The Intrepidus: A Short Story

It was one of the more curious things about Humanity, our reluctance to allow others see us cry. It could be said that it was a form of defense, of never letting one know your weakness, and perhaps there was some truth to that. After all, hadn’t Humanity kept the Deadly Races at bay for a time by pretending to be strong?
That day, however, Intrepidus was not able to hide his weakness by refusing to go home a mess. There was a shadow he had failed to realize did not have a place in this cavern any more than he did, and slowly, ever so slowly, that shadow grew darker and darker and took shape to reveal a small boy. His skin was pale, his eyes silver, calculating, watching the man crumpled on ground before him. He did not appear to be wearing clothes, only the shadows he had stepped out from, and when Intrepidus finally acknowledged the breathing that was not his own and looked up to find the source of it, the boy stepped back, afraid.
The boy was not human, it was easy to see that, but the human appearance he took was disquieting, and Intrepidus had to remind himself of all the times as a child his teachers had told him how dumb the Deadly Races were, how inhumane, how much stronger we were than them. The sun had begun to set, and as they stared at each other for what seemed to be hours but was really only minutes the dim light creeping through the tunnel began to turn orange as the sky burst into color. It would be dark, soon, and it was time for the human to