Xenn Arranson was confused, but if asked he would have said angry. He only wanted to look at the crossbow. It wasn't as if he was going to use it on anybody. After all, he told himself, looking back, he'd not even taken any bolts for it. What was wrong with him having a crossbow? They wouldn't sell him one, so he was forced to attempt theft - simple as that. He only wanted it for hunting. He wasn't immature like the other boys around town; Xenn was older than his years. He was easily responsible enough to safely own a weapon; why didn't anybody else understand? What right did they have to deny him his wish? What if he needed it for self defence?

So many different thoughts - maybe he was confused, not angry - but Xenn didn't believe that. Xenn didn't want to believe it.

He kicked away an offending pebble and knocked the back of his head slowly, rhythmically against the wall behind him. No light penetrated the alley between buildings in which he sat, leaning - a fact that aided in his choosing it. He thought, perhaps, the darkness would make it easier for him to think, for him to feel angry. Wrong. Now, glancing round, all he could hear was the eerie, soft whistling of the wind through the cold black of night. Bile rose in his throat, weight gathered in his bladder, and a sickly tugging sensation yanked at the underside of his stomach.

The night seemed oppressive suddenly as the wind stopped and he was left with the high pitched buzzing of silence in his ears. Xenn rocked forward, clutching his knees, and consequently lost contact with the wall. Now there is nothing. No sight, sound, feeling or smell. He could be anywhere, or - worse - he could be nowhere, floating in a void.

Nothing. Complete freedom perhaps? No, he thought; quite the opposite, in fact. His breaths came faster, filling the dim alley with gasping echoes. They assaulted him from all sides in a susurrus of urgency and his heartbeat pumped in his ears. Panic slithered up his spine, curling round his neck as the sounds became his only existence, and he started shuffling from one foot to the other. A low groan passed from his throat and he heard it before realising it was him. He looked to one side then the other, registering nothing beyond the shifts in the shadows; the untrustworthy custodians of night. A sound flew at him from the bleak nothing, then another, and another. People sounds. Threatening sounds.

Fear coursing through his body, Xenn Arranson surged to his feet and ran blindly into the darkness.

*

Arran Cartwright closed his kitchen door mechanically on his way back in. He moved through to the lounge area, taking an awkward seat half-facing the fireplace. He needed to think, and sat with chin in hand, staring at the flames. The problem was, the more he sought sense in the maelstrom of thoughts, the less clarity he encountered. Don's suggestion lurked at the back of his consciousness - disown Xenn - a thought both repellent and tragically practical. His son had cost them much over the years, and now threatened the standing and livelihood of the entire family, but he was still blood. As far as he'd taken things, how far constituted too far? Arran was snapped from reverie by his wife Melissa coming down the stairs, and he looked up as she walked in.

She smiled weakly. "Sarah's tucked in bed." He nodded. "What did Don say?" she took a seat next to her husband.

Arran sighed. "Well, I didn't like to hear it, but I've learned to trust Don's judgement, and he wouldn't have said it if he didn't absolutely believe in it."

"He was there for the robbery attempt?"

"Yes, err, yes." He clenched his hands together before him. "He says, I mean, he thinks Xenn may be a threat to the public safety."

*

The sounds engulfed him now as he streaked through the night. No matter how swiftly he ran, still the voices seemed able to keep pace, and the sounds of urgency simply got louder in his ears. What were they doing? Why were they tormenting him so? He was just a young boy; how could he be any threat to anyone? Xenn felt a wetness on his face and realised he was crying, a fact which terrified him yet more. He sobbed out loud and tried to run even faster.

He nipped from the alley he'd been following, sprinted across a broad thoroughfare, and plunged into another narrow alley opposite the first. His eyes showed no pursuers or crowd, but they were traitors. The voices were chanting at him, pecking away like birds at his mind, and he knew he couldn't trust his vision.

A weapon. He needed a weapon - something he could use to defend himself, fend off his pursuers. The ominous sounds persisted, not chasing but waiting for him, anticipating his every move. He would have to stop and fight, because escape was impossible. Maybe he would do so, when he'd tried running a little more; his mind said fight, but his heart wanted to flee. He passed a closing tavern and a drunken shout sent ice through his veins. Xenn's concentration broke, his foot hit some obstacle in mid stride, and he slammed face down in the entrance of yet another alleyway.

