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Archie's Backstory

Last updated: 05/11/2026

Disclaimers and Warnings

This story contains violence, body horror, general abuse, child abuse and death.

Context

This story takes place in the Tales of the Maritime universe, explaining the backstory of the main character. I wrote this piece for an assignment in my writing class, so it is formatted and written in a slightly different style than what I normally publish on here.

The One About The Fisherman's Son

I.

The ocean’s surface glimmered in the fiery light of the setting sun. Four fishermen sat on a stony beach, settled around a small lit firepit. The flames crackled over the roaring waves, radiating a soft warmth that dampened the chill of the wet seaside air. They sat atop pieces of driftwood they’d fashioned into seats, relaxing in the firelight. Each of them shared the same scruffy, sodden sort of look, complete with rain jackets and fishing caps over their burly bodies.

“Any of you boys fancy a story?” The first fisherman asked.

“Oh, I’ve got a good one! It’s called ‘Seasongs,’” The second began.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that one a thousand times!” The third barked, cutting him off. “The one about the crew of sailors falling in love with sirens and drowning ‘cause of it? Everyone knows that one.” The second frowned, opening his mouth to rebut, though the third continued on, “Anyone got anything new?”

The first perked up with a smile. He glanced at the fourth, who had been particularly quiet the whole night. Nudging his shoulder, he asked, “Hey, mate, got anything good for us? Your stories are the best!”

Ever so slightly, the fourth lifted his head. The brim of his hat cast thick shadows over his face in the fierce firelight. “Don’t the boys have stories they want to tell first?” He grunted.

“Yeah, but they all suck! Whaddya got for us?” The third chimed.

“Yeah,” the second huffed, crossing his arms. “I wanna see if you’ve got something worth holding our tongues for. Let’s hear it.”

The fourth paused, furrowing his brow. He took one look at his peers’ eager faces, then let out a rough sigh of acceptance.

“Alright. Have I told you the one about the fisherman’s son?”

II.

The ocean stretched in every direction beneath the vast night sky, filling the horizon with an endless expanse of dark, churning water. A dingy fishing ship drifted over its surface, cradled between the relentless lapping waves. A boy laid in the darkness of its hull, rocking back and forth with the sway of the boat. He was young, no older than thirteen, with an average build for his age. His freckled face poked from the covers of his bed, framed by his light, scruffy hair. His stumpy tail grew scraggly fur of a similar color, with the addition of faint dark stripes. Tiny claws tipped his fingers and toes. Two nub horns were supposed to grow atop his head, though one of them was chipped and missing.

The boy stared up at the wooden ceiling, listening to the slosh of the waves against the boat’s hull. The sound reminded him he was surrounded by miles and miles of saltwater; he was seafaring with his father, and they had begun the voyage only a couple days before.

He remembered the day they had left the shore. His family had lived in a dreary fishing village for as long as he could remember. His father was a fisherman, calloused and headstrong. His mother was quiet, but nice enough. Together they lived by the waterside, since his father owned a vessel and made frequent fishing trips to provide for the family.

One morning, Father came to the boy unexpectedly.

“Pack your things. We’re leaving,” he had said.

“Where’s Mother?” The boy had asked confusedly. “Why isn’t she coming too?”

“Mother is gone,” Father had replied grimly, his face darkening. “She left, so we’re leaving too.” He looked the boy in the eye as he boarded the vessel. “She was a monster. She wanted to take you away from me. You should be scared of monsters like her. This town is full of monsters who want to join her side and take you away. I don’t want to lose you. You want to stay with me, right?”

“Of course!” The boy had gasped. Of course he wanted to stay with his father.

“Then get on the boat,” Father had replied. “Let’s escape these monsters together.”

Father’s footsteps echoed from the deck above the hull. The boy listened to them idly as his thoughts swirled in his head. Mother didn’t seem like a monster. She didn’t look like one, didn’t act like one. Maybe that’s what she wanted me to think. So she could pounce on me when I least expect it. I would never have known until it was too late. The thought scared him. Father was right, he should be scared of a monster like that.

A yell pierced through the salty air, snapping him out of his musings. The boy jumped - that was Father’s voice, shrill and urgent. Alarmed, he threw himself out of bed, scampering out of the hull and unlatching the door to the vessel’s deck. Another yell cut through the roaring of the waves, the cacophony of noise much louder in the absence of muffling walls. Staggering into the fresh ocean air, the boy scoured the ship for its source.

