He ran as far away from the mansion possible. He didn’t stop even when he choked on air, or the rain blinded him through covering his glasses with water. If he knew where he was, then he wasn’t far enough. His hands were cold and numb from the weather, and from his hard grip on the suitcase and umbrella cutting off blood to his fingers.

When he ran into the wee hours of the night, he stopped. The young man arrived at an unfamiliar town. Its buildings were modeled like architecture from Before Common Magic. With rain still pelting from the heavens, he opened his umbrella and began to wander the streets. He received an uncanny feeling from his cold, wet hair sticking to his face, and his soaked overcoat being dragged behind him like a heavy weight, despite the umbrella above him that was supposed to keep him dry.

He arrived at a tavern. It was the only establishment whose lights were turned on. He closed his umbrella under the overhang and swung the door open. The restaurant area was empty, save for a sleeping man gripping a beer bottle at a table in the corner, and the bartender, whom the man assumed was the owner. He asked the bartender for a vacant room.

“Why don’t you get yerself dried first? You look like yer in need of a drink.”

“I am looking for a room, not a drink,” the man replied. He let the hanging tails of his overcoat drip rainwater over the wooden floor panels.

“Bah, at least take yer coat off. The floor's crappy enough as it is.” He took out a binder and flipped it open. “So, room for one?” 

“Yes.”

"I'll need an ID for that."

The young man hesitated. He reached into a coat pocket for his wallet. Carefully, he picked out his driver's license as if it were a volatile object that required only the slightest pressure to explode. He stared at the name printed black and bold on the white card, complete with his family's fearful insignia colored translucent blue lurking in the background. The photo might've been the worst part of it for various reasons he was too tired to think about. He gingerly placed the card face-down on the counter to avoid looking at it. The bartender gave him a suspicious gaze before picking up the card. As his eyes scanned through it, he instantly paled white as a ghost.

"Mister...Yan's..."

The young man snatched his license back. "Put my name down as William Glacialis. And don't tell anyone who I really am. Do you understand?"

The bartender nodded. He scribbled down the man's false name in his book. "Seventeen and seventy-five cents to stay the night."

He handed the man a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet. The bartender gave him his change and handed him a room key.

"Yer room number's four."

Of course it had to be four. He might as well drop dead in this dingy tavern from the sheer burden of his misfortune alone. Will went upstairs and entered room number four. The whole room stank of alcohol, sweat, and something tangy that he didn't want to know. He grimaced in disgust at the sheer layers of grime coating the room, but he knew he hadn't much of a choice. This lodging would have to do. He draped his coat over the wooden chair in front of a desk, set his glasses down, and rolled into bed on top of the covers. He slept for the next fourteen hours.

By the time he awoke, it was five o’clock in the afternoon. Will put on his coat and his glasses before heading downstairs for a hot meal. With his small appetite he consumed very little of it, but his taste buds could at least attest to the fact that he hated every bite of it. He then busied himself with a 1-dollar newspaper for the next hour, until the regulars came in to get themselves drunk and rowdy, and Will could no longer concentrate on reading.

If you can't beat them, join them. He ordered a bottle of whiskey, as it was one of the only drinks his stomach could handle. He took a swig. Then another. And another one, and it was so good he found himself downing the whole glass bottle before slamming it down and passing out with his head on the table.

An hour later, he stirred again. He blinked the weariness away and studied his surroundings. Why was he here again? Images of his little brother flashed in his mind, and he remembered the reason why he ran from home in the first place.

Essentially, Father was an asshole.

Maybe if I drink enough, I’ll forget everything, Will thought. No, that's a stupid idea. Not even the worst case of amnesia could cover the scars on his soul. The truth was he couldn’t bare to leave Amell behind, not with that monster of a man they called Father. Will felt no better than his elder brother, whose suicide led to his inheritance of the family’s "warrior training," more akin to a brutal torture meant to prepare him in becoming the next weapon in this country's military. Vitriol escaped his responsibilities, and in doing so, condemned his younger brother to a living hell. After Amell’s birth, Will swore that he would never make the selfish choice his late brother made.

Yet, here he was, getting wasted in a dingy tavern miles away from the Ice General’s mansion. So much for being a responsible older brother. Although he didn’t kill himself, fleeing from Father was less an act of defiance and more of cowardice. What a hypocrite he made himself out to be, abandoning Amell like that. Now, Amell would have to suffer in his place Running away had only succeeded in Will repeating the cycle of passing down pain.

He took his glasses off. He wiped away the tears of guilt running down his face, and headed to the bathroom.

After washing his face and taking a piss, he returned to his table, only to find his seat occupied by an obnoxious guest playing with Will’s empty bottle. He didn’t care what the man had to say. All he knew was that the stranger was sitting in his chair, the chair the belonged to him and him only. No, it definitely was not the bar keep’s.

He walked up to the stranger and despite his drunken haze, he delivered a deadly punch to the side of his head. The man slumped off his chair and hit the floor cold.

