Wow look I'm back two weeks before finals with a 40k+ word fic AMAZING PRIORITIES
Anyway, here's my take on Phantom's backstory! It's by no means canon (clearly), and it contains some OCs made to fill some roles.
I've shamelessly gone and referenced my other fic, 'Becoming Freud'. Just a little bit. :') Freud the monk is referenced a couple of times.
Tried my best to fit with whatever is known about Phantom, but some things just don't add up correctly. So I've tried my best to smooth over the weird edges as well as it'll go. Hopefully it'll turn out okay. Just emphasizing that you're free to have your own interpretation on Phantom's backstory! I'm just offering my take on him ;)
Thanks for stopping by! Enjoy the read.
:
In the sweltering heat of the desert sun, Crowley watched a boy get beaten to death.
Such occurrences were not uncommon; many a time word spread far and fast about boys who went down to the Lower Districts and returned with spoils of splintered bone or cracked teeth separated from their owners. It was a tradition, they said. One that began when the desert gave up its secret of deep violet treasure stashed around a glittering oasis.
It was another unspoken secret that nobody would ever return with bruises. White skin should remain unmarred, for the only blood to be spilled was on cracked muddy roads away from paved marble roads. And if anyone so dared to return home with a scratch or a chipped fingernail, all it took was a word to the Duke and something would restore the balance of the town to what it should be. The Princess would always be more than happy to oblige, and Crowley often watched her clink heavy goblets with his father, promising a peaceful era to lure investors that even gave the despairing town a glance.
Crowley had long learned his place in the Lucre family. The ideal son was a silent one. He held his tongue and kept wayward thoughts of unfairness at bay. He spoke only when spoken to, and bowed his head when the Duke walked by. In a family who ruled with gold and with violence, Crowley's place was behind the entrepreneurial decisions of his father, or on his knees at his father's feet as he pleaded mercy from the cane or belt.
Which was why, when bullies had dragged Crowley out of the safety of his home and to the Lower end, he nearly passed out long before they had even found a target to assault. He knew what kind of treatment would await him at home if a word of this were to escape.
The boy was more dirt than flesh, bones straining at the joints of his form like pencils pushing against skin. Merciless blows from heavy boots printed dark welts that showed up clearly even against his olive skin. Crowley watched it all from the middle of the throng, unable to run as the bullies jeered and howled and beat down on the struggling body.
He was frozen, unable to move, so stricken with terror that he could barely remain standing. The leader, Jack, had one firm hand on his shoulder and was pushing him forward, snarling into his ear, "You're the Duke's son aren't you, don't be such a coward! Kick him!"
Everything smelled like dust and sweat and blood, and Crowley feared he would empty his stomach once he even uttered a reply. The boy was sobbing now, begging in clipped Nihalian, pitiful sounds that wrung Crowley's heart to shreds. Once or twice the child tried to squirm between the legs of the taller boys, someone would be ready to pull him back and reprimand him accordingly.
Animals. He was watching a circle of predators descending on hapless prey.
For a split second, Crowley met the boy's eyes, and he realized that it was the look of someone who knew he was going to die.
"Stop!"
He only realized that he had been the one to cry out when the beating stopped and the boy slumped to the ground and stopped moving.
"Well I never," said Jack in pleasant surprise. "Did I hear correctly?"
"Sto…" What had he done? They were all looking at him, the disbelief on their faces turning quickly to a new bloodlust. He tried to take a step back, but Jack grabbed his wrist.
"You would defend this piece of shit from us?"
He didn't see it, but recognized the deep burn of pain across his cheek his father had forced him to become well acquainted with. Jack's blow smashed him into the ground and he landed sprawling in the dirt, coughing. He tasted bile at the back of his throat, and felt the telltale burn of skin split open, and cried out when his hand disappeared under the heel of Jack's heavy boot and remained trapped there.
"Just because you're the Duke's son does not mean you are exempt from the laws of this city, Crowley." Jack squatted beside him and watched as he tried vainly to pull his hand free. "I hate when people tell me 'No'. And I hate it even more when it's you, cowardly little rat."
Crowley yanked his hand to him once Jack let go. He was shaking. Each bout of pain, while not unfamiliar, always felt so unbearable and Crowley could never manage to take it within his stride, he could barely hear Jack over the sound of blood ringing in his ears.
And still despite this, what terrified him more was not the pain, but what his father would do once he came home. Jack, seemingly understanding this trade-off, grinned wider and ran a hand through platinum blond hair.
"Say, Crowley. You know what, this time I'll be kind and let you off."
With a smirk his hand snaked forward and yanked Crowley up by the neck. His feet scrabbled vainly against the sand, and the yelp that Crowley let out was so pitiful that the bullies burst out into laughter. Crowley felt his cheeks burn even though he was gasping for air, his own fingers weakly clutching at Jack's hand. Jack reached out and patted Crowley's face roughly, and when he felt the throb of pain pulsing through his entire cheek, he realised with a sickening twist of his gut that it would turn ugly and purple if he didn't get ice on it right away.
"Yeah, you're smart. Smarter than the Duke thinks you are. You understand, right? If you dare rat on me when he asks, I'll turn on the full waterworks and your dad will destroy this place completely. So I dare you." Jack leered, letting Crowley fall to the ground where he lay, hoping they would just go away and leave him alone. "Yeah, not so brave now are you? Huh? Demanding me to show mercy to these dogs?" He spat at the unmoving body. "Fat hope!"
And with that, Jack waved his bullies behind him and led them home, their voices quickly fading and getting lost amongst the mud houses.
With a whimper, Crowley pushed himself to his arms, and then to his knees. Everything hurt, but at least he didn't have any bones broken.
The boy, on the other hand…
"H… Hello?" Crowley whispered.
No response. Crowley yelped as a vulture landed on the ground beside the boy, and looked up to find two more of those misshapen birds circling, waiting for their chance.
The bird took a lumbering step forward, and Crowley rose to his feet, tears of frustration and panic pricking at the sides of his eyes. Useless, so useless. Someone being killed before his eyes and he couldn't do a thing about it. When would he ever take a stand for himself? Was he going to spend the rest of his life afraid?