Out on deck stood his father, the fisherman, tall and bristling like a furious animal. His scruffy dark hair and stumpy tail were frazzled with alarm. Unlike his son, the fisherman had no horns, and his skin was sufficiently darker. The shadows cast by his fishing cap did nothing to obscure the terrified aggression on his stubbly face. He pointed a harpoon towards the edge of the ship, clutching the handle so tightly that his claws poked from their sheaths.

“Get lost!” he shouted into the darkness of the night, “Get off of my ship!’

His demands were met with a deep, chittering growl. The boy’s stomach dropped at the very sound of it.

Perched atop the ship’s wall, a monstrous silhouette loomed before the fisherman. It stood upon four long limbs, clutching itself in place with large webbed extremities. A lengthy tail sprawled out behind it, lashing in sync with the smooth rock of the boat. Its head was uncannily recognizable; it had a flat, reddish face framed by tangled dark hair that easily resembled a humanoid head. It wore the familiar expression of a smile, its lips drawn back to bare its pearly, angular teeth. Its piercing yellow eyes were pinched to slits from the sheer width of its grin, sparkling with a malicious glee. A smooth, mottled green colored the majority of the creature’s skin, save for its reddish face and underbelly. Fleshy, whale-like fins protruded from its back and tail; meanwhile, spiny, fishlike fins grew along its limbs and flank. The mismatched features somehow coexisted, like an impossible amalgam of marine life. Thin red quills protruded from numerous parts of the creature’s frame, mostly around its joints. A fearsome set of spikes sprouted in rows along its body, far thicker and sturdier than its quills - they had a slightly serrated edge, tipped with a small hook; they looked more like stingers than defensive spines. The creature crouched atop the wall, tense with anticipation like a loaded bowstring about to fire. Its menacing posture and vicious expression proclaimed its intentions more than words ever could; this creature wanted to attack, to kill, and it seemed determined to succeed by any means necessary.

The creature caught the boy’s eye as he stared, frozen in fear. For a moment, its snarling grin faltered, and the malignant gleam in its gaze flickered out of sight. Its wild, otherworldly face shifted to something softer. It almost looked. . . Surprised.

The moment didn’t last long. The fisherman noticed the creature’s distracted pause. He wasted no time, swiftly plunging the harpoon deep into its shoulder. The creature reeled, letting out a shriek of agony; in the same breath, the shriek turned to a snarl, and it struck the fisherman with such force that he lost grip on his harpoon and flew to the ground.

“Father!” the boy cried, scampering across the deck.

Father groaned, gritting his teeth and forcing himself to his feet. All at once, he threw himself towards the creature, desperately grabbing hold of the harpoon embedded in its flesh. The creature hissed like a violent gust of steam, knocking him away with a swing of its arm. The fisherman cried out, tumbling back to the ship’s floor, dislodging the harpoon along with him. The creature leapt from the boat, disappearing into the sea with a hefty splash.

The boy rushed to his father’s side, kneeling beside his sprawled out body. Father winced, seething through his teeth with agony. He cradled his right arm against his heaving chest - several of the creature’s spines had embedded into his arm where it had struck him hardest. Many of them were seeping a strange, blue-ish liquid.

“Father!” the boy cried, “Are you alright?!”

“Ugh. . . God damnit,” Father groaned, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. “Here, Archie, help your father up,” he grunted, reaching out with his good arm.

The boy, Archie, quickly grabbed hold, hauling his father upright before bracing him against his shoulder. “W-what on earth was that?” he gasped.

“A damn monster, that’s what it was,” Father spat. He leaned heavily on his son as they stood up to make their way to the hull. “Sea monster. See, Archie? You’ve gotta be careful of monsters, even all the way out here. You can’t ever let your guard down or they’ll snap you up like a minnow. Just imagine what could have happened if I didn’t have that harpoon.”

The boy shuddered at the prospect.

“The world is full of dangerous creatures, Archie. You’re lucky you have me to recognize ‘em and protect you,” Father continued gravely.

“Y-yeah. I am,” Archie replied quietly, pushing open the hull door.

The fisherman found his way into bed while his son fetched some medical supplies. Together, they plucked the fisherman’s arm of the creature’s spines, cleaning and bandaging the wounds. The fisherman’s injuries were treated by dawn, and it seemed all would be well as they healed.

