Notes: Written for a character pasts tournament on GSR, and somewhat based the bath scene off of Lethael, a character of Werebarret's in the RP Fall of Mars at the Temple of Kraden. My most recent work, and I apologize if there are some html tags hanging around here, because depending on the various sites I uploaded this to, the tags were different. Hope you enjoy reading, and review~ I wouldn't have put this up if I hadn't been hoping for a little more feedback.
Disclaimer: I don't own Golden Sun or its characters.
~*~*~*~
Little parrot, fly away from
Booming thunder and rain
To clear skies...
~*~*~*~
Scrawny. Depraved. Lost.
Words one can use to describe the little ruffian, little street urchin, standing in the middle of a crowded Kalayan street, edging toward a sausage seller's stall. He is the parrot who rubbed dirt in his bright feathers to pass for a sparrow, or so he thinks of it himself. In this case, the expression is even literal. How suitable. With a rueful smile, he runs a hand through the spiky, unruly red locks perched atop his head, feeling the matted, dirt-encrusted areas, and sighing. They are necessary for him to do this, he knows, but it is what he hates, yet it is survival. Better to take more and have some for himself than to die. Survival, it is always important, perhaps most of all to this undernourished orphan.
He grins, and turns the rueful, aged (aged, it is, far too much for a boy of his years) smile into an innocent, pure, bright thing. Bright, he thinks, and he knows how to do it. It will look bright and a little sad, how he should look for real sometimes, though he doesn't far too often. Bright and a little sad, like every child beggar on any city street. He knows the words, remembers them without any need for memorization; they are a part of him and his very being, like his blood. Blood, the same colour his hair is, blood, a beacon, a flaming head to chase through the masses, blood, streaming down his mother's empty eye sockets, coursing in rivulets down what is left of his father's leg, spilling in puddles over his younger sister's doll, as she lay just as limp beside it. Blood. He knows it better than himself.
But he doesn't need to – shouldn't, even – show this depth of emotion to the smiling stall keeper before him. She would be frightened by his haunted eyes – he knows that is what they are – she would think his bright-sad smile a fearsome leer. He knows this, and so drives the blood away with angry flames razing his home to the ground. They are angry flames, but angry-sad-bright is better than haunted-leer sad-bright.
The ashes left behind in his raze-home-flames build up now into words, little black sticks that form letters, words. The words are those from before – among other things, he thinks himself a talented actor, at least enough to fulfill his own survival needs. And these words are rehearsed without rehearsal; instinctive things, things that are not-lies, but still-acting, spilling out his mouth and all down his pitiful self, like the patched and too-large shirt (he found it in a wagon the other day) and the ragged worker's pants (they're too big too, but nobody cares), and his aching feet, so dusty they might as well have made a pair of shoes for him out of itself (dust is one of his only and best friends).
She is supposed to see all this, a poor boy hardened by years on the street not of his own choosing, brokenly sad-yet-innocent, and she is supposed to see all this, see it and feel her own heart cry, and she will give him a little something, remembering her own years begging on the streets. It is her turn to help a child, just as she was helped all those years ago, and she will go home at peace with herself, knowing she helped a young boy one step to a happier life.
This is what she should see, what every child in his situation – no, not even every child, every beggar – would hope for. They target the small, fragile, the women, ones who won't just flinch in disgust and turn away. He knows this too – far more important than that snooty high maths or science knowledge that little lords in training learned, this was street smarts, survival skills, and much more useful than the noble nonsense. Now, time to see if he could get something for his trouble; the day wasn't getting any younger.
"Excuse me miss?" his voice is a little gravelly, like he has inhaled too much smoke, too much dust (but dust is still his best friend), but it works for him, and that is all that matters. She looks at him through the strings of sausages, and his stomach gives an undignified growl. Unexpected, but certainly a good thing.
"What do you want, kid? You got money?" her face is no longer kind and smiling, if it ever was before. Her voice could be sweet – he can tell this – but right now it is harsh and unyielding. She will not give. But he knows he must try anyway.
