The youth stood in the rain, stripped to the waist, bare feet sinking into the warm mud caused by the summer rain.  His black hair was tossed by the wind, his dark eyes reaching skyward, looking at the storm clouds which poured out over the land as far as he could see.  He smiled, laughing a little, as lightning crackled across the sky.  He was at peace.
He had hiked through farmers’ fields and huntsmen’s woods, wading through rivers and climbing trees, wandering through mountains and valleys.  His journey was one of searching,  but what he was searching for he could hardly express; if he was forced to put it into words, the youth would have said, “This.  This feeling of peace.  This storm.”  The land he had traveled through helped him; the warm breeze rustling through tall grass, the cool shade of a tree, the calming scent of a forest brook all brought calm, but only this raging storm had given him true peace.
He was aptly named.  Meallan Glenn Droganson.  His name meant “Lightning,” in one of the old tongues only spoken by magi and scholars.  An odd name, one that had set him apart from the plain named farm-children, or his fellow shepherds, but now it seemed so very appropriate.  He smiled up at the sky, letting his laughter trickle out like rain as he held his hands up to it, feeling the water cascade over his body.
He had about one more spring of growing before he became a man, but one could already see the type of person he was; tall, head and shoulders over most other men, broad and sturdy, if a little too thick around the middle.  He had power in his body; not the constant strength of a wood cutter, but the explosive, sudden power of one who had grown up knocking aside wolves with a long oak pole.
There was something else, too, but he didn’t want to think about it.  He only wanted to enjoy the storm cascading down on him, soaking his mind and washing it free of dark thoughts.  The lightning crackled, and he knew peace.
In time, the rain became cold, so he fled into a nearby copse of trees to warm up.  He had left his few possessions underneath a fir tree, its needles guarding them from the rain.  All he had was what he just barely needed; a warm tunic, a sturdy pair of boots, a small pack with what food and what few sundries he had, a small hunting bow with a quiver bristling with arrows, and a sword.  This last was a sort of gift, from his parents; when he had left, they had presented it to him.  It was not exceptionally made; no gold or gems adorned it.  He wasn’t the type of person to want something so showy, however; he liked the sword, its straight, tapering blade of steel, its leather wrapped hilt, its nickel cross-guard and pommel.  Its worth came from its function, from the way it cut through the air and the way it felt resting in his hand.
Meallan swallowed, taking the sword into his hand, an idea suddenly coming to him.  He squeezed the hilt until the leather creaked in protest, and he rushed out from under the tree, dark hair trailing.  The water from the rain poured over him and the sword, its oiled blade causing the water to pool in fat droplets.  He held it up to the sky.
“Lord of the gods,” he murmured.  He had a deep voice, one not made for yelling, but perfectly comfortable with a deep sullen tone instead.  “Look down on me, and give me your blessing upon this blade.”  It was something of an empty prayer, an action done just in case; but it made him feel good.  It was as if he was able to pour out the tenseness that weighted him down, making him as dark and foreboding as a cloud laden with a good storm.
“I don’t know what purpose you have for me, or why you have made me like I am.  I will travel with these feet, and see what purpose the world has for me; I will guard myself with this sword, and guard those in need of protection.  I will find out why I am the way I am, why you have made me into what I am.  In this quest, I ask that you bless this sword, to give it the strength to do its duty; and also to bless me, so that I might be successful in my venture.”
As if in response, lightning arced across the sky, and fell onto the ground not thirty feet from him, scouring away the grass and earth.  As Meallan blinked his eyes, trying to restore the vision that the lightning had robbed, he felt the thunder from the heavens shake him, and he smiled.
As the storm poured on, he took shelter underneath the fir tree, drying the blade off on his dry tunic and studying his reflection in it.  In time, he dozed off, sword in his lap.  He dreamed of the storm, as if he was still standing out in it, but for some reason the storm was not just outside him, but inside him, too; thunder rumbled in his heart and lightning jolted to his extremities.  It was a surge of power, a feeling of completeness, which let his burdened mind rest completely.  He surrendered to the dream, and found the deep black healing realm of pure sleep.
When he awoke, the sun was near the end of its journey across the sky, and he was struck by a nearly overwhelming hunger.  He felt the desire in his stomach like a keen blade; he gave no thought to eating the stale bread in his pack.  Instead, he wanted meat; fresh and seared over a fire.  He dressed with this in mind, belting his sword onto his back and his quiver to his side; he strung his bow, and carried it in his hand as he sat out, boots finding purchase in the mud.