Over the following days, though, the boy noticed there was something off about his father. He grew woozy and seasick, which was unprecedented for someone who essentially lived on the water. He stumbled when he walked. The air around him tasted saltier than usual. His hands shook when he cast his net to fish for food. Day by day, his eyebags seemed to deepen, darkening his skin like a gathering bruise. It seemed he couldn’t hear as well as he used to; sometimes, the boy needed to raise his voice to be heard.

Although Archie did his best to care for him, Father’s health only seemed to worsen. The salty air condensed into him, forming tiny crystals in his pores; they tore holes into his skin that needed to be bandaged. He developed a cough that wracked his increasingly brittle body. He began to vomit after almost every meal. Each time he attempted to eat, he would grow nauseous and ill only minutes later. It left his stomach empty, so he would always ask for his son’s rations to satiate his hunger. Hoping it would help him feel better, the boy obliged and gave up his meals. Of course, that meant his stomach was empty too. The boy eventually grew hungry, and he told the fisherman so.

“I don’t feel well enough to fish any more today,” Father would say. “I’ll catch more tomorrow.”

And so, the boy would sleep hungry that night. It didn’t help that Father fished less from the pain of his wounds.

One night, Archie sat alone on the ship’s deck, gazing miserably at Father's fishing supplies. I wish Father would show me how, he thought, then I could fish for the both of us. His stomach growled, and he let out a faint whine.

A second growl joined the rumbling of his stomach.

The boy froze, the color draining from his face. He snapped his gaze towards the tip of the ship. Sure enough, before him stood the crooked form of the sea monster, slouched over the deck and dripping with ocean water. It looked. . . different from the first night it’d appeared on the vessel. Its form looked mostly the same, fishlike and frilled, though it was missing its fearsome spikes. In their place were small red slits, like a lengthy set of impossible gills. The jagged wound in its shoulder had scabbed over, the gnarled splice of red standing out against its mottled skin. It lacked its snarling grin, though its eyes remained narrow. Its face was redder than before, dripping streaks of crimson from its jaws. A limp fish twitched between its teeth.

Panic welled up in the boy’s gut, seizing his chest with the hammering of his heart. He jumped to his feet, scampering across the deck on shaking legs. He ran to where Father’s harpoon was hung against the ship’s wall, hooked up high enough that Archie needed to stretch himself to reach it. Skidding to a stop beneath its perch, the boy glanced at the creature behind him. He watched in terror as it prowled closer, stepping onto the ship’s deck with a wet thump that betrayed its hefty weight.

“G-get away!” he gasped, his fur bristling. “Get away from here!”

The creature only grunted at him, lowering its head and twitching a couple quills. It continued its way towards him - the boy’s panic only worsened with each step it took.

“Stop!” Archie hissed. He frantically reached to take the harpoon off the wall, though his fingers only brushed the bottom of the handle. Gritting his teeth, he tried once more, straining desperately to unhook the only weapon he had access to. “I’ll stab you!” he cried, though his tone was more frightened than threatening.

The creature growled lowly, as if to say, “Sure you will.” It had closed the distance to a couple strides by then; Archie’s breath quickened, and he gave one final thrust on the harpoon. Suddenly, it came undone from the wall, tumbling down towards the boy's hands. He gasped, hurriedly fumbling to catch it, but he was too late. The harpoon’s grip slipped right through his fingers.

Blinding pain flashed through the boy’s face as the falling blade caught his eye. What came after was merely a blur.

A scream. A splash. Warm rivers of agony running down his face. Cupping his eye as he laid beside the fallen harpoon. Father’s voice and being dragged into the darkness of the hull.

Later that night, the boy groggily awoke to a pounding pain in his head. He found he could only see from his right eye. The other had been bandaged tightly by his father, who had heard his scream and came to help as quickly as his sickly state would allow. Now, he sat next to the boy, tidying up the used medical supplies into a small box. He watched his son silently; instead of looking relieved for his safety, his gaze was sullied with resentment. His annoyed expression hammered guilt into the boy’s stomach. He didn’t want Father to be angry with him.

“Thank you,” the boy croaked, “Thank you for s-saving me. I’m sorry I got hurt.”

“Got hurt?” the fisherman echoed, “Archie, you hurt yourself! I thought you were better than that. Smarter than that. I thought I could trust you to take better care of yourself while I’m sick. But now look what happened. I have to care for the both of us now. Are you trying to make this harder for me?”

