Each Life's Quest
part one of five
by volta_arovet
with many thanks to my beta, spacetart. Any and all mistakes or poorly worded sections are due to my ignoring her excellent suggestions.
Refuse finds its way to Pickham, and Marcello was no longer one to defy the tides. He had long ago lost access to his funds, and his coat, pocket watch, sword, and boots had been traded at unfair rates for food and drink. He looked at the wastrels in the streets and knew himself to be no better; no, he was even lower than the life long beggar, by virtue of having fallen from a much greater height.
The sole amusement left to him was that of invisibility. Men of the cloth (not in full dress, of course, but Marcello knew them as leaders, teachers, and those he had once considered friends) would pass him by and continue on their way to their preferred places of sin. Not one ever paused to look at him. He had a near infinite supply of blackmail material, had he any urge to return to the church. As it was, he was content to watch them, and to not be seen.
The mouse saw him, though. It skittered and scurried and scampered through the littered streets, stopping at Marcello's feet. If Marcello had known what was to follow, he would have crushed the little beast's head.
As it was, he offered it a small crumb of sour cheese and admired the neat way the mouse held it between its paws as it nibbled its breakfast. "Pretty thing," he crooned softly. "I imagine you're someone's pampered pet." He smiled fondly, lips cracking from the unfamiliar stretch. "A few days on these streets, and you will look as rough as I, mark my words."
The mouse finished its cheese and cocked its head, its apple seed eyes bright and curious. "Well, perhaps not if fools such as I keep giving pity to you," he added, and someone laughed.
The mouse skittered behind a pair of hard-used shoes, and Marcello glimpsed the tails of a long, yellow coat-a color so far removed from the templar's blues or the missionary's reds that he felt no compulsion to stop his gaze from rising.
It was the boy. Marcello had last seen him at the other end of a spear, at Angelo's side, but there was no mistaking that face with its damned kind, blank expression.
Marcello ducked his head, hiding his eyes behind a curtain of long, matted hair. That, the beard, and the lack of proper context had hidden him before. He had little hope it would help him now.
"Marcello," the boy said, and squatted down to his level. His knuckles rested in the filth of the street, and he didn't seem to mind.
"The hero," Marcello sneered. "Still out saving the world, are you?"
"I was looking for you," the boy said, smiling like he was genuinely pleased to see him.
"If you've come for charity, I want none of it," Marcello said, turning his face away. "If you've come to gloat, do be quick about it."
"Actually," the boy said, laying a hand on Marcello's arm. Marcello started violently, staring at the boy's hand. "I was hoping you'd help me with something."
Marcello let out a sharp laugh, throat sore from disuse. "You what?" The boy began to explain, but Marcello cut him off. "No, boy. I have no desire to help you, and no sword even if I did. I have nothing. Nothing! So leave me be with it, for you can take nothing more."
He removed the boy's hand from his arm, careful not to touch it any more than he had to, and looked away. He knew that the boy had left only by the sound of retreating footsteps.
The boy had left behind a small paper parcel-a loaf of bread, an apple, a small glass bottle of milk, still slightly cool. He considered dashing the boy's pity on the street's stones, but his stomach won over his pride. He expected the apple to taste like ash in his mouth, and was disappointed when it merely tasted sweet.
He woke two mornings later to the feel of whiskers tickling his ear. He sat upright, hand closing around a nearby stone before he recognized who it was.
"Not a wise thing to do to a sleeping man, beastie," he said, slowly setting the stone on the ground.
"His name's Munchie," the boy said. Marcello didn't look up.
"Also not wise, boy," Marcello said, hand tightening around the stone again.
"I brought a sword," the boy said, holding it out with both hands. Marcello raised an eyebrow. The boy had to be putting him on-no one could possibly be that sincere, that literal.
"Did you now?" Marcello asked. The boy offered it flat, pommel and blade resting on even hands. Marcello took it as he stood, giving the rapier a few reluctant swings and thrusts. "It's passable," Marcello proclaimed, handing it back the proper way-pommel first, blade pointed at his own chest.
As much as Marcello enjoyed damning with faint praise, his assessment was true. The blade was adequate, but only just, and yet still a step above the wrecks sold in Pickham.
The boy looked at him expectantly.
