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Philza was not expecting to adopt a child that night, but the world works in mysterious ways.
He was out collecting firewood, partly because the stack in the cabin was getting depleted, but mostly because he liked the time alone. It gave him space to think, to process, to reflect. Long ago, he had not appreciated this time, this space, this reflection. But that had been before everything. That had been before he was broken and stuck back together by the cruel hands of fate.
Phil reflected about many things. He reflected about his days and his nights, the way the stars wheeled across the sky above him. He reflected about his careless childhood, when he had not known responsibility or hardship. Always, though, his thoughts returned to his family. Just as they were now, as he swung his old, worn axe against tree trunks brushed with snow.
Phil had not seen most of his family in many years. He had three sons, and the two younger, Wilbur and Tommy, were off fighting wars and collecting scars, the latter remaining bright and shining through it all, and the former growing quieter and quieter. Wilbur sometimes sent Phil letters, which Phil treasured more than anything. Those letters told him his sons were still alive, still good. Phil had always known that Tommy would be unflinchingly himself no matter what happened to him, that although he was a stubborn little bastard, he was also pure at heart. But Wilbur… Wilbur had always worried Phil. He loved his middle son, but he’d also seen a little darkness inside of him, a darkness that could grow under the right conditions. Phil hoped that Wilbur would never find himself in that situation.
And the eldest of the three, Techno. He had scars of his own, but he had surpassed the time when he did not want to associate himself with his father. He had come running back, flinging himself out of the bloody fray he had created, wishing only for a moment of peace. So Phil had given it to him. His son and his housemate. An insufferable young man and a fierce warrior. Techno and Wilbur seemed to always be fighting for the position of the most enigmatic of Phil’s sons. But Techno was a good man in Phil’s book, so he would always have a home with his father.
A movement in the dark startled Phil out of his thoughts. Slowly, he put down the log he had just finished chopping and gripped his axe tighter in his hand. No longer a tool, but a weapon.
Phil, although old enough to have two fully grown sons and one teenager, was still a fighter. And he was a good one. He knew, with full certainty, that there was nothing in these wintery woods that he couldn’t fight and win against. The only thing that might give him a challenge was Techno, and he would not fight his son.
The movement came again, and Phil paused, his axe raised and ready to swing at the slightest hint of danger. He studied the area again, the dark trunks of the trees reaching up to the clear, starlit sky. A light breeze swept through the area, causing the top of the snow to stir a little. Although the silence had not broken, it was no longer calm, but tense and taut with warning.
The movement came a third time, and this time there was a small rustle. Whatever this thing was, it seemed like a small creature. Perhaps a squirrel, or a lone wolf pup. Phil took a few steps closer to the source of the movement, peering through the dark.
Something appeared out of the shadows, and what it was caught Phil so off guard that he forgot about the axe in his hands until the thing started crying.
Because the thing wasn’t a thing at all, but a child. A little boy, no more than twelve or thirteen. His clothing was tattered and dirty, and his skin was strange: exactly one half of his body was white, and the other half was black. One of his eyes was bright green, the other bright red. They both glowed in the dark. His hair, also half-white-half-black, was tangled and matted. On his face were lines that seemed like tear tracks until Phil got closer. Then they were revealed to be scars in varying stages of healing: some were clearly old wounds, while others were fresh, severe burns. The boy had clearly been out here awhile.
Phil dropped the axe on the ground next to him and got to his knees before the boy, who sniffed and winced as more tears tracked down his cheeks. Phil stayed very still, as this boy seemed like a creature easily spooked.
“Hello,” he said very calmly. “Are you lost?”
The boy nodded silently.
“Do you have parents?”
The boy shrugged. Phil wasn’t entirely sure what this was supposed to mean.
“Well… do you know where they are?”
The boy shook his head again. Then, to Phil’s surprise, he started to speak, in a quiet, shaky voice. “I-I c-can’t rem-remember.”
“Oh.” Phil felt rather lost. He wasn’t sure what to do in this situation. But, as he thought about it, he slowly realized that given the situation, given his own personality, there was only one thing to do. “Why don’t you come stay with me for a little while so we can find your family?”