The breath was sucked from his lungs and he rolled, gasping, until a sharp object dug painfully into his back. Hyperventilating madly, he reached behind himself to find a broken off half-bottle. Xenn giggled without knowing why. A weapon.

*

Arran rocked back in his chair and bit his lower lip. "What do you think, Melissa?"

She sighed, eyes downcast. "I worry for Sarah, and I guess I've seen this coming for some time. Yes, I think Xenn could be a danger."

*

Flash - dark, flash - dark, flash - dark. He was running once more, past lighted windows, coughing his every breath, barely able to feel his legs, no longer sure why he was running and oblivious to where. In his hand he clutched the broken bottle with a grip like his last, tenuous hold on sanity. Nothing mattered any more but that bottle; his focus, his resolve, his only chance of reprieve from the sounds and the voices. His saviour. Part of him questioned why he continued to run when he held a means of defence, but the rest knew he must try, must run until it was no longer possible. In fact he was barely stumbling any more, but only his legs acknowledged the fact.

Blur. Blur. Blur. Blur.

*

Arran sighed back at his wife. "Then it's time we did something serious about eliminating that danger."

*

Xenn grabbed a latrine pipe to turn him round a corner without slowing. He barrelled into the dark, and hit hard up against a barrier.

A figure!

The sounds came again as he toppled to the ground, mysterious and horrible. The figure bent over him, a threatening arm extended, and its mouth opened. The voice!

He screamed and struck forth manically with the only thing left he knew belonged to him. The bottle hit against something, so he pulled back and tried again, but once more a sticky obstruction prevented the movement from following through, something physical. The final straw.

With a hysterical roar, Xenn rammed his arm forward again and again, unaware of necessity or consequence but certain the barrier must be removed. A thick slickness drenched his hands, running down his arms, his neck, his face, into his mouth... A dead weight crushed down upon him, and eyes came to rest directly opposite his own - glazed, sightless eyes. They became his only world as the night finally broke through and invaded his mind. The half bottle, now wet and red, fell from his nerveless fingers to clatter percussively, meaninglessly, on the alley floor.

*

Arran was dragged from a restless sleep by Don knocking urgently on his door at dawn. He opened it, took one look at his wheezing friend's face, and ushered the man inside to the living room. He fetched a cup of water that was gratefully accepted. The pleading, hard look Don gave him conveyed the gist of what was happening before any words were spoken. He sat down opposite his friend and waited for his breath to return as concern gave way to fear and a thick wedge of anxiety grew in is gut.

"Xenn's in serious trouble? He never arrived home last night."

Don nodded soberly and spoke between gasps. "It's rather worse than you may think. Xenn is currently in the council jails."

"What's he done?"

"He was found in the early hours of this morning next to a bloodied half bottle, entangled with a body that was freshly stabbed more than ten times."

Arran sat back as pin-pricks swathed his skin. No! This had to be a mistake! Then he thought about last night's conversation with Melissa, of what he'd felt prepared to do before this morning's emergency. Was anything beyond his son's doing? Still, a father's mind defaults to protection.

"What's saying he did it though?" he said eventually. "Could he not have merely stumbled upon the scene, and found the sight too much to bear?"

Don heaved an exhalation, avoiding his friend's gaze. "Whatever I may think, I would be inclined to agree with you, but it wasn't just anybody who was stabbed. It was Jeff Rayson, the weapon maker. Even if you ignore the circumstantial evidence, it looks for all the world like Xenn attacked him after their altercation during the day."

"Hmm," was Arran's only response, then he sat in silence for a long time. The whole thing didn't feel real. Now the initial shock was wearing off, Arran found himself numb, uncertain what he actually felt. Unable to decide what his emotions were saying, he listened to his thoughts, but they were a jumbled mass themselves.

"You don't seem overly upset," remarked Don, and suddenly sense emerged from chaos.

Arran looked up, nodded. "Of course I'm upset. As much a pain as Xenn has been to me, he's still my son, in my blood, and I could never change that. Yes, I'm upset, but I won't let him destroy what I have with my wife and daughter. Last night Melissa and I decided our son was gone, that the boy we raised and the depths-begotten young man we see now are not the same person. We knew we should take steps to excise him for our daughter's sake. I just expected to have more time to act upon our decision."

"I'll admit it, I'm surprised. You were going to disown the boy?"

He nodded. "Do you think, if I went down to the Church council offices now, I could pretend I didn't yet know; after all, I haven't been officially informed?"

