Urchin had always known that he would die young. It had been a central truth of his life, one he imagined had been born the moment he became aware of his own mortality. Two paths had been before him and both of them ended in violence. His choice had been whether he would be the instigator or the victim.

He just hadn't imagined that the result would come so soon.

“Godsfuckin' damnit, the little bastard's locked th'whole fuckin' store down.” A foot collided with Urchin's side.

He didn't want to see. They'd caught him just before he'd made it to his bolt hole. Tearing him away from freedom with grasping, hurting hands. He was brought down by a fist to the back of the head. It robbed him of everything but stars. The cobbles were again taking shape before his eyes. Urchin could feel his wits fading around him. He was terrified.

“Fuck, fuck! He's raised the clockin' alarm, we're out. Take the brat, we're not leavin' wi' hands empty.” Urchin was hauled to his feet. He wasn't even surprised to find himself lifted like he was weightless. Skin on bones didn't weigh much.

“Ye'll rue this ye little bastard.” Urchin saw a man with a face like hatred and a burn mark like a barnacle on his cheek. “Stop yer damn weeping, ye snivelling sissy.”

Urchin would have done anything to make that yelling stop, to get those lumpy, sinewy hands away from his throat. Yet he could no more perform what had been asked of him than he could change his past or become another person. The angry man, the craggy, ship-like man did not know this. He wouldn't have cared if he had.

Urchin's words had fled, leaving him with only salt water for company.

“Nnn...” Urchin tried, he truly tried...

Then he was spinning and his head collided with something hard, stone, while the rest of him still moved. There was not enough air for screaming. There was not space enough within his head to appreciate the snap of his neck as his face collided with brick and the tearing of his smooth skin against the rough surface, to feel the sting of his own teeth biting down upon his tongue. He could not fight the darkness.

In that time, he dreamed that he was dead.

------------------


“I'm sorry.” Urchin whispered, throat sore from crying. “Please, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”

He curled in on himself, like the shells on the beach, like the spring in a clock. He was ready to be washed away.

“Where does Hawke keep his depots?” It was another question, bored and gruff.

Urchin could smell the coals burning. He almost wished he had something to tell, maybe to buy those fingers away from him. The man was a wick. His thin field was a violation, every time it brushed against him, Urchin wanted to be sick. Urchin had never been a brother. He had never had value.

He hadn't wanted to birth his own violence. To act out against a world that hadn't ever cared for his survival. He knew brothers as well as he knew the man before him. They weren't cut of the same cloth, they were the cloth. The fabric of a hasty, patched and broken blanket that erupted from the sea. Slowly creeping out of the water, to smother the clean earth beneath it.

That
....... field
................. like
........................... hands
..................................... on
............................................... his
......................................................... skin.

“Where does Hawke keep his depots?”

Perfunctory. They both knew it. Urchin could feel the heat of the poker, not far enough away.

“I'm sorry, please...” He had no other words to give.

He did not have enough.

-----------------

They had him for hours that felt like another lifetime. Such a short time, an eternity. He was consumed, picked clean of what little sinew he had. He was destitute of knowledge they could use. Urchin was surprised that they hadn't realised that yet. He could not move his fingers any more. They were broken. He had always liked his fingers.

He tried not to think about his eye.

“I want my mum.” He thought, lost, so far from the path. “I want to go home.”

He was dry. He could not feel his lips moving. He could not feel the rise and fall of his chest, hear the rattle. Urchin sobbed, once, he wanted the pain back. The numbness frightened him. His cringing, animal self knew the truth of it. The ground fell. Urchin lay, suspended. His breath was like the tide going out.

-------------------

Morock didn't particularly like his job. It was boring and when it wasn't boring, it annoyed him. Especially when the prisoners wouldn't stop crying. It grated on him. The current one had been going for hours, even when Moro wasn't anywhere near him. It was pathetic.

“Hesta, Moro.” Chason said, running a hand through his short hair and yawning. His arms were leanly muscled, his clothes were old and over-patched. “Far'ye?”

“Shit.” Morock grunted, spitting on the floor, “Kid in there keeps crying over someone called... Meesa Mani, I think. No frigging clue. Wearing out my damn nerves. I'm tired already from trying to get anything out of him.”

“That's a pain. Get anything good?”

“No, he was just a grunt they used to make guns. Wish I'd known, I wouldn't have made such a mess of him, we could've used the talent.”

“Ent that a bitch?”

“Surely is.”

Chason rearranged his trousers, with one hand cupping his groin. He perked his head to the side.

“Hey, you know, I can't hear anything any more.” He said.

Morock looked in on the cell. “Me either.” He replied.