The boy’s eyes were wide as they stared into Phil’s. “O-okay.” He seemed trusting, yet wary. Phil wondered what he must have been through to get here, in a snowy wood in the middle of nowhere.
“What’s your name, little one?” He asked as he stood, taking the boy’s hand as he grabbed his axe with his own.
“Ranboo.”
“Hello, Ranboo. My name is Phil. We’re going to help you, okay?”
“Okay.”
They began walking back to Phil’s farm as the stars winked overhead.
Techno wasn’t exactly surprised when Phil came through the door carrying a sleeping child instead of a stack of firewood, but he hadn’t expected it, so he still made a noise of astonishment. He watched as Phil went over to the couch and laid the boy across it, grabbed a blanket, and threw it over the boy before turning and going to sit across from Techno at the table.
“I thought you were getting firewood,” Techno said. “Is firewood a living person with weird demon skin now?”
“Ha ha,” Phil said drily. “I found him. His name is Ranboo. I’m not… I’m not sure if he has a family. He wasn’t entirely clear on that. He said… he couldn’t remember?”
“He has a memory issue?”
Phil only shrugged. He clearly didn’t know what was happening, either.
“So what are we going to do with him?” Techno asked. He and Phil lived on a farm in the middle of nowhere, keeping to themselves, and though they had room, Techno wasn’t thrilled about the idea of another person living with them.
Phil looked at the table, rubbing his finger along a crack in the wood. “I… I was thinking he could stay with us for a while. Just until we find his family.”
Techno let out a breathy, incredulous laugh. “You love the lost things, don’t you?”
Phil smiled. “You know I do.”
“Yes.” Techno, being one of the lost things that Phil had saved, knew this more than most.
The boy on the couch stirred, murmuring in his sleep. Techno heard, faintly, the cry of names that meant something only to little Ranboo, names that could have belonged to anyone, anywhere. Suddenly, despite his apprehension, despite his desire to be left alone with his father to live out their days in peace, he felt a small connection to Ranboo, a realization that he felt something familiar in the boy, and a flash of imagination, some future memory where Ranboo finally mastered something Techno had taught him, a wave of pride that had not occurred yet.
And this was how Techno knew that, although no one in the room said it or ever would say it, Ranboo would be staying with them for a very long time.
So the years passed, and Ranboo grew from a boy to a young man. Phil and Techno taught him how to fight, but also how to milk cows, to harvest wheat, to salt and dry meat in the winter. Phil was the first to pull a smile from Ranboo’s face, and Techno was the first to make him laugh. Phil showed him how to lunge with a sword, and Techno showed him how to use every aspect of his environment to his advantage. Phil showed him how to bake a cake, and Techno gave a very clear demonstration of how to ruin one. They told him stories, stories of heartbreak and tragedy, but also of victory and glory. He heard tales of wars long past, of brothers split and sewn back together. And Ranboo wrote them stories of his own, far more fanciful ones where everyone lived happily ever after in the end (“Where’s the gore?” Techno would often grumble as he tried to hide a wistful smile). This was the kind of story Ranboo loved, though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because love always prevailed? Perhaps because nothing truly terrible happened to his characters? He didn’t know. He though maybe the answer was in the same place as his lost memories, forever waiting for his unwilling mind to call them back.
This was the one dark stain on his otherwise happy life with Phil and Techno: he could remember nothing about the years before. What had drawn him to the snowy woods that night? Why had he been alone? Why did his tears leave scars on his face? Why did he look so strange? And whose faces did he see when he dreamed? Whose names did he call out into the dark night while Phil tried to help him remember to breathe?
He couldn’t remember. But the worst part was that he knew the answers were just out of reach, tantalizingly close but so far away. He knew if he could just strain, reach a little farther, he could catch them, but he could never seem to figure out how to grab hold. So the memories stayed in his nightmares and his peripherals, forever agonizing, forever gone.
He tried not to dwell on it. Instead, he wrote everything in a journal so he could remember it, and he focused on the snowball fights with Techno and the quiet talks with Phil. The adventures Techno would take him on to find dogs, or materials for the house, or to find wild horses to tame. The careful lessons Phil would give him on how to mend a shirt, or cook a meal, or build a wall. And though his memories left a gaping hole in his mind, Ranboo was happy here, growing up on a quiet, peaceful farm. He wanted it to stay that way forever.