"And this should be enough to convince me?" Marcello asked.
"I won't tell Angelo," the boy said, and that should have hurt less than it did.
"Was that a threat?"
The boy shook his head. "I wouldn't tell him either way. There are children missing," he said in an apparent non sequitur.
"Are you trying to appeal to my better nature?" Marcello asked, disbelief evident on his face. "Do you think me that sort of man?"
"I think you want clean clothes and fresh food and something to do," the boy said, blank faced and plain. "And maybe an excuse."
"An excuse?"
"To stop living like this." The boy rubbed the back of his neck. "Or to do something that you don't think you deserve to do."
Marcello was gobsmacked. He leaned back against the stone wall, affecting an air of casual interest. "And what is it I want to do, boy?"
The boy shrugged. "I don't know. But I bet whatever it is, you're not doing it here."
Marcello was silent.
The boy held out a hand. "Come with me?"
Marcello folded his arms. "Fifty pieces a day and a better sword."
"I have food and some clothes and," the boy checked his pocket, "about...eighteen coins. Come anyway?"
"Has your king gone broke, or does he just not like you anymore?" Marcello asked, and was surprised at the sad look which crossed the boy's face. That was...interesting. "Very well. I suppose we can come to some accord."
The boy smiled brilliantly, and as Marcello shook his hand, he thought about how easy it was to make the boy sad, or smile, and that, if nothing else, would be something worth playing with.
There was no coin for a proper room, but the boy's tent was serviceable enough to shelter two, and the river would provide a fine, if bracing, bath.
The boy kept his back to him as Marcello washed and changed, which Marcello initially found amusing, and then later appreciated when the strong soap revealed stark ribs and sharp hipbones and a stomach that had sunk in too deep.
"What of these children?" Marcello asked as he shrugged on the shirt-plain, but clean and whole, which was more than he could say for his old clothes.
"The first disappeared about two months ago," the boy said, fiddling with some camp equipment, back still modestly turned toward Marcello. "There are some dangerous animals in the area, and sometimes children get lost, but... A week later, another child disappeared. There was never any blood, they didn't find any bits of clothing, or...parts."
"Kidnapping, then?" Marcello mused. He pulled at his hair and winced. "Do you have a comb?" The boy held out a chipped-tooth strip of metal, blindly aiming in Marcello's direction. "You may turn around; I'm perfectly decent, you know."
"If they've been kidnapped, they haven't been sold." Marcello spared a moment of hacking at his hair to raise an inquisitive eyebrow. "I know someone who-well, she runs in those kinds of circles, and she'd notice any new children."
"You have an interesting talent for making unusual friends," Marcello said, and one of the comb's teeth broke loose in a knot. "Oh, this is useless. Have you any scissors?"
The boy brought a pair over, but Marcello didn't take them. He motioned to the back of his head. "Short as you like, but try to make it passably neat," he ordered. He expected the boy to be hesitant, but the scissors were quick and confident as the weight fell from Marcello's head. "The children?" Marcello prompted.
"The last one was taken about a week ago. Some invader knocked a hole in the wall. It grabbed a child and escaped." The clip of the scissors slowed for a moment. "He was only six."
"How many children in total?"
"Seven. All boys between six and nine."
Marcello swore. "And the constabulary?"
The boy hesitated. "Not...helpful," he said, a little break in his voice.
"Suspiciously so?"
The boy didn't answer, and busied himself with neatening up Marcello's hair. That was as good a confirmation as any.
"Right. So we are dealing with a monster of great enough size and strength to capture and carry a child without struggle, potential involvement of those in the child trade, and the apparent tacit approval of local authorities in regard to the former." Marcello swore again. "Throw in a connection to the church and you'd be facing a threat from every possible category. No wonder you required assistance."
"Are you still willing to help?" the boy asked. He blew the stray hairs from Marcello's ears and neck, sending unpleasant shivers up his spine. It had been many years since he had felt a breeze there.
"Perhaps. My question is this: considering that children are involved and the type of danger they face, why the devil isn't Angelo with you?"
"I didn't ask him," the boy said.
"What?" Marcello turned his head, and the scissors clipped his ear. "Ouch!"
"Sorry!" The boy licked a thumb and pinched Marcello's ear until it stopped bleeding.
