Tin Horse

For thirty years, Tarn had tinkered away in his shop, fashioning play things from whatever scraps he could find and selling them in the city court yard. The girls typically liked the dolls he made, filled with hay, faces drawn on with paint his wife sweet-talked the ornery old dye maker into giving them (a veritable Saint that woman was). The boys usually liked the wooden soldiers he whittled into being with his knife—though he found many of them treated the toys too roughly in their over eager play. Wooden swords were another favorite, as well as balls, but the one toys he tried to push but never seemed able to sell were his tin horses. They were durable, simple to make, and shiny, but they didn't sell so well, so Tarn tended to keep them in short supply.

Whenever he brought his wares to the town square, the children would flock. Tarn and his wife spent frantic amounts of time checking to make sure their wares weren't swindled during rush hour, as children pushed each other excitedly to grasp onto the toys and test them out.

It was during one such excursion (many years ago) that a lone child caught Tarn's eye. He stood back from the rest in the pack; he didn't push or shove—he stood at a distance and watched while the other children laughed and played with figurines and wooden swords and dolls, comfortable only with gazing at them curiously from a distance.

He was covered in dirt (a waif he thought, maybe) and gazed wondrously at everything around him. Tarn had never seen him in town before, and from the looks of it, the kid didn't have much experience with towns—if any. The ruddy looking child had an air of silence, but his eyes were wide with longing as he settled his gaze on a tin horse of all things, remaining frozen there, as if it was the most amazing thing he'd ever seen. Tarn briefly wondered if the boy had ever seen a toy before as his eyes sparkled with clear desire. And yet, the child remained still, seemingly too scared and shy to do anything but stare.

Tarn exchanged smiling glances with his wife, who had noticed the boy too by now.

"Hey there, son," Tarn called out. "Ya know you can get closer if you want—it's okay if you don't have any money. You can still come look."

The boy jumped at his words, seemingly taken out of a trance, and looked around before realizing he was being addressed. He couldn't have been older than five—but a cute little guy, sporting short dark hair and brown eyes that looked so bright and innocent. When he realized he was being spoken to, he fidgeted with his hands and looked at the ground nervously.

"It's alright—don't be shy," Tarn's wife coaxed, smiling reassuringly.

The boy frowned awkwardly, seemingly embarrassed to be referred to as shy, but cautiously, he made his way over, biting his lip as he tried to overcome bashfulness with his desire to see the toy up close. As he came to stand directly over the tin horse, he gave a quiet little gasp. There he remained, his eyes even wider. He seemed to like how shiny the tin creature was, the thing reflecting its sheen into his eyes. His hand twitched, but he seemed scared to touch.

"It's okay—you can hold it if you want," Tarn's wife said gently.

The boy fidgeted some more, a small blush spreading over his face. Very meekly and carefully, as if he was afraid of making a mistake and breaking the precious toy, he started to reach out. The moment before his fingers grazed the tin, however, a large hand snatched his, yanking him around almost hard enough to dislocate his shoulder.

Tarn flinched and his wife gasped as an open hand smacked against the child's cheek, drawing blood from the side of his mouth.

"What the fuck do you think you're doin', wanderin' off to gawk at some stupid trinkets?!"

The boy didn't cry or get angry. He remained quiet—his still wide eyes looking up at the man above with shame and a bit of fear.

That's when Tarn remembered: mercenaries had come into town that day—and rowdy ones at that. But the boy... Was the boy with them? The man in question certainly looked like a mercenary—the general look and air he carried. And a tough enough mercenary too. It was clear he was intoxicated—probably just come from the brothel a block down. His eyes were heavy lidded and his speech slurred. His gaze was alight with fury, his whole face burning with the emotion. Tarn was shocked by all that hatred so focused on a small child, who couldn't possibly deserve such clear resentment.

"I told you to fucking wait by the door! I don't have time to wander around some mangy town lookin' for you!" He shook the boy roughly. "Do you want me to leave you here in this dump to starve? Because I will, you little shit, and don't you ever doubt it!"

The boy didn't respond, his wide eyes now softened—less alive—as he hung his head and calmly wiped the blood from his face.

The child's father turned a menacing eye on Tarn next. "Toys... What a wonderful profession," He said snidely. He barked after the boy to follow him as he made his way once again through the crowd.

Those young eyes turned only once more on the tin horse before being lost in the the flow of bodies forever.

For years afterward, even though Tarn had moved their operation across the country, he still remembered that kid. He regretted the situation somehow—like maybe he should've said something. His wife always dismissed his guilt—said, "It wouldn't have done the boy any good to see a weakling toy maker get smacked around by a hot tempered drunken merc!" Still, if Tarn could go back... He figured the thing he'd have liked to do most is give that little boy the tin horse he wanted for free.

The thought of that had given him some measure of peace once he'd happened upon it, and he had eventually forgotten about the boy for the most part, though he always kept a few tin horses around, even though they never did take off but with that one child.

Two decades passed, and one day Tarn was in Vritannis selling his wares. He was dealing with the usual gaggle of children, when a little boy who seemed all too familiar popped up in front of his small stand, catching his eye.

Wide, dark, innocent eyes, a quiet countenance, dark hair...

And yeah, probably about five years old too. Tarn would have sworn it was that child from the past, plopped down in front of him without aging—except that his skin was a little darker and his clothes weren't so dirty.

And the child stared hungrily up at a tin horse—the last Tarn intended to make.