But of course, all good things must come to an end. And for Ranboo, they always end much earlier than they should.
One day, Ranboo and Techno were out gathering firewood. It was midday, the yellow sun bright overhead. The snow sparkled under their feet as they walked under the bare tree branches. Ranboo pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders to protect himself from the slight chill. He laughed as he listened to Techno’s dry voice spell out a joke, a story with a punchline. Sometimes Ranboo thought that this was why he and Techno had taken such a liking to each other: their humor was very similar, but the cadence of Techno’s voice added another layer that Ranboo liked to listen to.
“Shit!” Ranboo looked up to see Techno turning away. He saw Lily, the little white dog they’d brought with them, running off, her leash snapped. “You go on, Ranboo, I’ll catch up!” Techno called behind him as he disappeared into the trees.
“Okay!” Ranboo called back. He kept going, his boots crunching through the snow and the axe that Phil had given him long ago bumping against his hip.
Eventually, he reached a small clearing filled with tree stumps. This was where they chopped down trees for firewood, and each trip, the clearing grew a little bigger. Today would be no different.
Except it was.
Except today, Ranboo didn’t chop down one tree.
Today, he saw a book on one of the stumps. Suddenly apprehensive, he walked closer, studying the book without touching it. It was a leather bound journal, brown and worn with age and use. The pages fluttered in a sudden light breeze that blew through the clearing.
Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, Ranboo hesitantly reached to touch the book. The moment his fingertips touched the leather, though, he jerked back with a gasp. He couldn’t explain it, but somehow the touch was familiar. He knew this book. He’d felt that leather before. But when? Where? How could he possibly know a book that was lying on a stump in the middle of the woods?
And how had it gotten there?
Slowly, Ranboo reached out to touch the book again, and again was hit with that shock of familiarity. This time, though, he didn’t let go. This time, he picked up the book and turned it over. Its back cover was damp with the residue of snow from the stump, but otherwise it was no different from the front. Hesitantly, unsure of why he was doing it, Ranboo turned the book back over and opened the cover. On the first page was only one thing: a simple, child’s drawing of a smiling face.
And as he gazed at that smile, something in his mind flashed, and he was no longer in a snowy clearing. He was no longer a young man who lived with an adoptive father and the father’s son, no longer a boy who lived on a farm, no longer someone whose most eventful experience was falling off of an unfinished wall.
Images, scenes, memories of another life barraged him. A city that shone at night, a city that grew out of its own ashes to live another day, a journal that crashed and tore through everything he knew but he needed it, he needed it to know everything, a dark, underground room that held his secrets and his worst monsters, a man he never knew but wanted to, a ridiculous story that ended in heartbreak, and most of all, most of all were the explosions, the fire and the decimation, that shining phoenix city, finally fallen forever, and his closest friends turned away from him as they sobbed, but he didn’t know why, he didn’t know why, all that he knew was that he had hurt them, he had hurt them, he had hurt them —
“Ranboo?”
Techno stood before him, concern barely masked by curiosity written all over his face. “You alright?”
Ranboo blinked up at him, away from that smile, that damned smile that had taken everything. He couldn’t say a word, couldn’t make a sound, and after a moment he realized it was because there wasn’t enough air in his lungs. It seemed Techno realized this at the same time, because he rushed forward, grabbing Ranboo’s shoulders. “Hey, you’re not breathing enough, you have to remember to breathe, okay? In and out, like we do all the time.”
But this wasn’t all the time, this wasn’t normal, this was memories rushing through Ranboo too fast for him to see, this was everything he’d ever done, and it was all horrible, horrible, he didn’t want it, he just wanted to go home, he didn’t want to remember, but the darkness was creeping in and he could feel himself slipping, slipping back as that other—no, as he took over, he himself as he always was behind the curtain, but he didn’t want to go back in, he didn’t want to go back, he didn’t want to, I DIDN’T WANT TO REMEMBER DON’T MAKE ME REMEMBER—
“Ranboo?”