“Oi, what the hell was that for?” his friend yelled. A group of five sat at the table next to his. They glared at him, agitated by both Will’s attack and the alcohol.

“He was sitting in my chair,” Will grumbled. He sat down on the seat and promptly stared off into space, preparing to wallow in guilt again.

One of them stood up. “No, you don’t get to fuck around with Gareth like that. Mess with one of us, and you’ll pay the price of what you did tenfold!” He cracked his knuckles.

Will rubbed his forehead in exhaustion. “That doesn’t even make any sense.”

“What do you take us for, pussies? Hey, this kid thinks he can talk down on us. Get ‘im, boys!”

Will watched them lunge off their seats from his peripheral vision. He rolled his eyes. He got off his chair and threw it into the closest attacker. He dodged the swing of a beer bottle to his head and punched the person square in the face.

The group was stunned. The rest of the tavern stared, some in shock, and others riled up for a bar fight.

“If yer gonna fight, take it outside!” the bartender hollered.

While the group was distracted, Will charged forward, jumped, and kicked a third man in the stomach, sending him flying into the wall.

“That’s it, you’re really pissing me off now!” The guy he smashed a chair with got up and summoned jagged stones and hurled them at Will. Undeterred, Will conjured an ice staff and twirled it through the air, blocking each stone with ease. He spun around and walloped the man in the head so hard his staff broke in half. Will discarded the staff and ducked as an enemy’s fist sailed overhead. He kicked the man’s legs out from beneath him and slammed his fists down on his torso. The man collided into the floor with a tremor that shook the room.

One left. His final opponent quivered behind a table. To his credit, nobody expected the punk who passed out after drinking one bottle of whiskey to be such a terrifying fighter. 

Will hadn’t even broken a sweat. This skirmish was less than a warm-up for him regardless of his drunken state. As Will approached the last group member, the man shot his hands up. “Wait, wait! I don’t want to fight. I know I can’t win, so please leave me alone!”

Will raised an eyebrow. He was absolutely lying, but he pretended not to know. “Suit yourself.” 

He turned around, about to head back to his room and retrieve his belongings. Behind him, the man smirked. A finger tugged on a string of mana attached to a beer bottle. It was hanging from the ceiling on the far side of the room, and it swung towards Will at the speed of car.

The ice mage snatched the bottle in midair. He looked down at it in his hand with discontent. “You know, it didn’t have to end like this.”

The man’s smile fell into an expression of horror. Will whipped the bottle behind him, and it shattered against the man’s face. He crumpled to the floor with a groan.

“I told you, get out!” The bartender stomped toward Will, unfazed by the havoc he created. “Five minutes, and I’m throwing yer stuff out the window!”

Will sighed and walked up the stairs to his room. He snatched his unopened suitcase and umbrella in the same hand. He went back down to the bar, where he slapped 500 dollars on the counter along with his room key. “I hope that pays for the damage.”

The bartender kept his eyes fixed on the bills in stunned silence while Will walked away. The tavern was quiet after his brawl with the men, but it appeared that one member was not quite finished. The man charged at Will, fists blazing. Will’s hand shot up and grabbed his wrist. He twisted the man’s arm in an unnatural angle and punched him in the nose repeatedly.

“When! Will you! Quit!”

He shoved the man to the floor, leaving his opponent’s face in an ugly mess of scarlet blood. Will’s fist was dripping with it. He ignored the stares of those watching and walked out the door.

Outside, he was met with a second downpour. Will stumbled out the doorway and clutched his head. He suddenly felt the bones of his skull throbbing with pain. Damn alcohol. He looked at the rain while waiting for his pain to ease. At least he could use that to wash the blood off. He held his hand out from beneath the entrance’s overhang and stuck it under the rain. As he watched the crimson slip off his hand, he noticed a car parked nearby. He looked to his right and met a familiar face.

Harvey Elnath Aldebrand, one of the top students in the nation. What was he doing outside in the heavy rain, staring at the other side of the street with determination? His face was scrunched together, teeth chattering partly in fear and partly because, Will could tell, he was freezing. Why was Harvey pumping his arms up and down while jogging in place like an idiot? What kind of star student would forget to bring an umbrella on a day like this? And to think that he, the son of one of the most powerful men in the nation, shared a room with him for four full years of high school!

Will giggled, and covered his mouth in surprise. No, he was not amused at the sight of Harvey getting ready to sprint across the road in a rainstorm for whatever reason. He was not covering his mouth because he didn’t want Harvey of all people to see him laughing. And of course, it definitely wasn’t because the mere sight of one of his only friends was enough to lighten his mood.

Let’s not forget the guilt you’ll feel when they cannot contact you anymore.

So much for happiness. He ought to have left earlier before Harvey noticed his presence, but now it was too late. Harvey stared at Will as he washed the blood off his hand with rain. They made eye contact, and broke off just as quickly. Will set his suitcase down for a moment to open his umbrella. As he turned away to begin making his journey down the sidewalk, he failed to suppress a small smile, one that Harvey eagerly caught, unaware that it would take three and a half years until they meet again.