"Get out!" he screamed at the bird, grabbing a stone and hurling it with all his might. Pain flared wherever he strained his injuries but he drove the feeling into the corner where years and years of angry helplessness had nursed itself into something Crowley didn't want to know the shape of. "Get lost! You bloody… bloody monster!"
The vulture let out a bored squawk, seeming to assess him with its beady eyes, before it decided that Crowley wasn't worth the trouble and took to the air. Crowley watched it go, followed quickly by the other two.
He knew that his own injuries needed to be tended to, but he couldn't simply… leave the boy… Even if he was terrified, he didn't want to make the wrong decision when a life was on the line.
So now what? He had a body in front of him. Crowley hadn't the slightest clue what to do with bodies, or what anyone else did with them. What if he touched it? Would he get into trouble — no, more trouble than already was in?
And… and besides. There was no way he could bring him to any of the local physicians. Word would spread too fast and the Duke would teach him a lesson before he could even formulate an excuse for his behaviour.
Just a quick detour. He'd try to bring the boy home, and then he'd go. No more than that.
He glanced around, making sure none of the bullies were still around, before carefully whispering, "Hello? Are… are you okay?"
Of course he wasn't okay. What was Crowley thinking? The form still hadn't moved and there were several flies crawling against the thin sinews of his calves. He didn't even know if the boy could understand him. Or even hear him at all.
Was he really dead?
Crowley was about to call out again when the body let out a watery groan. Then he had to bite back a yelp of fright as the boy visibly forced his body into motion, a broken mess of sandy limbs that could barely coordinate or tell up from down.
There was a smattering of Nihalian as the boy patted himself down, wincing at a particularly matted patch on his ribs.
"What you want," the boy said, his voice rough and weathered like sands ground against old rock. Crowley was about to respond, he just wasn't used to such a grating voice coming from a young boy, after all — but the boy cut him off with a glare.
Deep purple eyes, like the core of a lithium crystal, stared back at him and laid him bare.
The boy struggled to his feet and Crowley hurried over to help. "Let me help you home."
"I no need help from child like you," the boy slapped his hand away.
Crowley scowled and tried again, hefting the boy's arm over his shoulders. So light, even for a boy his height… "I'm not a child!"
"Coward," gasped the boy in pain. The word struck him in a place where it hurt, and Crowley couldn't think to respond. They stood there a moment as wind rushed by, carrying along tiny grains of desert.
"Just… let me help you home or something," Crowley pleaded. "It's… Please."
The boy turned to regard him for a long while, contemplating, and Crowley felt like he was being studied by the desert itself. Hair like clumped sand and eyes like the heart of desert stones, with strength enough to last even the harshest days or nights… Even being a full head taller Crowley had to look away, and he felt very small.
There was a sigh before the weight beside him shifted. "That way." Crowley looked up and a hand was pointing, though he was looking the depressions where scars hadn't really healed over more than the direction it was aimed at.
"R-Right." He carefully took a few steps forward, making sure he wasn't walking too quick. The boy's breathing was laboured, in pain no doubt, and Crowley wondered if he would last a bitter Nihalian night with none of the thick sheets to keep the heat in.
"What you doing here?" the boy rasped out, keeping his eyes straight. "Your friends all leave and you still come help? You get us both killed."
"I didn't want to leave you."
The boy snorted. They turned down an alleyway, disappearing from the eyes of the main square and taking refuge in the shade where the sun could not reach. "You do well, staying away from us. You call us mongrels? Right? Your father will kill you in a flash."
"My…" Crowley blinked, and the boy merely laughed.
"You look like him," he shot a grin over, pearl teeth glinting in the shadows. "Same eyes, same hair. If only Duke is scared like you."
Crowley looked away.
They walked and climbed steps with effort, the boy's legs barely holding his weight. Crowley realised that by some stroke of sheer luck he had landed without spraining anything, the only pain he felt was the force of the ground crashing against his rear end. But the boy was struggling, letting out quick breaths and small grunts that could not be bitten back. It belied the cold front he was putting up.
Thankfully they scaled the last flight without incident and turned into an even narrower alleyway, which was now hardly distinguishable from the walls of the houses themselves, uncobbled and rarely trod on. Signs of life began to appear — sandals left outside a closed door, scratched marbles and fabric dolls stashed in a box, fine carvings in the window to let in air but keep heat out.
Everywhere he looked was brown, the color of mud when rain slid across the ground and sand had nowhere else to go. The only form of color was in the cloth awnings that sheltered entryways and even then they had eaten away by cruel heat and thundering showers, leaving behind a washed-out ghost of their former selves.
The boy stopped in front of a door and turned to him. "Is here. You go home now." With a deft shrug the boy dislodged Crowley's arms and left him standing there, at a loss.
He gritted his jaws. The boy was already pushing the door open and calling out in Nihalian, and somewhere else there was a reply from a woman. His mother, probably.
Crowley was strangely disappointed. Surely this couldn't have been all. A part of him wanted to leave, to return back to the cool shelter of lithium infused marble for lunch, but a part of him also wanted to know how life in the sands and biting winds was like.
"What you doing?" the boy was fixing him with another one of those glares that rebuked him without even saying a word. "Go home!"
"I…"
"What you want? Money?" The boy growled, "Your family can give you. You want help me, you do it for nothing."
"It's not—"
"Ah, Kaa, who is that?"
A woman had appeared in the hallway, shawl obscuring her features. The boy called Kaa rolled his eyes and trudged over. "Nobody. He say want help me home, now say want money."
"I didn't say that!"
"Ah, you never learn, hm?" The woman gave Kaa a quick lookover before shooing him to the bathroom. "When people show you kind, you also be kind back."
Kaa replied in a snarl of Nihalian before vanishing, to which the woman shook her head and stood.
"Come," she gestured, and Crowley hesitated before taking off his shoes. The woman laughed again. "Floor already dirty, just come in."
Eagerly, he kicked his shoes back on and entered the house… if it could even be called a house. Even though the walls were mud and in their shadow he instantly felt much cooler, as if he were stepping into another world. A tattered rug lined the ground, surrounded by several well-used pillows. On a low crate that served as a table, a single brilliant red flower peeked out from a little clay vase.