He saw the beginnings of a forest nearby; was this the Lockland woods, or something else?  In his weeks of wandering about since he had left home, he had lost all sense of where he was.  If he found a town, he asked its name, but the name was a simple thing that had no use to him.  Lockland woods stood out only because of the stories he had been told as a child, about a boogey-man living there, a dark skulker who ate children who misbehaved.
He took a deep, satisfied breath as the weight of the sword on his back pushed away any childhood fears.  If there was such a skulk, he would end it, he knew confidently.  He hadn’t left home because of his cowardice, after all; so long as fortune favored the bold, he was convinced of his safety.
Crossing over into wooded lands always had the feeling of entering a new world, as if forests were a reality unto themselves.  Perhaps they were, Meallan thought as he bent over to pick up a mushroom, shoving it into his pack.  After all, weren’t the Fae supposed to live in such woods as this?  Both the dark, cruel faerie and the tall, wise Aelfaen race were rumored to dwell in the dark woods, places where humans did not dare tread.
Perhaps he would find one; a mushroom circle leading to the rumored land of the faerie, or a hunting tribe of aelf willing to share their meal with a young traveler?  Let it never be said that he was unimaginative, he thought with a grin, or that he wasn’t cunning enough to hope for a free meal if he could get it.
The forest smelled like the aftermath of the storm.  Rain still trickled down from golden-red fall leaves that still hung on the trees above him, hitting the leaf covered forest floor with a soggy plop every few seconds.  There would be more mushrooms here in time, he thought with a grin; it might due to stay and stock up as best he could.
The forest seemed welcoming enough.  The most of the trees were narrow but tall, reaching up but giving him some room to walk around them; still, their small width meant that there were many of them, sometimes clustered together so tightly that they seemed to be one large tree instead of several small ones.  As he began to make his way through the trees, his stomach rumbled; better to focus on the task at hand, of finding food.
Meallan was a shepherd, and not a hunter, so his wilderness skills were more about avoiding or driving off wolves, than hunting wild game.  Still, he knew to look for droppings, and could tell deer’s scat when he saw it; and while he couldn’t track well, he could see hoof prints, and judge which way they were headed.  Still, it felt like he was wandering around in the woods without much purpose, hoping to luck into prey rather than find it with his skill.
As he walked, the practical part of his mind pointed out fall berries or acorns or such things as he knew he could eat, and he scooped them up.  Perhaps he could stew them with the meat, throwing everything together in a small tin pot; but the meat was the center dish, the necessity.  As he dug up some tubers with his bare hands, using one of the arrow-points to break away the dirt, a thought occurred to him; if he could find a watering hole, he could simply wait for game to drift to him.  Even if that failed for now, he’d have water and his forest-findings, and animals had to come to drink sometime.
He just had to find a watering hole, or a saltlick, or some such thing.  He wandered about in the woods, following what tracks he could, but keeping his eyes, ears, and nose peeled for the sight, the tinkling sound, and the clean smell of good water.  In the end it was the storm that guided him; the heavy rain caused a stream to swell, the sound of water rushing against rocks echoing.  It reminded him of home, he thought as he began to run towards the water, keeping his bow out in case he stumbled across an animal already there.  After the rains, the river where he would water his sheep would always grow, from a dull trickle to a roaring, mud-filled brown torrent.  Water would collect near the shore in small pools, the mud settling and being good for the animals to drink; he would still sensibly boil his own water, though, fearful of the disease or refuse that the rains swept downstream.
There was no animal at the rushing stream, so arrow nocked he began to stalk down its length, looking for something worth eating.  Perhaps a wild boar; he hadn’t had boar meat since the fall festival marking the end of the summer, and even then it had been just a small portion, as befitting a shepherd boy of his standing.  Still, the thought of that feast, almost a month ago, made his mouth water; his belly rumbled, and he let out a small prayer to the Lord of the gods to guide him to food.