"Hey there, little guy," Tarn, now an old man, said with a warm smile.

The boy jumped a little, then looked up at Tarn nervously.

"You like the horse?"

The child nodded and looked at the ground, rubbing at his arms absentmindedly.

"Well, why don'tcha come take a closer look?"

The boy looked around, pointed at himself, and then after receiving a nod, strode up close to study the tin creature more carefully. If the child's gasp and shining eyes were anything to go by, the toy was even more amazing up close.

Tarn smiled, until a thought struck him, and he looked around, frowning in concern. "Where are your parents, son?"

At that moment, a large hand reached out and snatched the boys wrist. "Griffith! There you are!"

A young man—probably in his twenties—tall and strong and carrying a large sword, suddenly loomed, and for a moment, Tarn had severe deja vu. But that melted, as the stern look in the man's eyes was contrasted by something like relief.

"Ya scared me half ta death, son!" The man knelt down to the boy's level and took him by the shoulders, looking him closely in the eyes.

It couldn't be.

"Don't wander off like that on me or your mama again. Not ever—ya hear me?"

The boy looked down at his feet in shame. "Sorry, Daddy…"

"Guts? Did you find him?" A voice called from about a hundred feet away.

Tarn saw a beautiful tanned woman in the distance, a little girl's hand in hers and a baby propped on her hip.

It really couldn't be…

"Yeah! We're comin'!" The man called back. He took his son by the hand and started leading him along, warnings for future behavior being offered as they walked away.

"Wait!"

Tarn wasn't sure why he said it—why he grasped onto the tin horse and scrambled back from behind the counter—why he sprinted to catch the man making quick strides.

It really wasn't very likely if he thought about it—not likely at all. But if he thought about it more... he felt as if he could make the world a little better in this moment—right a wrong done—if he just…

He grabbed the swordsman's arm, felt a slight tense before the dark-haired man turned and looked at him curiously, his thick brows furrowed in confusion.

Tarn's mouth opened and then closed, a nervous smile playing on his lips. He felt stupid for doing this, but somehow… he just needed…

He pressed the toy into a calloused palm until strong fingers gripped the tin. "Your boy was looking at my wares… That's probably what distracted him long enough to wander off…"

The swordsman looked down at the toy, and Tarn could have sworn he saw some flicker of recognition—a tensed jaw and eyes narrowing softly. A moment later, the swordsman shook his head and looked back up. "Look, if you're tryin' to push a sale, I don't have a lot of money on me an—"

"—Oh no—" Tarn shook his head profusely. "Please… I want you to have it for free."

At the even more perplexed look, and those eyes… Tarn couldn't ever be sure, but…

The salesman struggled for more words, before a calmer smile settled across his features. "I can't really explain it, but… there was a kid once who liked that toy same as your son, and… suffice to say, I'm doin' this because it repays a debt I feel I owe to that kid from before." He studied the younger man's eyes closely. "You'll be helpin' me out if you take it."

The man looked down at his son, who stared at the toy wide-eyed. He then looked back at Tarn, a question in his eyes.

"Guts? You coming?" The woman's voice called.

The swordsman blinked again and looked over his shoulder. "Yeah! Be there in a sec!" He turned back to Tarn, and for a moment, almost looked as if he wanted to ask something, but... "Thanks," He finally said simply, his tone more serious than a toy required.

Tarn nodded, shrugging his shoulders and smiling awkwardly, then made his way back to his wares.

Guts looked back on the old man one last time, before turning his eyes on the horse, furrowing his brow. After a moment, however, he let a small smile cross his face. He tossed the toy in the air before catching it again. "Griff?"

"Yes, Daddy?"

Guts eyed his son suspiciously, highly amused by the way his mouth basically watered at the toy in Guts' hands—his look desperate. "If I let you have this toy... is there any way you won't see it as a reward for runnin' off on Casca and me?"

The boy nodded profusely, his face serious and apprehensive.

Guts put a hand on his son's head. "Ya gotta promise me—you always stay close to your mama and me. If you wanna look at somethin', you speak up, and never go off on your own, okay?"

"I promise."

Guts nodded. "Here," He handed over the toy, watching the boy grab onto it eagerly and hug it close, enthralled.

"Thank you, Daddy!" The child blurted out, clearly elated.

Guts smiled, and held onto the boy's small hand, squeezing it a little. "Your welcome," He said quietly. He started walking along, but then suddenly found himself scooping up his son in his arms. He watched the boy play as he walked, his pace slowing unbeknownst to him, until the pair had halted in the midst of the crowd.

Griffith was not unused to Guts sometimes growing quiet—staring at him and his siblings—but it had been fairly rare these days. "Daddy?" He asked, looking his father in the eye.

"Hm?"

"You okay?"

Guts smiled at his boy. "'Course. I just like seein' you play with toys and stuff is all," He said with a shrug, before continuing their walk back to the rest of their family. He kissed the boy on the scalp as he carried him along.

Tarn settled into his chair back behind his wares in the shade and sighed, feeling a smile grace his lips. For some reason, he felt as if a strange weight he hadn't noticed before had been lifted off his shoulders.

He supposed it was really quite ridiculous—too coincidental—to believe that that swordsman was the boy he met all grown up—twenty years down the line and hundreds of miles from that shop he had back then… Too fantastical to believe the child he had with him was his son.

But somehow, even if that man wasn't the one… Tarn felt as if everything was right with the world now, and that boy from back then had gotten his tin horse after all.

A/N: Merry Christmas y'all.