A/N: Hello! I'll just say, enjoy the chapter:)
She crouches behind the crate of foul-smelling oranges, oranges that have rotted away so many weeks ago. She can see the black smudges on the yellowing skin, the maggots that have taken to burrowing in the sickly sweet flesh. But mostly, she sees the throngs of people, dressed immaculately, hurrying about in the marketplace, hurrying to go home.
For it is raining. Brightly-coloured umbrellas bob around in the air, a stark contrast against the dreary sky. She wishes she had a luxury like that. Umbrellas.
The harsh, biting wind, seeps through her sleeveless dress and into her bones, rattling the life out of them. It is cold, she knows. And no amount of imagination will take that away. The raindrops patter onto her long chestnut hair, pulling it out of its usual wavy tangles, letting it hang long and unkempt.
Plink-plink-plink-plink.
She concentrates on the soft sound of rain. To her, it sounds like someone dripping cider into a tin cup. Cider! She misses the sweet-and-sour taste of it on the tip of her tongue. Like a cruel reminder, her stomach growls and rumbles most disagreeably.
Ow. She can feel it now, together with the burning thirst in her throat, the hunger pangs. Rain splashes onto a fresh cut on her forearm, and she winces slightly. All because of an apple.
"Get lost! Don't ye ever come back again!" The crimson-faced man shouts from his stand of fruits. She dodges his badly-aimed punch, and makes a grab at another ruby apple. "Damn girl! Don't touch those apples!" Other people, she realises, are starting to notice her, the thief.
They are starting to close around her. Probably not because of the fruit seller. Mostly because she steals things from them too. Her clothes from the heavyset woman at the clothing stall. A pair of boots from the uncle at the shoe shop. Food from the food stalls. And the list goes on. But she only takes necessities.
What can be expected from a penniless orphan thrown on the streets since she was seven?
The fruit seller is yelling again. "Ye disgusting thief! Stop stealing my apples! Scram!" The old woman who does the laundry clumsily swings a clothes pole at her, the chipped-off edge of the peg dangling from the end printing a deep scratch on her forearm.
The pain. It shoots through her arm, travelling to her head. It leaves her slightly dizzy, but enough to jolt her back to the present where there is a crowd of money-grubbing people chasing her, wanting her to pay her debts. How, when she has no money to start with in the first place?
"Witch girl!"
"Dirty thing!"
"Ye freak! Let's see how far you can run!"
They scream and hurl insults at her, but she's glad. At least, they haven't proceeded to throwing something solid. Then, something hard hits her squarely on the back, knocking the breath out of her. She is winded temporarily, and the apples—her precious apples—fall out of her hand.
She wants so desperately to stop to pick up the apples, the gnawing hunger is growing so hard to ignore, but she daren't. They, she pants, thinking to herself, they are coming. I must run. As if providing incentive, the ruby apples roll off into a muddy gutter.
Lost. Just like so many other things in her life.
The memories of her unsuccessful steal flood back but she has no time to dwell on them. Her back is starting to ache from the cramped space she is hidden in and a little droplet of blood trickles down her arm. Lifting the hem of her rough brown dress, she wipes it away, leaving a bloody smear.
The familiar flutter of wings catch her attention. Pigeons. She feels her heart swell with hope. Pigeons mean food. Grain and corn. Daring to raise her head, she sees a dozen of them pecking frantically at the ground. And immediately regrets it.
"The dirty thief! There she hides! Get her!" The hawkers are getting smarter. Using pigeons to lure her out. But no matter. She has to leave now. Stumbling to her feet, she staggers out of her hiding place and into the open. The rain has reduced to a light drizzle that blurs the surroundings with a curtain of fine mist.
She cannot see where she is going. Her worn feet seeks out the ground in front of her hesitantly, the edges of the boots scraping against the stone pathway. Behind her, she hears vaguely, the hawkers crying out for her to return their money. The uncoordinated drag of footsteps against the wet ground, the occasional splashing and swearing when one steps into a puddle.
She wonders how she will get out of this mess.
Lifting her skirt, she treads around the puddles on the floor, concentrating on her big toe which has peeked out of her right boot. Maybe it's time to get a new pair of shoes. Shoes, like the Cinderella in that fairytale? Her beautiful, delicate glass slippers that led her to her Prince Charming, given to her by her magical fairy godmother?
She cannot hold back the sound of disdain that escapes her throat. Once, she had held a tiny glimmer of hope, that she would be the princess in her own fairytale. Now she knows it is foolish. Foolish to hope, to dream. Her fairytale is one with a drab ending, with no charming prince, no fairy godmother, no glass slippers, only a tragic end in wait for her.
No, I don't want pity. Not even from me. She forces her mind to return to the present and she finds herself rounding a corner. The coarse voices are growing fainter. Am I free? A little cocoon of hope worms its way into her heart as her boots tap the pathway in an ascending beat. Until a shadow falls across her way.