Homely, even if it was meagre.
The woman led him over to the kitchen. He gave a wide berth to the stoves — he meant no disrespect, but they looked rusty and charred. Even the pot that was humming on the coal fire was giving off a… slightly upsetting smell that made his insides churn when he walked past.
Sitting him down on a wooden chair, the woman reached forward with knobbly, dried hands and pushed up his fringe. Under her shawl, the worn lines across her face was evidence not only of endless toil but also a persistent smile. Her eyes were two orbs of granite lined with fine lithium dust, and her lips were cracked from heat and lack of water.
He hissed when she touched an old bruise to the side of his temple, and she let out a sigh. "Poor thing."
Those were old bruises, and Crowley had to bite his lip uneasily. Even if he was all the way out here, he didn't want word of his tattling to reach the Duke.
"I… walked into a wall," Crowley lied.
"Still got such bad hurts, child?" the woman's gaze softened and Crowley, the child that he didn't know he was, found himself wondering why his own mother didn't give him this expression more often. "Never heal properly?"
"I'm clumsy."
"Along your shoulder also? And leg?" The woman's gaze hardened. "They do this to you?"
"No." The boy answered for him from the threshold of the door, a towel slung over his shoulder. He was bronzed, all hard angles even under the new shirt he had changed into. The boy studied him carefully. "They only get me."
The boy cut in with grated Nihalian, and the mother laughed. Unsure, Crowley glanced at the boy — Kaa, was it? His name? — and only received a scowl in return.
"Kaa, this stupid bird," she clicked her tongue and had him sulking, a look that Crowley was surprised to see. "Think I care for one of you white skins more than own son."
Crowley felt something cold streak through him. "I wouldn't want you to—"
"You look," she pointed. "Look at this bird, see he hurt anywhere? No? Small bruise? You see he so strong, small bruise do nothing to him. You pretend sleep like I say?"
Kaa looked away, still disgruntled. "Ya. Even cry. Like baby."
"See? What I say? You pretend sleep they always go. They like blood, no like death, see?"
"Ya but that boy never even help, you care for him still? What for?"
"I did tell them to stop," Crowley cut in, feeling a sting of indignation. "You heard me!" He was too afraid to face them all at once, but he had, by some irrational impulse, called out for them to stop, and gods know what would have happened to the boy had he avoided doing so.
"See? You think he come here for fun, eat our food and take our things?" Kaa's mother tutted, bowl and some ointment in hand. She strutted over, seized Kaa's wrist, and quickly dabbed something grey against the bruise on his ribs harder than need be, as if admonishing him. "Stupid bird! What he want then!"
Crowley resisted the urge to smile despite himself as Kaa yelled in pain and his mother released him.
"You don't laugh!" Kaa snapped, and Crowley immediately schooled his expression.
"You don't shout!" Kaa's mother came back up to him. "Come, boy, you don't listen to that bird. What your name?"
"C… Crowley."
"Kerali? Sound like good name, ya." She held out the bowl as she talked. "See? Medicine, for your bruise. Everywhere, ya, poor thing. Very fast heal, let Yasmine take care of you."
"Thank you," Crowley held out his arms and shifted his weight as Yasmine instructed, tensing whenever she ran her fingers across bruises old and new, but no matter where she placed her fingers, he felt not even a single throb of pain. She was so gentle. Even for a frail woman like herself, she moved with practice and confidence, and he wondered how many times she had done the same for her son and husband. With a derisive snort, Kaa turned on his heel and headed out of the kitchen.
"Kaa tell me just now, you are son of Duke?"
The soft question startled him and he looked up, terrified that somehow this knowledge would have warranted some different treatment, but still she continued to rub and soothe his injuries. Her shawl hid her expression from his view and he could only pray as he answered, tentatively, "… Yes."
"The Duke is strict man," Yasmine murmured. Was that sympathy in her voice? Crowley couldn't understand why she was still so kind, not when his people had abused hers for years and years… "But you look so like him, ya, same eyes and hair…"
"I hate him," Crowley blurted out. On the table, his hand clenched. "I hate everything about him."
"We all do, child." Satisfied her treatment of whatever injuries she could find, Yasmine straightened. Her expression killed Crowley. It made her look old, and in one single instance told him more about life here than any English could possibly convey.
Desperate for a change in topic, he blundered on. "What about Kaa? Kaa's father?"
"Like you, bird take after father. The more he grow the more he remind me of father. Same spirit, same strength, like iron buried in sand. He have father's smile, but he take my eyes."
"My father was a good man," Kaa was at the door again, eyes hard and unyielding. Yasmine's eyes were not as judgmental, nor as cutting, though they surely were as brilliant, once upon a time.
It took a while for it to sink in, however —
"He died in the mines," said Kaa, when the realisation dawned on Crowley's face. "They never care. Never find his body."
"I'm…" Crowley stood, finding no words that made a good response. "I'm sorry," he said instead, because he still was the Duke's son, and for that, surely he had to bear a portion of his father's sins on his own shoulders, even if he did not have a hand in it.
He didn't dare meet either of their eyes, not with the tension crackling in the air.
And as quickly as it had built up, it was gone. Kaa let out a sigh and waved a hand, and for the first time, his expression had softened. "It's in the past."
Kaa walked over, taking a seat opposite Crowley — avoiding the chair at the head of the table, he noticed. Yasmine had gone back to bustling about the kitchen, setting out bowls laden with thick stew. Crowley regarded his with apprehension, to which Kaa and Yasmine both laughed.
"Eat!" Kaa grabbed a flimsy tin spoon and worked voraciously through his. Crowley continued to stare at his food and blanched when a bubble broke the surface. "Eat," repeated Kaa, grinning now. The boy had warmed up considerably, not that Crowley was complaining, but he was still mildly intimidated by the viscous mass he was faced with. "You so small, better eat more. Thought milk skins have better food but you still so thin, like reeds."
"I'm not small!"
"He bigger than you, bird." Yasmine called from the stove.
Crowley scowled. "I'm twelve."