"I… I was hoping you could, actually…" there is just the right amount of hesitation, shyness, in his tone and words, and he knows this is an important point so that he doesn't look seasoned to this (he is, and she may guess, but that's beside the point).
"Actually what? Listen kid, I got a business to run here. If you ain't buying, scram." She is in his face about it, upfront and forceful, momentarily the soldier that thrust his hammy, sweaty red face into his hiding place deep in the brush. Entertained is the idea that he might once have been a sausage seller too, and that's why he wasn't careful with his search. But no, that fearful moment is already long gone, this is the sausage selling girl he is trying to convince and beg from, and he needed to stop haunting his eyes.
"Just… if you had any spares, extras-like, maybe you could um, well, my uncle is very sick at home and might soon, well... So I thought to find him some good food before… you know…" His uncle is not sick and dying, but he will be at home waiting for food or money to spend on alcohol. No, no, not alcohol – medicine. Medicine it is, and he is sure some of it goes towards some way of making life more comfortable.
For his uncle, of course.
"Even if you can't spare the goods, maybe some pickings so I can find a better doctor-"
"SCRAM, kid!" she is angry, he has wasted enough of her time. "I got nothin' for ya. Bring your uncle my regrets, if he even exists at all!" she is close enough to shove him toward the road, and she does, roughly, painfully. The little parrot looks more like a sparrow than ever. "In fact, take these if you like! Let's see what you can do with those!" she tosses a handful of coins at him, and the dust they raise block her from his view for a moment, from his position sprawled (and getting kicked at) on the road. When he has dodged a few more legs to collect the coins in the dust (his best friend) and finally, finally looks back at her, there is a customer walking away with sausages for herself (what he wouldn't give for one) and the shopkeeper has a vindictive, cruel light in her eyes as she laughs at her own private joke.
He does not wait to see what she laughs at, he finally listens to her and scrams, coins in hand. Only when he is safe (safe is a subjective term) in an alley, sparrowing himself up (dust is his best friend), he inspects the coins. They clatter from his hand, to fall into those of his best friend. Plunk. Plunk. Plunk.
Whump.
He brushes at the area he has punched in rage, settling the dust back as if he has never been there. He had not meant to hurt a friend. The friend is kind. It asks what is wrong. He only shakes his head in defeat, eyes shut tight. "Counterfeit." Is all he says. His friend understands. It sees much of everything and understands more than any other, for it goes everywhere. It examines its friend. His eyes, they are still shut tight. Worry ripples across it. Friend?
He will not cry. He cannot. It is not yet time for that, there will be chances later, when it is less detectable. He remembers her jeering voice, eyes, laughter. No wonder, he thinks. No wonder she, such a mean spirit thing, is all alone, selling sausages, rather than sewing flowers. No wonder she said those words. "Let's see what you can do with those!" she had given him the counterfeits she had encountered in her own sour lucked business, of course. He should have known, have seen, that she wasn't capable of such generosity – he was supposed to be good at reading people! (So why hadn't he been able to read her again?) –that she would be cruel like those… those soldiers.
They had jeered and jibed and laughed amongst themselves as they tossed more wood into the inferno that had been his home. She had done the same as she tossed him to the streets with a handful of fake coins. He should have known; he never should have approached her a s his last attempt at the end of the day. Why had he…? Unbidden, his mother's face (smiling, not bloody and eyeless) leaped to the front of his mind, smiling the way she had to the customer before he had come to beg. He compared the two. Differences, yes, were there in all sorts, but upon first glance… the resemblance was definitely there (ah, so that was why). Did he miss her that much? He hadn't thought so. Perhaps it was just a smiling face associated with soft, kind, gentle… everything.
The memory turned sour. The memories always turned sour at the end. Always. The smiling face was now gaping, eyeholes just blood clots, paths of flowing blood carved down her cheeks (like crimson tears, he shudders to think) and dripping to the floor, like a statue trapped in red paint.
A thought.
Would she, that cruel shopkeeper, the very opposite of his mother even with their likenesses, still look similar if her eyes were gouged out? Would she scream the same, could she make a little boy's past haunted… the same?
Did he want to find out?