Her eyes trace the pale arm that snakes from the mist, emerging to clamp on her arm. Her natural instinct surfaces; to twist the arm off painfully and disappear, but something stops her. Mostly because the grip is tighter than any she's felt before, and also because something… something deep down tells her not to. She realises that it sounds stupid and stops in time. Something deep down? What rubbish is that?
She is about to shove the phantom limb off and escape off into the rain when the pressure on her arm lightens considerably. The arm's owner reveals himself in front of her. He stands before her, the sun rays gleaming off his slightly mussed hair, the pearly drops of rain rolling down the light ash blonde strands.
"I know you." He sounds urgent, almost pleading. "I know you."
He… knows me? Her eyes rake the brocade tunic, the fine-looking black coat with stiff ruffles, the knee-high leather boots, not missing the sword hanging almost carelessly at his jewel-encrusted belt. Then, hesitantly, her gaze raises to his face. It is angel-like, with a touch of boyish perfection. Timeless.
Her ice-blue eyes meet his caramel ones for a moment, and she is caught in the trap set unknowingly by the hunter, and stepped into unwillingly by the prey. "Round the corner! She is there, just there!" Angry shouts break the connection between them.
Turning her head to the side, she berates herself for acting like a fool. An idiot. Her feet moves nimbly to the side, ready to carry her off, but the stranger is faster. With a quick step, he is blocking her again. She contemplates swearing at him, or kicking his shin, but she doesn't feel like taking her chances. Not with the potentially dangerous-looking sword by his side. Instead, she heads back where she comes from, deciding that irritated and weaponless hawkers are easier to deal with than the odd stranger with the sword.
She swears she has seen him somewhere before.
"Wait! Please." He catches her arm, right on the cut. She involuntarily lets out a hiss, and he withdraws his hand sharply. "Are you fine?" She barely registers his words, because that is not what that gets her attention. It is a request, the way he says it, not a demand. She has the freedom to choose; to stay or leave. It seems foreign to her. Choose? She can choose? And it's because of this, she stays, no matter how unwise her choice might turn out to be.
"I dream of you at night."
The simple sentence pounds into her consciousness. Suddenly, her mind is utterly blank; she cannot think of anything to say, nor anything to think. The rain falling softly around them and the clumsy thump of feet getting louder does not help her concentration. Not at all.
He continues. "You…you appear in my dreams every night, but I don't see your face. Only your back, and it's always raining. Like now. And…" He frowns, pausing, apparently alerted to the hawkers behind them. "Is someone looking for you? Do you have to go?"
Do I have to go? She doesn't know. She doesn't answer. She wants to move her feet, but they feel like they have been weighed down by sacks of flour. The word "fairytale" drifts back into her head. Little voices chant it over and over again. Fairytale, fairytale, fairytale… A low buzz echoes in her ears, like the kind of sound mosquitoes make when she sleeps in empty cartons on blustery nights.
From behind, she feels water splashing onto her ankles and a rough and cobbled hand on her arm, she hears panting and a savagely triumphant "Got ye!" She does not run because it is too late. Too late. "Return me money! Give it back!" Other hawkers join in shouting, shaking their fists like barbarians round a bonfire. Her head begins to ache painfully. She wishes they would leave her alone. She wishes the stranger would leave. She wishes she could leave.
He steps forward, a little mound between his eyebrows. "What is it? What has she done?"
Most of the hawkers step backward, intimidated by the weapon at his side. A brave one stands her ground, a daring finger pointed in front. "You are her friend?" It sounds more accusatory than questioning. "She steals our things! Pay for her!" Emboldened, the hawkers creep forward again and seeing no movement from him, they yell with gusto. "Pay! Pay!"
She highly doubts he will pay for her. After all, she is only a mere fragment of his weird dream.
He raises his arms for silence and the cries die down almost immediately. He looks confident and in-control, like he has been doing this since he was five. Reaching into his coat, he brings out a leathery pouch. A soft jingling sound emerges from it. "Is this enough?" He pours a handful of gold coins into the woman's eager, waiting hands.
Her eyes gleam at the sight of money, and she lowers her eyes respectfully, her tone of voice changed to a soft murmur. "I am sorry, kind sir. Thank you, thank you." She retreats, the hawkers swarming all over her for a share of the gold. She doesn't wait to see what he will do, only turns to slip away. At least now, her debt is paid. A part of her hopes he will call her back. To take her away from the rotten life she is leading on the streets. But that is madness.
"May I know your name?"
She turns. Through the mist, she can see his blurred outline. My name. "Scar."
"Scar?" He sounds confused. "What kind of name is Scar?"
"It's Scar." She insists, both of them speaking from a distance, none of them making a move to step closer.
Far away, she hears him say, "Can I call you Scarlett?" It does not matter, for she is long gone. Away.
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