"I am fifteen! And with better name and stronger body!" Kaa gestured at his mother with his spoon before pointing it at Crowley. "You! What your name mean!"
Crowley realised he didn't know. "Er —"
"What does it matter? They different mind from us, bird."
"Name have meaning! Name have power. Name make you who you are. Kaa," the boy continued, and Crowley could practically see him puffing up as he preened, "Is name given by my father. Kaa is sound of mighty bird."
"Like crow! Noisy, rubbish-eating bird!" Yasmine was beside him in a flash, cuffing him deftly with a wooden spoon. "So noisy! Always talk about yourself!"
"Not now, ma! Ma!"
Crowley burst out laughing. The image of the once-sullen boy suddenly besieged by his unyielding mother was too much to take in. He didn't realise they had fallen silent and were watching him until he had calmed down, and then he looked away, cheeks aching, slightly embarrassed.
"You laugh, laugh some more." Kaa warned, but there was no harsh edge to his voice. "I kick you. Don't waste my mother's cooking, you better eat."
The food looked exactly as it tasted, which was to say — absolutely vile. It tasted like the desert itself, like mud made from sand and year-old water with grasses that grew by the roadside, and it was possibly exactly that. After the first mouthful Yasmine asked him how it tasted, and when Crowley gritted his jaws to force down a particularly rebellious hurl of his stomach, she smiled and clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"I think one day, young one, you will understand how the desert care for people that live in it."
They didn't pressure him to eat any more, though, much to Crowley's relief — and Kaa's frustration, when Yasmine produced some flattened bread from a wicker basket in the corner.
"Kaa's favorite," she explained, as she handed him a chunk and Kaa watched on in envy. "His father teach me, he say is… ah, how to say —"
"Gypsies," Kaa supplied sulkily.
"Yes. Gypsy. He say his family use to make it like that before they settle in Ariant oasis."
The bread was dry, flaky and unleavened. Crowley had never eaten bread without yeast before, and it felt more like baked lumps of dough than the fluffy slices of bread he was so used to seeing on his table. But unlike the bread he usually ate at home, Yasmine's bread tasted sweet all the way through, as if baked with honey, or the nectar of some flower.
Crowley wanted to eat it all, but he couldn't bear to. Kaa was absolutely delighted with the half that Crowley handed to him, and savoured every bite.
Too soon the sun had fallen from its perch. His father would be home for dinner, and he absolutely had to get home before that. Yasmine waved him goodbye with a teary hug and a quiet whisper into his ear, "May the desert watch over you, Kerali." Crowley felt a savage twist to his gut when she finally pulled away, and had to grit his jaw so his lip wouldn't tremble.
Kaa saw him back to the main square. There was a patch of dried blood there, and Crowley did his best to ignore it.
"You going tell the Duke?"
Kaa's expression was ice, the hostility back twicefold — Crowley nearly took a step backwards. The boy wasn't armed, but could gravely injure him if he so wanted…
"I just asking, Crowley." Kaa looked away, but there was no doubt about the anger that still simmered behind the casual veneer of his words. "If you going say I hit you, tell me now. Give me and mama time to run."
Here was a boy, asking for mercy after he and his mother had taken in one of their oppressors, reining in his anger because he couldn't afford to be irrational right now. Crowley's stomach flipped and he felt his knee tremble.
"I… Kaa," Crowley pleaded, because he didn't know how else to convey how utterly ashamed he felt to be who he was, and he wanted to be forgiven for the sins of an entire society, yet he simply couldn't even begin anywhere apt. He couldn't even save the life of a single boy.
Kaa turned and walked back down the road he came from, and Crowley watched him grow, something slimy clawing up the back of his throat.
"Don't be late to go home, ya," Kaa called over his shoulder, and the elongated shadows of the mud houses swallowed him, and then he was gone.
Left with no other option, Crowley trudged back up the stairs. He couldn't think what to do, he was terrified and panicky and now he had the Duke to think of. And the sky was turning dark, dinnertime was probably coming, and then he would have to face all the questions —
With a sickening jolt, Crowley realized that dinnertime today was supposed to be a grand affair, not at home, but in the audience of the Princess in her castle.
The world spun. Crowley stumbled over to the nearest house and leaned heavily against it, biting his lip so hard that he tasted iron. He willed himself not to cry, not to whimper, not to break down, because his eyes would be red later, and that was also a sin in the Lucre family. He couldn't cry, he was probably already late, but maybe, just maybe, his absence would be worse than his late arrival. Breath came in short uncontrollable bursts but he forced air through his teeth and decided he would make it through this.
The palace was on the other side of town, which left him no choice but to run.
So run he did. Fear lent speed to his feet, while panic stopped his breath, but he knew how impossible it was to slow down for even a while. He tore past the buildings of hardened mud, along the split muddy roads and leaping over potholes, oblivious to the Nihalians that peeked at him from behind half-drawn blinds. The buildings gave way to open grassland, and then to cultured lawns, dirt paths growing coarser and their stones smoother until they were round pebbles inset into concrete, and he followed these lanes through a high golden archway onto the grand roads of Ariant. He didn't spare a glance at the ornate houses that reflected amber light and scattered prisms across marble walls. There were still finely-dressed nobles around, ambling past well-manicured shrubs, and they yelled at him to slow down but he pretended he didn't hear.
It wasn't long before he arrived at the entrance of the Palace. The guards gave him weird looks and asked about his wounds — "I fell down the stairs, and walked into a wall," he said without stammering, — before opening the gates for him, and in he ran. He sprinted past the glittering fountains and the ornate gazebos and was thoroughly out of breath as he stumbled up the stairs, only to crash into a man in a suit.
He couldn't stop the breathless whimper of apology that fell from his lips, and he was about to drop to the ground when hands grasped his elbows and hauled him firmly but gently to his feet.
Giles, and not the Duke. Oh, thank gods it wasn't the Duke.
The butler didn't let a single flicker of emotion pass his face and merely murmured, "Come" before he found himself in front of a mirror and Giles was working at his wounds with makeup and powder, checking that the buttons of his new shirt and jacket were all done.
