DISCLAIMER: ALL CHARACTERS ARE PROPERTIES OF J.R.R. TOLKIEN
The ground was as wet as it had always been beneath his feet, warm and soft from the rain. He watched mud accumulate on his left toe, the nail cracked and clipped short, and shuffles on. He steered clear of the cobblestone roads that snaked around the city, he had never liked the feel of the cold hard grained surface biting in to his soles. Not that he could feel the rough pits anymore, the tender flesh had long ago eroded into strips of hard leather, scaly and reptilian.
So he stuck to the side of the road, where the carts, with the rancid smell of meat left out for too long clatter, pulled along by weary merchants in starched shirts, white shirts stained with blood at the cuffs.
He followed the carts to the marketplace, hiding behind wooden wheels and and bent-nailed side boards. No one should notice him, there was never one too many beggar on the streets of Florence, nevertheless, there was no harm in precaution, not for him anyway. He slunk up to the food stalls, doubled over in an attempt to conceal himself. Flies buzzed above him over the sweet juices that oozed from the browned skin of ageing pears.
Food.
In two heartbeats he was off with the fruit clenched in his hand. He could feel it - the familiar pump of adrenaline through his legs, the unknown strength that cursed through his arms. He smelt the acid stench of the perspiration that dripped down him in beads and felt the chill of his wet threadbare shirt clinging to his ribs. Then he heard them. The sounds always came to him last, crawling and burrowing into his ears.
Stinging.
He tried to block them out, but the notes were persistent, as they always were. A cacophony of voices, whittled sharp from desperation, needled their way in, coated with acrimony.
Then the words came, formed from the invisible sounds, digging into his conscious, scratching into his mind.
"...thief!" "...beggar!" "hoodlum!" "...the little..."
Finally, a shriek, hoarse and withered.
"Catch him, the little freak!"
His insides burned; fire licked his hands, hot and red and hateful. But he did not look back, he could not look back, lest the tears spill from his eyes.
Chunks of soft brown pear squeezed through his fingers, splattering over the cobblestones.