A coffin filled with roses. Each rose marked a different sin. The second rose that Svanhild had placed inside the coffin was for running away. The thirtieth rose was for being homosexual. Every rose was a sin, meant to die with him inside this coffin. This coffin was his to carry around. His fate sealed inside of the wood. Nobody knew or understood such fate, and they could only consider him a travelling merchant, not a suicidal fool.

  He was meant to die, and this coffin was mere proof.

  Svanhild was a child of many. Of the gods, of his mother, and of his family. Although because of this, it was his one mission to become more than just a child in the eyes of others.

  That only sealed more roses into the wooden fate.

  On this particular day, the particular morning, and particular time, Svanhild was writing to himself. With what ink? Rock. With what canvas? The ground. He was poor, a meaningless speck in the slums. It was his fault, however. It had been his fault that he had run away, just for believing that he was better than his parents.

  His parents weren't even bad. They consoled him as a child, gently rousing him to sleep, and always making sure he was loved. Svanhild, in response, was fed up with the same thing. His life was worth more than being a child. He’d be the leader he's always wanted to be.

  The mother bird.

  And, thus, this particular morning, he decided another fate for himself. This fate was to travel southeast, where his family had been naturally born. Tan complexion, dusty figures, and the sand stretched on for miles. Better than snow, he thought. Better than anything.

  “I am to hang myself on the 31st. I am to die at my own hands, after I have travelled tirelessly to see my one family. My coffin will be on my back the whole journey, a weight of my sims—”

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  “What are you writing there?" a voice rang out, elderly but all too cheerful.

  The rock snapped in half and Svanhild coldly looked up. The man was Eastern. Slanted eyes, long greying hair, and white robes as compensation. Svanhild had never seen such a man, and he’d rather not keep seeing.

  “Leave."

  “What a troubled child. I assume that little story is about yourself, hmm? You accidentally put an ‘M’ in the word ‘sins.’ You needn’t be so angsty.”

  …That man was egregious! Slight wrinkles, upwards eyes, and a sharp jawline still staying despite the age. Svanhild didn’t know what to say, so he threw the rock at the man angrily and watched as it bounced off the damned elderly face. An old man was to take a blow harder than a child, so people say, but here the man was, grinning happily as the rock hobbled away.

  “Such a temper!”

  Indeed a temper. Svanhild was not just pissed all the time, he was problematic. He never necessarily acted bad, but he did often throw hands just for fun of it. The terrible thing is that he had a good upbringing, so he had no real reason to act so dramatic and sassy. He was just like this. Made for the slums, after all! That’s correct. He had one bad experience, and that was when his mother accidentally dropped him as a child. They had cried out and wrapped him in the handwoven blankets.

  “Oh dearest Svanhild!” they cried dramatically, a picture of a fawning mother and father. “How dare we do such a thing!”

  Baby Svanhild just stared at them blankly.

  So what if he had that little mishap and no other bad days at all? That's right—make bad days for himself. If he were to be a human, he has to act as such, and be as such. Bad experience is part of the experience.

  Though, this adoration was ephemeral.

  He had run away at the age of fifteen for seemingly no purpose at all.

  A cacophony of sounds hit Svanhild and he was brought back to the present. The man in front of him had thrown the rocks back at his face, and a deep bruising mark was left on Svanhild’s nose.

  That was the day the pestering started.

  At the same little corner that Svanhild slept at in the slums, everyday, the man would run by, they would exchange insults and then the man would drop off many golden coins. Svanhild would throw them out immediately after, because he wanted to be poor. He chose the slums.

  And then was the day the man introduced himself, and his plan for the future with Svanhild.

  He said that his name was Teng Rongjie, and that he was going to head East so he could get back to his home. Svanhild immediately agreed to head along, and so they went.The plan was mellifluous, esteemed and perfect in Svanhild’s head. Everything would go along smoothly.