He does not know. In any case, he can decide later. Now, he has more pressing issues like the money. No money. He will bring the counterfeits home anyway, with the rest he has managed to find. Home. A challenge in itself. No point in delaying, he can find his courage (though he has none) later. When he has emerged from his alley, accompanied only by his shadow and best friend, all the stall keepers have already closed up for the night. He was not in there so long, but they know the beggars are out around the closing times, hoping to catch their last monetary minnows for the day. The faster they close up, the less likely they are to be stopped easily. Sure enough, a slower one or two (unlucky ones) are ringed by filthy, pleading sparrows (he is different for being a parrot disguised as a sparrow) and normally he would be among them. This evening, though, he is tired. Too tired.
This does not rectify the fact he is usually among that pleading cluster. 'Pathetic. I am pathetic.' Some other person might have spat on the dirty street (dirty like him), not he. He would not spit on his best friend. 'Mother, you said I was meant for great things, that our comfortable life would only get better. Look where you are now.' bitterly, he walks in the direction of the ramshackle hut that is where he lives (a correction from earlier; it is not, and never has been, his home, it is merely where he lives – and sometimes, dies).
The door is an old, drunken man, who barely stays on his hinges and his ancient wood bones creak with every movement he makes. He watches the scrawny-depraved-lost ruffian walk in, watches as he sighs and pulls off his mask and the sad-but-bright face fades to a too-old resigned one. Skirting the beer bottle and glass shards that textures the floor, he collapses among the pile of rags that is his bed (his best friend rises to hug him). He knows he should prepare arguments, explanations, excuses, but he is tired, so tired, that any small modicum of rest if better preparation for what will happen next than a host of useless, poorly thought out excuses. And so he lets it capture him, the darkness named sleep.
~*~*~*~
"Ouranos!!!"
The old, drunk man is rudely slammed aside, and he creaks desperately to stay standing, the hinges that are his cane straining. The most recent opener of the door is evidently strong, not too kind (he doesn't respect his elders), and more drunk than the old man he just knocked aside. "Boy! Where is my money?! What have you made for your dear old uncle this fine, fine day?" Boom, boom, boom.
Boom.
The door had been slammed aside with a boom. The steps he took boomed. Even his voice boomed. He could basically be described with one word, with Boom. In fact, Ouranos may call him uncle to his face, but in his mind, he only exists as Boom. Jailer, Warden, and Torturer are a few of his many nicknames.
Ouranos' mind is rambling. He scrambles up from the messy nest of rags (he isn't yet a full-grown parrot, though he has grown enough feathers to be bright and noticeable; he cannot fly away. One day, his wings will be strong enough to carry him and help him fly far.) and into the filthy, stained, cracking and rickety wood wall. He is defiantly frightened, or perhaps frighteningly defiant – but no, that doesn't make sense. Ouranos is simply defiantly frightened. He spills out onto the floor before Boom, all the normal, usable coins he has receive that day and braces for impact. There are twenty-three less than yesterday.
"Why, you!-" Boom raises a meaty hand and Ouranos closes his eyes, flinching away automatically as he throws the little amount left in his hands, the counterfeits. The boom of a hit never comes. He dares to peek open one eye, to see Boom grubbing on the ground, amazed at the second handful's amount.
"Don't get your hopes up." Ouranos warns. "They're counterfeit."
Boom's face is a disgusting rapidly reddening mix of disappointment, last lingering hope, and a horrific anger. "Whaaaaat? You mean to say you brought home counterfeit coins?!"
Quivering, Ouranos nods, willing his mouth to unstuck, moisten, and open, open open! to let him talk, explain! His mouth seems to have other ideas though. It stays dry, shut, and noiseless.
"Stupid kid!"
Boom.