"Don't keep worrying your lip or it will tear again," Giles said gently, carefully running fingers softly through Crowley's hair. Crowley knew it was to rid of dust and stray gravel but gods if he wanted the man to pat his head and hug him and lend him some of that unshakeable strength.
"Is da— is the Duke angry?" Crowley whispered, "How late am I?"
"A couple minutes behind schedule, young master." Giles looked him over before tending once more to an old bruise that showed where his fringe couldn't cover it.
Crowley kept his eyes on the wry old butler so he wouldn't have to look at his reflection, he'd long had enough of the terrified young boy he saw there. It was not someone he wanted to be.
"Is… Is the Duke angry?"
Giles did not reply, and now Crowley couldn't stop the sob or the rapid breaths that his lungs were forcing through him —
"Crowley," Giles took his shoulders firmly, "Crowley! Calm down!"
Crowley could not. "I don't want to go in there."
"I am afraid I cannot help you," Giles said, and it was the first time Crowley had ever seen worry on the old man's face. It did not bode well for him.
"Giles, please. I don't… want…"
But there were no words. The breath died in Crowley's throat, and he saw the small silhouette in the mirror lose its strength, its shoulders sagging, and all he wanted to do was curl up on the ground and cry so hard he did not see the light of day ever again.
"I am sorry, young master. Truly I am." Giles cupped his cheek gently and Crowley blinked away the first of many tears to come. "But what you face shall be tenfold more severe should you not make your presence known at once."
How he dreaded it, but he knew it was true. There was no choice, he was never given a choice in anything. He was dealt a bad hand from the start, just as the Nihalians were, and there was no choice but to make do and thrive where others would wither.
So he tried, because it was the only option left to take, and he squared his shoulders, put on his shoes, sent his fear to the dark place in the corner of his mind, and headed to the dining room.
The food smelled delicious, of honey and fat sizzling on a toasty grill, but it only served to make his stomach cringe. The guards let him through, hefting their spears, and Crowley stepped by with eyes straight as he had been taught, not acknowledging their presence. At long table, framed by luscious red silk, sat Princess Areda, who chirped and waved at him.
On meeting eye contact, he fell to one knee with a stiff gesture, head bowed in respect. He knew this pose well, guided by a crop and his father's harsh words, he would remember where to land and how the cold felt as it bit into his knee through the thin fabric of his trousers.
Princess Areda bade him to his feet, and he walked over as bravely as he could to take his seat.
The Duke was seated with the Duchess on his right, both in matching, elaborate white satin with gold trim that brought out the purple shades of their eyes. Gold always served purple well, he'd been taught, and the heavy-set scowl that screamed his father's disapproval never failed to remind him of this fact and how his father's eyes were hard around its violet edges. The only thing the Duke wore that the Duchess did not was the symbol of the Lucre household pinned to his chest: a circular aquamarine badge rimmed with more gold. It overlaid a proud fan of the feathers of a bird of prey, and the clean white feathers had their tips dipped in light blue dye. Aquamarine used to be what the family traded with, but now that they had lithium, aquamarine was useless. He knew that history well; his father had it drilled into him since he was younger.
Somehow, Crowley couldn't help think that if his eyes had turned out light blue like his mother's instead of violet like his father's, his father would have no qualms gouging them out with a spoon.
"You're late," noted the Duchess disapprovingly, as Crowley took the seat at her left.
"I… I a-apologise."
Princess Areda laughed and waved a hand. "Nonsense! Nonsense. Boys will be boys, you know that. When I was a child myself I remember missing my meals as well."
"Children should not be disobedient and interrupt their betters," smiled the Duke, but it took an experienced ear like Crowley's to know how strained it was, and how the tightness of each syllable screamed at the sheer rage that his smile hid.
Crowley counted to ten, over and over, as the Princess stood up.
"Oh, it is no interruption at all. I was just about go my new contract and show it to you! And besides, we have hardly even begun the appetizers."
Crowley's eyes shot open, but he knew better than to look up even despite his shock. He stared at the gold embellishments of his porcelain plate. Once the Princess left this room, the Duke would be on him in a flash.
The Duchess put her wineglass down. "Perhaps after the food, your highness?"
Not even the Duchess wanted the impending trouble. Crowley swallowed the sound that wanted to escape.
"It will be no trouble at all." The Princess got to her feet. "Give me a minute."
He closed his eyes. The sound of the Princess' bangles clinking against each other receded into the distance, and then the Duke's chair shifted as he stood.
No good. Crowley jerked up from his seat and scrambled to kneel. "Father, I'm sorry—"
"What did I say about punctuality?" The Duke grabbed his wrist and yanked him to his feet, harshly slapping him across the face. Crowley ground his jaws together, praying the Duke's rings wouldn't cut his face.
"Amos, don't. We're not at home—"
"What is this."
A sharp pain laced through his ear and Crowley's eyes shot open, he squirmed and grunted through his teeth, hands grasping weakly at the Duke's nails dug into the soft flesh of his earlobe.
Smudged across the Duke's hand was the pale cream and powder that Giles had used to hide the bruises, blocking out the veins on his palm, and Crowley was sure all his injuries were on display. All the new bruises, and the old one that the Duke had placed there a long time ago.
"What is this?" The Duke's voice had gone dangerously soft.
The grip on his ear tightened and Crowley let out a high-pitched groan. "I f-f-fell down the stairs—"
The Duke twisted his wrist, and Crowley was driven onto tiptoe.
"Think I'm daft, do you? Jack had the courtesy to inform me about your little excursion to the Lower Reaches, and he said you had the gall to beat up one of those diseased mutts down there."
"I didn't!" Crowley sobbed, "I swear —"
"Then what? Did you punch yourself then? Are you so eager for me to hit you?"
"I-It… It was Jack! Jack hit me! Jack hurt me! Father—"
"Don't lie to me, boy."
"F-Father, I swear! Please, I d-didn't beat up anyone—"
The Duke released him and he landed on the gorund, tears running down his face. Crowley scrambled backwards as best as he could, uncaring of how undignified it was, as the Duke towered over him.
"So you're calling Jack a liar? Is that it?"