It was not a deer that he found, nor was it a boar; it was a shaggy, grey-hued beast.  The wolf lifted up its torn head to growl at the youth for disturbing his drink, and the former shepherd drew back his bow reflexively.  Slowly, though, as the wolf hunkered down, ready for the arrow to fly, Meallan realized that they were no longer enemies.  There was no sheep to guard, no flock to keep out of the jaws of a hungry wolf.  They were just two hunters, searching for food on an autumn afternoon that was slowly growing cold.   There was no reason for them to fight, and so Meallan slowly edged around the beast, bow still drawn.  As they separated, the wolf turned back to its drink, although it kept one amber eye on Meallan the whole time.
Meallan’s stomach was keenly growling when he stumbled upon another animal on the shore of the river; a lean, addled turkey that had gotten lost in the rain, and now couldn’t fly because of the thick forest canopy above them.  It was so confused by its situation that it didn’t notice the hunter until Meallan had loosed his first arrow, which hit the ground next to it with a muffled thunk.  It began to cry out awfully, attempting to fly but colliding with a tree branch and falling to the ground.
Meallan rushed closer, a few steps away as the turkey began to run about again; this time his shot landed home, although it didn’t kill the turkey.  Instead, it fell to the ground unable to get up, but still kicking out with its claw legs, making that awful wailing sound.  Luckily, his third shot silenced it, and Meallan sighed a bit in shame; he had almost been out maneuvered by such a dumb animal.  He dug out his arrows with a frown as he contemplated the kill; shots that he practiced to scare away wolves or poachers weren’t likely to actually kill much.  Bigger targets, such as deer, he could hit if they were still; even if he didn’t strike home, the arrow would hit a flank and help him get a second, third, or even fourth hit.
Maybe he wasn’t cut out for this; many nights he had gone hungry.  He should consider going back home, he thought with a sigh.  His hunger, though, wouldn’t allow him to slip into melancholy over something as simple as a bungled hunt.  Other nights he might have gone hungry, but this wouldn’t be one of those nights!  He had his kill, regardless of how awkward it might have been; he had the meat he was graving desperately.
He had never been taught what part of a bird was safe to eat and what was not safe.  So when he began to prepare it, he slit its stomach open and let whatever entrails that would fall out, before scraping its hollow stomach out with a stone.  He left the rock and the guts out, to attract animals; he would build his fire and cook a ways away, letting scavengers feast on these, as a sort of bribe to leave him alone.
He began to pluck the bird after cutting its head off, the cooling blood on his hand making him feel sick for some reason.  It wasn’t the first time he had killed, but every time felt the same way, as if the flesh that he would eat with relish was somehow unclean as life dripped away from it.  He felt the need to wash his hands, but he decided to wait until the task was done.
Bird prepared, it was now time for the fire; something easier said than done, he realized as he wiped the blood and gore off his hands with a handful of wet leaves.  The sticks and twigs that would make a good fire were soaked by the rain; everything was soaked, and he knew that would make it next to impossible to start a fire.
Still, he gathered up what he could find, and broke some dead branches from trees when he noticed them.   He broke what he could in two, so that the insides of the sticks were showing, hoping that the insides of the kindling wouldn’t be soaked through, and thus would hold a flame.  He dropped the sticks onto the rock, and got out the flint and tinder from his pack, keeping a careful eye on his meal; after all, that wolf was still around, and would think nothing of rushing up to snatch the bird in its jaws.
The fire didn’t take; he tried again, and again, slamming the flit down angrily at the failed third attempt.  His mind worked quickly, however, and he went back to the piles of leaves.  He dug past the freshly fallen leaves, into the ones hidden away; those might have not been as exposed to the rain, after all.  He was disappointed to find them to be just as damp as the ones on the top, only partially decayed; they felt like a massive slug.
He wiped his hands on a tree to get the feeling of the moldy leaves off of his hand, and returned to the makeshift fire.  He could tear a part of his tunic off, and try and use the wool cloth to start the fire; but that probably wouldn’t work, and he loathed the thought of tearing up his only piece of clothing for a failed attempt.  Besides, he had one option left.
He carefully crossed his legs, trying to get comfortable, trying to clear his head from the distractions, even the gnawing hunger which wouldn’t let him escape entirely.  He closed his eyes, becoming more aware of the state of his body.  His heart was beating quickly; he wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, so he didn’t attempt to calm himself.  Instead, he imagined a black expanse, like a starless night sky.  He shoved all thought away, even though the hunger tried to break into the dark expanse.
He had only done this a few times, and it had never worked properly.  Still, it couldn’t hurt too much.