He is sent sprawling across the room, (not really a feat in itself, considering the size of the place) crashing with considerable force into the wall. One of the boards strain, and with a resounding crack, snaps, letting a single, weak shaft of light through (he snapped it, though he is too-thin himself). Ouranos watches the light, and thinks to himself that he will fly one day, away, and-
"Boy! You brought false, useless coin back! And you're filthy!!" Boom is loud, hahaha…
A kick to the knee brings the world sharply back into focus for Ouranos, and his eyes and mouth gape wide in a silent exclamation of pain (no, not unlike his father at all, though his father's leg had been half ripped off). Silence. It is a discipline he forces on himself so much, so often, that sometimes he wonders how he knows how to speak at all. He will not cry out, or obviously let tears roll down his face before Boom. He is not weak. He will be strong. Strong. Strong. But right now, strong will only stay if he is silent. But he needs to talk. A dilemma. He finally looks up into his uncle's – into Boom's face again, and flinches inwardly at the madly happy expression (happy in a deranged way; the smile is all teeth, a leer, and the eyes are glinting with some awful, pain-promising mischief) he sees there.
"You are filthy, boy… Street scum. You can't even steal proper money. I think it's time for your bath." The way he says the word leaves no doubt in Ouranos' mind that his "bath" will be very unpleasant indeed.
"I can bathe by myself." He finally unsticks his mouth to say, betraying none of the quiet dread he feels in his voice or expression. He says this every time. And Boom's reply is as familiar as his own begging lies. Routine.
"I know you can, Ouranos." The leer hangs over him in that fat, red face, like a luminous searchlight cornering him (he is cornered) and despite himself, Ouranos cowers back. "But I'll be making sure you're all clean this time. You never wash properly. Your clothes can have a nice soak too." The words could have been kind, his tone anything but. As always. Routine.
And then the searchlight is gone, replaced by a horrible – horrible – pain in his hair and cackling, such wicked, booming cackling. Ouranos is sure that if Boom ever were to become a witch, he would be the loudest witch ever to exist. As his mess of dusty red hair (his best friend puffs away in indignation) is near pulled from their roots, clamped tight within Boom's meaty fist (Boom, really, could have another name, Meaty, but Boom is easier. One syllable, though Ouranos doesn't know the term for the sound, only that Boom is shorter than Meaty), Ouranos watches helplessly as his feet dangle under him. If he squirms, it will only hurt more. So, he doesn't squirm. Squirming equals hurt, and the less hurt (though it is still unbearably painful), the better. No squirming, as always. He knows this. Routine.
Still cackling, Boom carries Ouranos over (carry being a broad interpretation of the term) the garbage and various debris sprinkled about the disgusting room, making his way over to the little cramped space they use as a washroom. There, Ouranos finds himself hanging precariously overtop of the large tub (large, as Boom is large) used for washing and he gazes fearfully into its cold, liquid depths. A bath, hah. It never gets any easier, no matter how many times he has one. Routine.
The tub is under him, cold and bubbly water frothing (he imagines, because water can't really froth on its own that much) and now he begins to squirm, a little. Had the story come to mind, his situation is like to that of little children in fairytales (what tales he may know, though, are not much) being dropped into a boiling pot, ready to be eaten by the witch. Perhaps, Ouranos would have thought (had he been thinking at all about mythical children's stories), those tales are really metaphors for suffering children… children like him? But no, Ouranos is not thinking about witches and eating children and boiling water, he is thinking, dreading, dreading and thinking, dreading this "bath" like he always dreads, and thinking of ways to escape like he always thinks. But then again, he does this every time, and he is never, ever, managing to escape. Terror grips him, shakes him to the core, and suddenly (how did he get here?) he is out of Boom's reach on the floor, more of his best friend around him, and fury in his oppressor's eyes as he finds only tufts of dirty red hair in his fist.
Run.
That is his only, only only only thought, and Ouranos acts on his thoughts, particularly when there is only one to listen to.
Ouranos runs.
He darts off the floor and out the door, cutting his feet on the scattered glass, leaving a streaky trail of red all around. He hears Boom's hot, panting breath, hears his roar of rage (Boom) as he thuds (Boom) around the too-small bathroom and lunges for Ouranos (Boom) but misses, hears the crashing of his feet (Boom) as he chases after, thinks he feels those meaty hands (Boom) grasping, catching him as he tried to undo the latch on the drunken old man. The old man likes the boy-parrot more than Boom (Boom) but his bones hurt just too much, and against his own will, he stays shut.