The Duke reached down to grab Crowley's shirt, crushing the collar in his fist. Crowley fought the instinct to grab onto the Duke's arm because he knew how much angrier the Duke could be if he so much as creased the man's jacket.
"You expect me to believe your little ruse?"
"Tsk, Amos."
The Princess. She'd come back.
The Duke glanced at the doorway and let go. Crowley collapsed on the ground, not knowing what to do. He had never been in this situation before, with the Duke's anger masked as swiftly as it had appeared and a guest tutting sympathetically at him.
"You're not even at home," hissed his mother, and the Duke whispered something in reply that made her face pale.
"I apologise, Princess." The Duke tilted his head as she retook her seat, tucking rich brown hair behind her ear.
"Oh, no worries. My own father and mother cannot care less about the state of his court, your son could bleed here if you so pleased. As long as tales don't leak, hmm?"
Crowley pushed himself onto hands and knees, trying to stifle the sobs before they came. Everything hurt, and there was a space between his collarbones that burned like something was trying to escape. He couldn't even muster indignation at the knowledge that the guards were openly staring at him.
The Duchess waved a hand. "Of course, of course. I will ensure that no word shall spread. Is gold acceptable, or would you rather deal in emeralds? There's a new shipment scheduled this weekend."
Both women began to negotiate, and Crowley raised watery eyes to the Duke, not blinking because he so desperately needed the Duke to see how he was feeling and how he wanted to be given just one more chance.
So many times he had stared at the back of this head, studying the slicked-back strands of dirty gold locked strictly in place with shiny wax. Just as always, not a single strand was out of line. Sometimes the man didn't even bother turning around to mete out punishment. He'd seen the back of the Duke's head more times than the front. But it wasn't like he needed to.
Crowley was reminded of the Duke's face every time he glanced in front of a mirror.
Times like these though, he wanted to look into the Duke's eyes because there was no other way to convey how utterly defeated he was.
"Go make yourself presentable," said the Duke, not giving the dignity of eye contact.
"At o-once, father."
He forced himself to his knees. He wasn't sure if his ear was working properly, what with the way it rang, but at least everything else was fine. He could walk, he could see, and he hadn't sprained anything.
The guards let him pass without a word. Crowley kept his eyes on the window at the far end of the hallway as he walked. It was an ornate room with a granite pool in the middle, containing fish that looked as if they were carved from precious colored stone. Gold and silver ornaments of mythical dragons and nymphs and fawn were stacked precariously in the center, eyes of carved jewels. Crowley loved this room, partially because it was calming, but also because there were beautiful paintings hung on the walls, of floating castles and bottomless seas and sakura trees and herb gardens, worlds that he could only wish to escape to.
Immediately when he threaded past the bead curtains he collapsed at the lithium washbasin at the far right of the room, suddenly numb. It felt like he was just given a new chance and he had narrowly thwarted a fate far worse than he had ever imagined.
Then he realized what trouble he had landed himself in. He had embarrassed his father in front of the princess, and that could not spell anything good for him. The Duke prized his reputation, and while the Duchess was quick to repair the damage, the Duke was surely going to blame Crowley for the outburst and for ruining whatever good image he had painstakingly crafted for himself over the years, even if it was obvious enough what a crooked man he was.
Crowley dipped his hands into the water and wiped his face, careful not to smudge any of the cream. There were two ugly, purplish lines streaking across his cheeks. Tear marks that had revealed the bruises on his face. They simply couldn't be re-concealed when Giles wasn't here.
Where was Giles? Giles was the only one he was safe with.
In fact, even home wasn't safe. Home had never been safe.
Had there ever been a place for him here, in the Lucre household? Where he could feel loved, and where he could feel safe?
Was this what safety was supposed to feel like?
With frustration, Crowley plunged his arms into the water and splashed himself liberally with the cool liquid, relishing the feel as it ran down his neck and soothed his aching body. He scrubbed with fury, the only act of rebellion he could possibly summon the courage to enact. He undid the wrist cuffs and the button on his collar, grimacing openly at how awful the bruises looked. Spots of greenish yellow pockmarked his skin, old bruises kept alive because never healed or because they were pressed on, over and over again. There were fresh welts lining his neck, elongated rows marking fingerprints, and a bruising earlobe once again.
Crowley stared, and for the first time, he dared to admit that was too thin, kept light by stress and constant strain, and he knew this wasn't how boys should look like even if they were from the slums of Nihal.
Could be possibly deserve better than this?
He turned himself away from that alluring thought and dried himself off on a soft towel nearby, patting away the moisture on his sleeves as best as he could. There was makeup on the other side of the room, he knew. He would try to cover up the worst of it and hope his blonde hair could conceal the rest if he kept his head down.
He was crossing the room when he realized that he had been watched the entire time.
There was a dark shape in the window, blocking out the ruby and magentas of sunset. The silhouette sported the crisp edges of a finely tailored suit, further accented where threads and buttons of gold caught the sun. Crowley recognized the stance of a man in his prime. Confidence, boldness, not a hint of fear; everything Crowley didn't have.
He couldn't see the man's features clearly, they were only scarcely lit but they were gaunt and weathered, a sharp contrast to his slender build. The man's head was tilted as Crowley just stood there, suddenly transfixed like a mouse in an eagle's glare, enraptured not by the man's unexplained presence, or the man's regal aura.
Beneath the hooked beak of a polished silver mask, two eyes glittered silver, fragments of the moon surrounding a drop of ink.
He'd heard about this man: the phantom thief of Ariant.
He couldn't think to cry out or run. He held his breath, so terrified that a single false move would break the spell, for he was sure he was being studied, judged by a man who commanded so much more than what met the eye. The man's gaze shifted to his jaw, his ear, his collarbone where his shirt was undone, his wrist where his sleeves were rolled up.
Crowley felt a sudden urge to explain himself. That he wasn't broken and he could be just as good a child as anyone else could be.
The figure shifted, and Crowley found the breath leaving him in anticipation for what he was about to receive.
"Crowley! What are you -"
He jerked his head around. It was Areda herself, at the other end of the corridor, eyes wide but staring over his shoulder. He then remembered the stranger and turned around again, only catching the tail end of a cape whisked up towards the roof.