The boy’s throat tightened with shame. “N-no, Father, I didn’t mean it- That monster-”

“This isn’t about the monster,” Father interrupted sharply, “Damnit, are you even listening to me? You're not, aren't you? Do you even care right now?!”

“Yes, Father,” Archie whimpered, “I care! I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’ll do better, I promise. I really promise. I won’t. . . I won’t make it hard on you. I won’t! I’ll-. . . I’ll take care of myself. I really will, I promise!”

“. . .Fine.” Father grumbled. “You’d better. But you’re on thin ice, Archie.” His voice lowered, but his tone didn’t soften, “I love you, you know. But you’re making it really hard for me to take care of you. Smarten up, for both our sakes. . . Okay?”

“Okay. I love you, Father.”

“I love you too.”

The boy was quiet over the following days, keeping well out of the fisherman's way. His father only grew sicker, and the boy continued to care for him. He didn’t say a word about his growing hunger. He didn’t say a word about the worsening pain in his eye. He desperately didn’t want to be bothersome, so he kept quiet. He only spoke when Father called to him, and he had to raise his voice to be heard almost every time.

In his silence, the boy couldn’t help but remember his mother. He missed her. He remembered how often she was quiet. How many times she held her tongue, kept out of everyone’s way; especially Father’s.

He remembered the times Mother would speak with him, but rarely with Father. He remembered the times where Father left to fish and Mother would come alive with words. In Father’s absence, she would let her tongue go and tell him all sorts of things; stories, secrets, hopes, laments about their family life, and everything in between. And he would always listen.

Mother always told him that she felt better when he listened.

The boy reminded himself a lot of his mother lately. Except he didn’t have anyone who would listen. He wished he had someone to talk to, like she did. It made him miserable, remembering Mother. Monster or not, he missed her. He reminded himself of her more and more with each passing day. It frightened him. He didn’t want to be like her. He didn’t want to be a monster.

By the fifth day, the boy was starving. Once again, he found himself sitting alone on the ship’s deck. Father was resting in the hull, like usual, and Archie didn’t want to bother him. Instead, he sat against the wall below the harpoon’s perch, cradling his empty stomach while he fought back tears of despair. He was hungry and hurting, but he couldn’t bear the idea of betraying his father by asking for anything more.

A faint splash snapped him out of his misery. The familiar sound of claws scaling the vessel walls scraped into the foggy evening air. Archie shuddered; he knew what was coming. Despite the pit of dread opening in his empty stomach, he couldn’t bring himself to move - he was too weak in his hunger, after all. The pale red face of the sea monster popped up over the deck. The boy simply sat there, trembling in despair as the creature drew nearer. Soon, it loomed before him; the boy closed his eye in defeat, bracing himself for whatever the creature would do to him.

But all that came was a wet thud.

Cautiously, Archie opened his eye to a gingerly squint. Instead of anything fearsome, the creature had simply dropped a fish beside him and paced a few steps back. It met his bewildered gaze with an unreadable expression.

Then, to the boy’s surprise, the creature began to speak. Its voice was gravelly, like the sound of falling sand. “You’re hungry. You should eat something.”

“N-no,” the boy growled. He glanced at the fish. Hunger stirred in his gut as he gazed at it; he curled his lip and pushed it down. “I don’t want your food. Y-you poisoned Father.”

“I didn’t poison him,” the creature replied calmly, “I stung him. That’s different. You won’t get sick if you eat that, I promise.”

The boy stared. Although apprehension gnawed at his gut, hunger gnawed much harder. He swiped the fish up, tearing into it eagerly; its flavor was thick and raw, but the boy hardly cared as he gnashed his way through. He picked it clean of meat in hardly any time at all, sighing softly with relief once he had finished. Although small, it was his first meal in days, and having something in his system made him feel so much better.

However, as the pain in his belly subsided, the pounding in his eye worsened. Archie groaned, clutching his head with his dirty hands.

“If it’s hurting you that much, it might not be healing right,” the creature’s voice came again.

The sound of it made Archie jump. Shyly, he glanced towards the sea creature. It’d watched him eat and hadn’t moved a muscle.

“I can tell those bandages are old,” it continued, “You should get some fresh dressings.”

The boy frowned. “I can’t do that. I-I can’t waste more of Father’s bandages.”