"You didn't ask him," Marcello repeated.
The boy moved to clip Marcello's sideburns-an act of initiative Marcello approved of, even as it made talking more difficult. "I didn't."
"I find it strange he wouldn't come on his own," Marcello said, and wondered if the boy's small frown was at the conversation or because he was concentrating on his task. "He never was one to wait for permission."
"He doesn't know."
Marcello snorted. "What, have you stopped talking? Are you no longer friends?" He lowered his eyes slyly. "Has he broken your heart, like one of his doxies?"
"Don't talk," the boy commanded, and Marcello was almost stunned into silence.
"I beg your-"
"I don't want to cut you again," the boy said, moving his scissors to the sensitive area over Marcello's lips. He couldn't tell if it was a threat or a courtesy. For all his openness, or perhaps because of it, the boy was impossible to read at times. "Angelo's my friend, but he has his orphanage now. And Jessica has her town, and Yangus has Red, and if I asked any of them, they would leave their homes and help me, every time."
The boy's face was close, puffs of breath tickling Marcello's lips whenever he spoke. "That's why I can't ask them."
"Don't you have-"
"Hold still," the boy said. "And no, I don't." The boy's eyes were dark, and Marcello decided that further questioning would be better served on another day.
The boy finished his work and stepped back, eyeing Marcello with an artist's flair.
"Do I look at all like myself?" Marcello asked, resisting the urge to squirm under the scrutiny.
The boy smiled and shook his head. "No, but. It should be fine."
Marcello swung his head a few times, testing the strange lack of weight, and the boy's smile widened. "Mirror," he said, holding out a hand, and the boy quickly gave him a small shaving glass. "It will do," Marcello said, pensively stroking his beard. "Very well, then. Since you've proved I can trust you to not make me look a fool, can I trust you to lead me to the village without losing our way?"
The boy beamed and slung his pack on his back. "It's about half a day's walk this way."
Marcello waved a hand, saying, "Lead on." The boy did.
That night, staring at the tent's ceiling while the boy breathed lightly beside him, Marcello reflected that the boy had lied. The journey should have been one hour's task, two at a leisurely stroll, and yet it had taken far longer for Marcello, even with the boy carrying the brunt of the water and equipment.
He had done so without comment or complaining, even creating polite fictions such as a loose shoelace or a strap that needed buckling whenever Marcello grew dizzy from the effort.
The boy had watched him in that miserable, gray town. He had watched Marcello inspect the shoddily-repaired barrier, watched him speak to a bereaved mother who for some reason avoided the boy, watched him as he himself watched the children playing tag, girls outnumbering boys, their shrieks a little too shrill for normal play. All this time, he had watched Marcello-not approving, not judging, just watching.
A girl had fallen during her play; the boy had picked her up and brushed off her knees, tucking a sweet into her hand before she even had time to cry. The mothers had quickly ushered their children away from him, and they had left shortly after that.
"They don't trust me," was all the boy had to say about it, and it was that point that Marcello had labeled every last villager as an idiot.
Marcello thought about the boy, how he frightened away weak monsters so they wouldn't have to fight, how he had prepared supper while Marcello slept off the strain of the journey, how he had forgotten to buy a second fork or spoon, but had thought to buy arm garters so Marcello's loose sleeves wouldn't hinder his swordplay.
"You're a genuinely good man," Marcello said aloud, a bit of awe creeping into his voice. "I didn't think anyone like that still lived, and yet here you are, boy."
"Eight," the boy said, and Marcello was only half-surprised that he was still awake.
"Pardon?"
"Not 'boy.' Eight," the boy clarified, and Marcello blinked at the ceiling.
"That's not your name," Marcello said at last. He was almost entirely certain about that point.
"No, but it's. Closer," the boy-Eight-said in a tone that closed off further inquiry.
"Eight it is, then," Marcello said, and listened as Eight's breathing slipped into the slow, steady pattern of sleep.
He was stranger than he appeared, Marcello thought, and certainly more interesting than one would guess at first glance, but at heart, he was still a genuinely good man, perhaps the only good friend his brother had ever had.
And so, as Marcello matched his breathing to Eight's and drifted off to sleep, he plotted half a dozen ways to drag the boy down.