"You opened the window!" the princess screamed. "Guards! Thief! Stop him!"
Two very strong, very terrifying emotions hit Crowley, and his mind whited out. The first was fear. It was simple and plain, an old familiar friend. He could not afford being taken back to his parents, who would surely blame and discipline him for letting the thief in no matter how much he tried to explain himself. There was still what Jack had done to him, and he was certain the Duke had already formed his opinion on the matter.
The second was a new emotion. Clear and intense, yet at the same time razor sharp, so acute that it cut through him like a blade — the need to survive. And Crowley knew at that moment, even more than when he had watched Kaa get beaten in the square, that if he let the Duke lay hands on him one more time, he might not make it through another night.
He thought about Kaa's expression, that split second glance between them, and now realised how exactly he must have felt.
Crowley broke into a harried sprint towards the window, the last available exit, with the Princess's voice ringing in his ears.
The drop was two floors high. A bad angle and he'd break something he couldn't recover from. Shrubs lined the garden, but there wasn't much else besides. His grip tightened on the windowsill. A pavilion was way too far out of reach, and its sloping domical roof wouldn't help much for traction either.
A bead of sweat trickled down his fringe and he watched the pearl fall, down, down, down, to get lost in the tiny leaves below.
Then he caught sight of it. The silhouette of the stranger on the pavilion roof, his strange hooked mask and fluttering cape. He couldn't see the man's eyes, but he was sure he was being watched once again.
Assessed.
Quick as a vanishing shadow, the man dropped from his perch. Crowley's heart jumped into his throat as the man fell, his cape a streak of plumage billowing grandly out behind him. Gravity itself seemed to make an exception for the man as he fluttered to meet the ground, a bird delicately landing. Still soundless, momentum pushed him into a somersault before surging upright in one sleek motion.
Before the man even looked up, Crowley was in the air.
He heard the Duke's voice faintly, an entire world away. There was no more fear of death, or the fear of falling. It was just him, arms spread wide for balance like fake wings, eyes locked on some distant point in the horizon as though if he focused any harder he would soar there by willpower alone.
Somewhere deep inside him, it clicked.
He was free.
Cold metal slammed into his upper body like a vicious punch and snapped him out of his trance. He scrabbled wildly to grip the domical golden roof of the pavillion, suddenly feeling his heart plummet down to his legs. His legs swung uselessly in the air as he slid down towards the edge of the roof.
The stranger was moving again, breaking into a dash. Some deep part of Crowley stirred to life, demanding he follow. With a deep breath and a second more to push his fear as far as it could go, he let go.
The ground hit his ankles too hard and pain rushed up his legs, but he tried to roll forward as he'd seen the stranger do. Immediately he was up on his feet and following the stranger's path blindly. The world was spinning and he couldn't seem to get air into his lungs but at the same time everything was crystal clear. Acutely aware of the shouting coming from the palace, he darted behind a finely-trimmed hedge for cover. He gave himself ten seconds to catch his breath before running forward again.
Someone yanked him back.
It was like lightning had cracked through him, he spun and fought his captor like a wild animal. He wasn't even looking to see who it was, only that he knew he had to get away.
"Kid," came a low growl, "Shut up or they'll hear you."
He stilled, and the hand let go. Crowley realised that another pace more and he would've stepped into the faint glow of a lantern. The beam of light had swung his way and was now probing in another direction, leaving him safe in the shadows. He looked back up and met the hooked beak of the bird mask.
Before he could even think to speak, the man held up a finger to his lips below his mask, hushing him. He nodded but the man had already turned and strode off. He noticed a string of beads hanging from his belt, glistening in the light, solidified colors straight from the rainbow that glowed as if they gave off their own light.
Crowley realised that a thief who dressed whatever way he wanted was one who knew he couldn't get caught.
It was to this realisation that he watched the man draw a single, golden card before simply melting into the shadows.
Magic. It had to be. Lucia and the Duke had mentioned it before, but he didn't think real magicians existed. He'd thought they were just conmen, like the ones playing dirty tricks on the side of the road with fake pockets and sleight of hand to make a quick and dirty buck off tourists and the naive noble.
He could mull about this later. Crowley shrank back from the light as it grew brighter, only to freeze when the glow of another lantern engulfed his shoes. He didn't dare turn back. The only way was to press himself into the hedge, flattening himself as far as he could into the thorny branches and leaves, hoping that the owner of the second lantern would divert his attention elsewhere.
But it was no use. He could hear the heavy thump of footsteps approaching, closer and closer.
Through gaps in the leaves, he made out shoes with black wing tips and silver-tipped laces. Only the kind worn in the Lucre mansion.
"Crowley?"
He felt his body go limp with relief at the reedy voice.
"Giles," he whispered.
"Where will you go, Young Master?"
"I…" Crowley clenched his jaws. "Anywhere. Anywhere far from here."
"Should I search for you myself, Young Master?"
Crowley watched Giles's lantern cast light aimlessly around the area, as if he was still searching. He wasn't going to drag Giles into this. Giles was possibly the only one he trusted — the only one he'd consider anything remotely like family, but he still had things to go home to.
"No."
"I thought so." Giles took a few steps forward and raised his voice. "I can't find him, he's not here." Dropping back into a whisper again he said, "I'm sorry, Young Master, if I knew this was going to happen I'd have brought my wallet —"
"I'll find a way to make it."
"I know you will, Young Master, but please be careful."
Crowley almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. One day ago he was at home, drinking a mug of hot chocolate, blissfully unaware he was about to be the target of a palace wide manhunt. "I'll try my b—"
The sharp crash of pottery cut through the air, followed by another scream. Crowley forced himself not to move, not to turn to see what was going on lest he give away his position in the bushes.
"Thief! It's the phantom thief! On the palace roof!" shouted Giles. Crowley listened to his footfalls recede, followed soon by others he didn't even know were there. The shouting and yelling was getting louder, more shattering valuables and class clinking against marble, unbearable noises and incoherent yelling that left him alone and bedraggled in the garden.