The creature narrowed its eyes with a look of distaste. “‘Wasting?’ That’s not ‘wasting.’”

“I can’t. Father told me we were running low. I can’t waste it, he needs them for his cuts.”

“You need them for your cut. It’ll make your head stop hurting.”

“He needs them s-so he can stay healthy and take care of me. I’m-. . . I’m just going to make it harder to do that if I take it away!”

“He won’t have anything to take care of if you die,” the creature grumbled. “It would all be for nothing. Besides, it’s just one roll. I’m sure he can spare just one.”

The boy paused, staring at the creature miserably. His head pounded so horribly he thought he might cry. It’ll help. It’s just one roll, the creature’s words echoed in his thoughts. The two of them sat in silence, awaiting Archie’s decision.

At last, the boy stood, making his way towards the hull to retrieve Father’s first aid kit. The creature merely watched him, though its gaze had softened with approval.

Archie opened the door as quietly as he could, slipping into the musty hull. He nervously crept his way through, keeping his footsteps light, ears pricked and movements slow. The fisherman laid in his bed, breathing raggedly; he was awake, though feverish and facing the wall, so he didn’t notice his son’s presence.

Carefully, the boy crept to the base of his father’s bed, retrieving a fastened box from beneath it. It opened with a soft click that made him hold his breath. Father didn’t react, so Archie resumed his heist. He kept glancing atop the fisherman’s bed while he sifted through the box’s contents. Father was right, they were running quite low on bandages. He snatched out a roll anyways, swiftly tucking the box back into place and beginning his exit.

He made it about halfway back before the fisherman rolled over to face him.

For a moment, they both froze. Anger washed over the fisherman, and terror washed over his son.

“Archie.” The fisherman rose out of bed, his joints crackling horribly from the movement. “What are you doing with that?”

His son stood there petrified. It took several seconds before he tried to reply, though the fisherman cut him off.

“Did you hurt yourself again?” he asked. His bloodshot eyes were burning with fury.

The boy shook his head.

“Then why do you have that?” the fisherman seethed, looming over him. Blood trickled from his nose, dripping down his chin and staining the edges of his teeth.

“M-my head,” the boy stammered, pointing to his bandaged face, “I-I was- I was going to s-switch them!”

“You’re going to waste some of our last bandages on a wound that’s already closed?!” The fisherman snapped. Blood spattered from his lips as he snarled. In his feverish fury, the fisherman had a feral look about him. His appearance was unkempt and ragged from weeks of neglect; his bloodshot eyes were wide and wild; his bloody mouth frothed around the corners; all together, it made him look almost monstrous.

The boy flinched at his sudden volume. “I’m sorry!” he cried, “I’ll put it back!” He took a couple steps to return the bandages to the box, but the fisherman stood in the middle of the hull, blocking his path. He shoved his son back when he came within range, forcing out a yelp of surprise.

“After everything I’ve done for you,” the fisherman gurgled, pacing threateningly towards his son. The boy bristled, backing away towards the door. “This is what I get?!” Father continued furiously, “A bratty child that makes everything so much harder than it needs to be! I’ve been working my hands off to take care of everything around here, literally!” The fisherman threw his hands out in front of him, tearing their dressings off to expose the gnarled salty holes beneath. “And here you are, depriving your own father of the one thing that makes it better. I knew you didn’t care. You never really cared, didn’t you?!”

By then, the boy had backed into the hull’s closed door. He threw it open, fleeing onto the deck in a desperate attempt to make some distance from his father. The fisherman stormed after him, shoving his son once again as he caught up behind him. A cry caught in Archie’s throat as he toppled forward, falling chest-first onto the floor. Before he could even attempt to sit up, Father dropped on top of him and pinned him beneath his weight. The air around him was saltier than ever before, stinging tears out of Archie’s eye. The creature was nowhere to be seen.

“You don’t care about me,” the fisherman snarled, “I don’t know why I even brought you along.”

The boy let out a sob, pushing frantically against his father’s weight. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, you’re scaring me!”

The fisherman interrupted his son’s attempts to escape, snaking his bloody hands around his throat and clasping down tight. The boy gagged, prying at his fingers in newfound panic.