"It's worth a try," agreed Don after a short pause. "In theory, if you file for disownership before they apprise you of this incident, then you cannot be held accountable."

"And you would bear witness if they questioned me?"

"Of course."

"Then let's go," said Arran, raising himself from his chair. "No point in giving them any more time than we have to."

Don nodded and followed his long time friend to the front door and out into the frosty embrace of a chill morning, but Arran caught the look on his face.

"Say your piece, Don. Don't glare it into the back of my head."

"You understand what this means, don't you?"

"Yeah, I'll be rid of a massive pain in my backside."

"Stop it, Arran. I don't think you're so cold. If you disown Xenn now, you'll be stringing him up for the authorities to deal with. That's not something to take lightly."

Arran sighed and stopped walking. "You really think I haven't considered that? The more I think about it, the more I know this is the only course. You can believe I'm cold of blood if you like, my friend, but I'm doing what I need to. I hope you'll see that soon."

Don sighed. "You can't build ice barriers around the feelings you don't like, Arran. Believe me, I know all about that. They either melt over time or get smashed, and neither is a good experience."

Arran hoped the depth of anger he suppressed was showing in his expression. "Well, perhaps one day you'll deign to share some of your past with me. Until then, you haven't the right to lecture me on my own personal experiences." He strode away from the house in the direction of the council offices, and Don hurried to keep up, his limp sounding in uneven footsteps.

"Whatever else you may think, Arran, I've always got your back.

*

It took them almost twenty minutes to reach the council building on the opposite side of town, against the southern outskirts. On the way, they hid from a church messenger who was heading in the opposite direction. Each gave the other a significant look, but nothing was said until they reached their destination and Don turned to Arran.

"You okay?"

"Yes."

"Still angry?"

"Yes, but not with you."

Don smiled, though it lacked humour. "And you're sure you want to do this."

"Quite sure."

"Alright then, lead the way."

Arran knocked on the thick Oak door, and after an uncomfortably long wait a small panel opened at head height and a tightly clipped female voice said, "Yes?"

"I'd like to speak to the minister on duty, please."

A tut. "You're rather early. Can you not come back later?"

"No." There was a silence almost as cold as the morning, the aural equivalent of a shared glare. Snow began to fall gently on the frost-coated ground. Arran tapped his foot. "I'll invoke you if I have to." Invoking was an ancient social convention. When two folk disagreed, they could take the matter to an impartial third party who'd help arbitrate a settlement. Decorum dictated this was done immediately, before either person had time to prepare structured arguments.

A sigh echoed from beyond the door. "Okay." The door opened. "Wait in here while I go and find Mr Freeman." She clacked her way out of a small half circle entryway almost before they got a glimpse of her. Don closed the outer door once they were in and peered after the secretary, but shook his head.

"This place is a maze - I can't see anything beyond this room." They seated themselves on a stone bench; the only furniture in the small room other than the secretary's desk and chair. A large visitor's book dominated the desk's surface.

"Feels like I'm at the apothecary again," remarked Don with an encouraging half smile, but Arran gave no response. He simply sat, staring at the wall and trying not to concentrate on his thoughts. His success here would be determined, for the most part, by the mood and temperament of the minister on duty. It was a tenuous chance at best, but seemingly his only option.

"Are you nervous?" asked Don. "I feel apprehensive, and I'm only here as your witness."

Arran smiled. "I'm alright, Don. You don't need to keep me in conversation. No, I'm not nervous - I'm annoyed at what's happening and fearful for my family."

"I've seen you quiet before, and it usually precedes an explosion of temper. That can't happen during this meeting."

"It won't. I know what I need to do."

Don nodded. "If we're lucky, this minister's been asleep all night and won't know about the murder yet. We're at a change of shifts, so the messenger we saw was probably sent by somebody else." Arran nodded slightly, but gave no answer. Soon his loyal friend was praying softly to the Two Moons, a continuous mumble of archaic phrases designed to instil good fortune.

Arran Cartwright glanced over at the man's earnest face, poised above clenched fingers, and rolled his eyeballs. That was Don's problem; he actually believed it might work. It would be nice to have faith in something other than the endlessly fallible whims of people, he thought. Nice, but ultimately fruitless. With his friend's pious ramblings as a backdrop, Arran stared at the irregular finish on the wall in front of him, and waited.