Fire.  He needed to create fire.  How did one do that?  He imagined a dancing flame in the expanse, but he had a hard time bringing it to life; it felt more like a child’s drawing of fire, drawn in the dirt with a stick.  It was utterly still, just the outline of fire.
Fire.  He thought of the last cooking fire he made.  Crackling and snapping.  Consuming the wood as hungrily as he would consume the fowl once it was cooked.  The image started to dance as he poured the memory into the outline of the fire.  He felt warm.
He imagined the fire that has roared in his family’s hearth during winter.  He poured this in, pouring in warm sunlight as well.  The dark expanse was now home to a dancing, circling flame, like a camp fire with no wood to feed on.  He reached out with his mind, trying to wrap his mind around it, trying to pull it out of the dark expanse into the world.
He opened his eyes, to see the damp wood meeting his gaze.  He felt tightness in his chest as the flame that he grasped in his mind filled his heart; it was like a fever.  He felt too warm, like his chest was on fire; it made him almost sick to his stomach.   He wasn’t sure if this sensation was normal or not, so he tried to ignore it.  He lifted his right hand, and pushed, trying to pour the feeling out of his body.
And nothing happened.  The tightness in his chest increased, like a vice squeezing his heart.  He breathed deep, but his lungs burned as if he had been running for an hour.  He tried to keep these sensations away, to keep his mind focused entirely on the flame in his mind, but he couldn’t.  It was the returning gnaw of hunger, the persistent beast in his belly chewing at his mind, that broke through.
He curled his hand into a fist and brought it down on the wood, angry at his foolishness, the pain and hunger swirling about to make him nauseous.  He was hungry.  That was the only thought he had as his hand hit the wood.
Then there was a flash, and he felt burning pain along his hand.  He jerked it back, out of the flames that had sprung up to consume the wood, and shoved it into the mud to cool it.  He breathed heavily, the grip on his heart gone; he felt cold, but watching the fire with narrowed eyes, somewhat accomplished.
His rest didn’t last long.  His hand still smarting from the burn, he began to take rocks and dip them into the water, washing the muck off of them and putting them into the fire; the flames, fueled by his actions, consumed the damp sticks with an unnatural hunger, and the wet stones did little more than cause the fire to hiss as they became heated.
He sat the cleaned fowl on the stones, the fat and juices of the thing beginning to sizzle from the heat.  Looking at his burned hand, he let out a sigh and moved to the stream to begin to wash the gore and mud from his hands, wincing at the cold rushing water on his burned hand.
He wasn’t blistering, thankfully, but his hand was red instead of its normal tan color.  It was sore to the touch.  He went to his pack and pulled out a few herbs to rub against the wound, numbing it from the pain.  His mother knew herb lore; how to make medicines for the mind and body out of the plants that grew in the earth.  She had given healing to the villagers, medicines and poultices to give them relief to their ills.  She had passed this knowledge on to her son, of course, but Meallan was cursed with a different talent.
When he had begun to grow into a man, things…  happened.  He was an outsider to most of the people in his home village; he was a quiet dreamer who stayed away, buried in what few books his mother had, reading about the world and wanting to see it.  He had his head in the clouds, the polite ones might say; the rude ones would even say he was mad, the way he looked at the sky or the world around him, seeing the world, but not the people in it.
It was true that he was different, in some way; he had periods where his mind drifted away, to some dream or thought, as if he was following light dancing on the wall.  His mother had hid this, but others knew; some viewed him as demon possessed, if not of cursed blood.  After all, hadn’t his mother come to the village with the boy in tow, an eight year old lad with oddly intelligent eyes?  No one knew his father, even Meallan only had stories his mother or grandfather had told him; who was to say who he was, in the eyes of the village?
As an outsider, then, he had drawn attention.  Boys were no different than a pack of coyotes, biting at each other for dominance.  He had been shoved, pushed around; and when he had struck back, when his anger had boiled over, he struck with a blow that knocked a boy unconscious, a burn covering his chest as if he had boiling water thrown on him.
When he was angry, things happened.  Things beyond his control, but not outside of his will.  That was why he left, he admitted to himself as he dried his hands off on his shirt; to figure out why this happened, and how to control it.  He leaned back to watch the fowl cook, stomach rumbling; he felt even hungrier after starting the flame, if that was possible.   Still, he had found some control, some ability to command it to happen, instead of just witnessing it happen.