“Rotten brat, I should never have brought you with me!” his father screamed, though it only came out as a gurgle. His chest heaved as he tried to recover his breath, a wheeze of effort escaping from his throat. “You,” he attempted to shout, instead breaking into a coughing fit. His grip slackened on the boy’s neck; Father’s wounded hands were already slick with blood, so Archie could pry them off just enough to draw in some air.

“I should’ve left you with your mother,” the fisherman coughed, “Since you both never cared about me! Damn monsters!” He swayed a little. “Damn monsters. . .” Blood, salt, and spit dripped from his mouth as he struggled to breathe. He grew too weak to keep his son down, and the boy slipped out of his grasp in a desperate scamper. His father growled, reaching a hand out to reclaim him, then nearly collapsed with the effort. Violent coughing wracked his wounded, malnourished body. He tried and failed again and again to take a full breath of air, but all his lungs could get was blood and salt. The boy watched, frozen in horror as his father grew weaker with each cough, choking on his own throat until he finally fell still on the ship’s deck.

The boy sat there, paralyzed in shock. Tears rolled freely down his face. He felt dizzy, numb and sick all at the same time, staring at his father’s ragged corpse. He hardly even noticed the creature’s return from the sea until it sat right beside him.

“I-I said I’d put it back,” the boy mumbled. “Why didn’t he listen? He didn’t have to get angry. H-he didn’t have to yell and lose his breath.”

“He couldn’t hear you at that point,” the creature replied softly, “All he could hear was the ocean. It’s a part of his sickness.”

“You killed him,” Archie said hoarsely “You made him sick and you killed him.”

“I know. I wish I could say I was sorry.”

“W-what? Why can’t you say sorry?”

“Because he was a monster. It’s my job as a guardian to kill monsters so my ocean stays safe.”

“He was my father.”

“Was he a good father? He didn’t take care of you. Not really. He didn’t feed you, he didn’t treat your wound, he just took it all for himself. And when you tried to take care of yourself, he attacked you for it. Real fathers don’t do such things. Monsters do.”

“Father didn’t seem like a monster.”

“I’m sorry to say he tricked you. If he wasn’t a monster, I wouldn’t have made him sick.”

“Was mother a monster too?” The boy asked, his voice taut with grief. “Is that why she’s gone? Did you make her sick too?”

“No. I didn’t make her sick. Your father took her away, not me.”

“What?” The boy looked at the creature with despair.

The creature simply looked back. “Your father took her away. He lost his temper; just the same as a moment ago, only he didn’t stop. I heard it when he threw her into my ocean. He made sure she wouldn’t come back. That’s when I decided I would make him sick the next time he went to sea. So, I did.” The creature tilted its head. “He dragged you out here because he was afraid of the consequences, you know. He knew he’d get in trouble if he stayed in that village. So he ran, and brought you with him.”

Another wave of despair washed over the boy. Mother and Father were dead; both of them. Fresh tears welled in his eye and rolled down his freckled face, and he succumbed to a sharp sob. “Oh, what do I do now? Mother and Father are gone, I’m all alone!”

“You’re not alone,” the creature asserted gently. “I won’t leave you to die; I’m the guardian of the sea. I’m supposed to keep the world safe. That includes you too. I’ll take care of you as long as you’re on this boat. I promise.”

The boy sniffled, wiping tears from his eye. He stared at the creature beside him. Despite everything, it had been there for him more than father ever was. The creature, the ‘monster’ that killed his father, cared. It cared about him. That wasn’t monstrous. Father was wrong.

The boy’s gaze returned to his father’s corpse, and he wondered if he could even call him ‘Father’ at all.

III.

“. . .Wow.”

The three fishermen sat stunned, recovering from the tale’s enthrallment.

“What a story!” The first exclaimed.

“See? That really was worth shutting up for, wasn’t it?” the third sneered, nudging the second. The second rolled his eyes and shoved him back.

The first crossed his arms, wearing a smug look of pride. “I told you he’s got the best stories! What’d I say?”

“What happened to the boy?” the third asked.

“He lived,” said the fourth.

The second raised his eyebrows. “He did? How?”

“That’s a story for another time,” the fourth dismissed gruffly.

“Man, you’re good at storytelling,” the third remarked, “You told that like you were really there when it happened!”

The others nodded in agreement. The fourth gave an amused huff. For the first time that night, he raised his head. His face became visible in the firelight. A jagged scar ran across his freckled face, splicing over his left eye. He cracked a faint smile.

“Maybe I was.”