass yourself, and maybe even get yourself killed. And then what? Who's going to take care of me? After all the money I've spent feeding you, clothing you, trying to make something of you?"
Gordon's heart sank. He had expected disappointment, perhaps even anger, but not this. Not this cold, cutting disdain.
"You're a burden, Gordon," she hissed, her voice low and venomous. "You've always been a burden. You're weak, you're clumsy, you're utterly useless. And now, you're going to throw your life away on some foolish dream of becoming a hunter?"
He felt a wave of nausea, a feeling that he was being suffocated by the weight of her words. He wanted to scream, to cry, to run away. But he couldn't move. He stood there, frozen, his body trembling, his mind reeling.
"You're a disappointment, Gordon," she said, her voice dripping with disgust. "A complete and utter disappointment."
That night, Gordon curled up on his bed, his body wracked with sobs. His heart felt like it had been shattered into a thousand pieces, the pain so intense it was difficult to breathe. He cried until he was exhausted, until his tears ran dry, and then he drifted into a fitful, dreamless sleep.
When morning came, he rose with a heavy heart, his eyes swollen and red. He felt empty, hollow, like a ghost drifting through his own life. He decided to go to the goat farm, hoping that the familiar routine would offer some semblance of comfort.
But as soon as he arrived, he realized that something was wrong. No one greeted him. No one even acknowledged his presence. He walked past his coworkers, offering a hesitant "Good morning," but received only cold, stony silence in return.
Everyone gave him the cold shoulder, their gazes filled with a mixture of disdain and disgust. Even Lukas, his best friend, avoided his eyes, his expression a mask of contempt.
Gordon, confused and hurt, approached Lukas. "Lukas, what's going on?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly. "Why is everyone acting like this?"
Lukas turned to him, his eyes narrowed, his lips curled into a sneer. "Why did you come back here?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Aren't you too good for this place now? You're a hero, aren't you? A hunter. You should be out hunting squirrels, not mucking out goat pens."
Gordon's heart sank. He couldn't understand the sudden hostility. "But… but I just wanted to work," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "I thought… I thought things would be normal."
"Normal?" Lukas scoffed. "Nothing's normal anymore, Gordon. You've changed. You think you're better than us now."
"No, Lukas, that's not true," Gordon pleaded, his eyes filled with desperation. "I'm still the same Gordon."
"You're not the same," Lukas said, his voice cold and hard. "You're a hero now. And heroes don't belong here." He turned away, leaving Gordon standing alone, his heart aching with a profound sense of betrayal.
Gordon, his heart heavy, resigned himself to working alone. He moved through the goat farm, performing his tasks with a mechanical precision, milking the goats, storing the milk in the warehouse. The silence was deafening, broken only by the bleating of the goats and the clinking of the buckets. No one spoke to him, no one even looked at him. He was an invisible presence, a ghost haunting the familiar grounds.
The hours dragged on, each minute an eternity. The weight of his isolation grew heavier, crushing him beneath its oppressive weight. He felt like he was trapped in a nightmare, a cruel parody of his former life.
Finally, the workday ended. He walked out of the goat farm, his footsteps slow and deliberate. But instead of heading towards his cottage, he found himself drawn to the familiar path leading to the hill overlooking the village.
He climbed the hill, his gaze fixed on the old tree, the silent sentinel that had witnessed countless moments of his childhood. He reached the tree, its gnarled branches reaching out like… well, like a silent, unjudging presence. He sat beneath its shade, his back resting against the rough bark.
He closed his eyes, his mind flooded with memories. He remembered playing here as a child, mostly with Lukas. They'd sought refuge beneath this tree, a haven from the bigger kids who liked to torment them. It wasn't a place of grand adventures, but a place of quiet escape. He remembered Lukas's outlandish stories, the whispered plans to avoid the bullies, the shared, nervous laughter.
Now, all those memories felt like distant echoes, like fragments of a life that no longer existed. He felt utterly alone, abandoned by the one person he thought he could always count on.
He began to cry, silent tears streaming down his cheeks. He didn't sob, didn't wail. He just wept, his tears a quiet testament to the pain that consumed him.
He stayed there, beneath the old oak tree, until the moon hung high in the sky, until the village lights flickered and died. He cried until he had no more tears left, until he was numb, empty.
Only then, when the silence of the night was at its deepest, did he dare to return home. He walked through the dark streets, his footsteps echoing through the stillness, his heart a hollow ache. He felt like a ghost, a shadow drifting through a world that no longer belonged to him.