He seized the distraction and threaded his way towards the gates, throwing cautious glances over his shoulder every few steps. But nobody followed him.
If the marble walls were high in the day, they towered over him at night. He didn't even hope that he could climb over them to escape. Not in this condition. He simply kept himself as small as he could until he'd circled around and reached the main entrance of the palace. The two guards there were sitting at their posts, and Crowley spent several minutes wondering how he'd get past them until he realised that their mouths were hanging slightly open and the gate was already unlocked.
There was a crimson rectangle on the ground, hidden slightly out of sight by an overhanging bush. The bird thief's card. As if waiting for him, it flickered out of existance just moments after he saw it.
He'd trust this thief.
Boldly, he strode up to the gates and pushed. The well-oiled hinges offered no resistance as the gates were pushed open just enough for him to slip out and vanish into the night.
Then Crowley ran.
He didn't look back once. The main roads were empty at this time, nobody was there to watch him go. Only now was his body catching up to him, every ache resurfacing, the impact of his jump throbbing in the core of his knees. His palms burned from friction against the ground, every gasp of breath hurt the base of his ribs where he'd slammed into the roof of the pavilion.
The pounding of his heart drowned out the sound of his shoes on the dusty pathways and the breaths tearing raggedly from his lungs. And behind that there was the faint, never ceasing static of crickets, the same drone it had always been. It sounded far louder out here, even with the wind whistling through cracks in the walls and roofs.
Nobody saw him skid out the last of the marble walls and down the steep staircase cut into the sandstone. He nearly lost his footing at the bottom but barely managed to catch his balance and haul himself upright.
He stumbled over to the square and sagged against an old signboard, its posters tattered and yellowed by the unforgiving weather. This had been where Kaa had been beaten. But every little street looked the same, every alleyway just as dark, the moon was barely out and there was hardly any light to see by. Everything looked different in the dark, as if some shadow would leap out at him if he didn't pay close enough attention.
Casting another glance up to the finer districts to make sure he was alone, and making sure there was no sign of other life except the insects buzzing in the background, Crowley took a deep breath.
"Kaa," he called.
He waited. Strained to hear anything in the silence, but there was nothing.
There was a shift of sand somewhere, maybe a foot against the ground, but when he looked there was nobody there, just the silhouettes of the blockish houses casting shadows against the storm clouds in the sky.
The boy's name really did sound like a crow's call.
"Kaa! Yasmine —"
"I already say you get us both killed, now you come looking for death also?"
Half hidden in the dim light was Kaa, waving him over with a bandaged hand.
"Oh gods, Kaa. Thank you." He stumbled over and fell into step, while the older boy looked him over reproachfully.
"Tsk. What you doing here, so late? Go home."
Home? He didn't have a home any more. He didn't want the home he had. 'Home' was a farce, a thick wad of lies that flourished on the pain of others. He wasn't going to be a part of any of that.
"No."
Kaa made a sound of annoyance and clicked his tongue. "And what you want here? Do you come look at the stars? Count them all, one by one?"
"I'm not going home."
How good it felt to say that.
As Kaa trailed off and studied him, Crowley let out a small laugh.
"I told the Duke the truth. I stood up to him." Crowley was sure he was smiling, but everything hurt and it wasn't just from the bruises. "I'm done being walked over."
Kaa seemed to come to a decision before nodding. "Ah, our house already so small, when you come in, we will have to squeeze even more… And you are big, you know?"
Everything inside him was a wreck, but something fierce and vicious had bubbled to the front of his mind and wasn't about to let him break this soon. "Just let me stay one night. I just need somewhere safe, to think of where to go next."
Kaa's gaze hardened.
"Desert is not kind, Crowley. Once you leave your lithium walls, your good life, you give yourself to the desert."
The boy gestured. There was a single large storm cloud obscuring more and more of the sky, tinted with bloody hues, moving so fast it looked surreal. With a howl a gust of wind burst out from nowhere, snarling as it tore at his ankles, sending tiny grains stinging against his ankles like countless tiny fangs.
"Desert will swallow you, chew you up, spit you out. It leave you with nothing, or give you everything. Nihal make you new, Crowley. And no outlander will understand that."
"I understand," said Crowley. "The desert is a cruel place."
Kaa laughed, a wild guffaw that was torn to nothing by the thrashing air currents, but in the sound, Crowley heard the voice of a spirit who was completely and utterly free.
And he might as well not have been injured at all, with the way he spread his arms open in a grand gesture of welcome.
The weather could change in a blink out here in Ariant. He knew that since he was a child and watched sandstorms roll in from the horizon. But being in the midst of the birth of a storm was one whole other matter — with raw energy pulsing in the air, hair-raising and almost tangible in the last few seconds before water crashed down around them. Droplets large and fast and cold thundered around them, hooves of some great water equine finally liberated for the first time in years.
He felt Kaa take his hand, the boy's face momentarily lit by lightning, and Crowley saw the blotchy bruise as clearly as he saw his own face reflected in the boy's eyes. He was matching Kaa's reckless grin.
Very faintly, the boy's voice registered in his ears.
"Welcome home, Crowley!"
"It's Rali!"
"What?"
"Ra-li! Kerali, without the Ke. Crowley's gone. I left him behind."
Kaa snickered, and he couldn't help laugh back.
"Didn't you say names had meanings?"
"Good! You learn fast!" Kaa tugged him forward, grinning. "Crowley is your offering to Nihal," he shouted over the rain, "Let the milk skin dogs pray to money and gold. Now you know better. Join us, pray to the sand and wind."
Rali tilted his head to the sky, and at that moment a slash of lightning split the night into two, thunder like vicious gnashing of metal against metal sending shivers down his skin. He thought about the life he led up until now, full of fear and terror, ungrounded subservience and unjust luxury, and decided that he had enough of it.
"I will destroy their gods," said Rali, "I will take everything from them like how they've taken from you."
Kaa's grin grew wider still. He looked maniacal in the rain and darkness.
"And from you as well, ya?"
Rali thought about the red calling card he'd seen, and the way the thief's eyes shimmered in the darkness.
There was not only judgement there, but pity as well.
"Yes," he smiled back, "I will take it all."