Tag, you're it. (Boom)
"BOY!!!" (Boom)
Resigned, Ouranos lets himself give up, makes himself, forces himself. Pain again, and Boom hauls him up by the collar and smashes him in to the old man (Boom) before shoving his face into the boy's. "Never try to escape. You hear me? This is punishment, and there is a perfect reason for it. If you keep making mistakes like today, you stupid thing, neither of us will have anything to eat. Your mother was a stupid slut, I should know. No good sister of mine, raising her boy too soft. Do I have to support us both around here? You're an extra mouth to feed, and I work curst hard to feed it! Do your worth!"
'Yeah right, you work hard…' Ouranos comments mentally, blood boiling from the slight on his mother.
Boom.
As his head thuds sickly against the door again, Ouranos reminds himself not to even look like he's getting ready to roll his eyes. Assume neutral, preferably dead and obedient position. He should, anyway. He doesn't particularly want to. For now though… Eyes half closed and wearing fresh bruises to coat the numerous ones he has already, Ouranos prepares himself for bathtime. Boom hauls his nephew back, back again, to that disgusting bathroom, and dangles him, once more, over the tub. He is no longer cackling, exactly, instead, he laughs hoarsely (but loudly, ever so loudly) as his fist once again grips the (lessened) ruddy red hair. Laugh, he does, as Ouranos gazes stonily down at the waters, no longer struggling. What is the use? He has not the wings to fly… Yet. "Now then, Ouranos, in we go! All clean!"
Boom-splash.
Ouranos is wet, flailing, as he is plunged into the tub with a violent jerk downwards. It takes him a moment to realize he is not yet submerged completely, and this calms him somewhat (somewhat being not much). Now then, boy, will you be making money, or do I have to kick you out of this house?" Ripples, dirt and dust sinking just below them, met Ouranos' eyes, as Boom shook him by the hair (as a terrier would shake its prey), his nose scant millimeters from the surface of the water, his neck straining and scalp beyond pain. Even so, he makes no answer. He's not giving in.
"Fine then!"
Boom-splash!
Water, so much water, and Ouranos is infinitely thankful he managed to gulp a quick breath before he is forced completely below, his eyes shut tight, his clothes (that were never his in the first place) billowing, weighting him down, it seems. Half a minute.
Water.
Ouranos hates it. He swears at it, spits at it, flails about in it, inhales it. Anything to get free. But in the end, Boom is and always has been stronger than him, not at all hesitant to break his hollow parrot's bones (and clip his wing feathers). Stronger, even when drunk. Ouranos wishes he could be that strong. A minute.
Water.
Ouranos fears it. As he fears Boom, as he fears those pictures of his mother, father, sister, home. He does not fear blood, exactly, he just fears what the blood means. But mostly, those memories are patched wounds that ooze a little pus from infection very once in a while, his fear of water is different. It is a knife that slashes at him over and over, that carves itself into his soul, until he fears that which none should fear. Water should mean life. Not fear. To fear it is to say you fear life. And though it may be so for some, Ouranos does not want to fear life or water. A minute and a half.
Water.
It conducts sound strangely, Ouranos thinks. He can hear every little movement made against the tub resounding and attacking him from all sides in the liquid (Boom). He can hear more laughing, loud, cruel, derisive (Boom). He can hear the water splishing, splashing, tugging at him, stealing his air, pressing him down so everything is dark, draining his energy, surrounding him, drowning him, killing him slowly, he swears he can hear himself think, and he also swears he isn't thinking straight, no, not at all, nope, not straight, not right, nooo, hahaha… Two minutes.
Passing out is not an option, was not, is not, and has never been or ever will be, an option. It is simply not. He knows, Ouranos knows, knows that if he passes out, if he gives in to the black tunneling in his vision and closes his eyes and drifts away, Boom will only Boom him awake as only Boom can (which is to say, a punch or ten to wake him up) and dunk him in for even longer next time. He knows this, Ouranos does, because it has happened before. And if he passes out, it will happen again. The best teacher is experience, in the end. Learning the hard way. He will stay strong. There is plenty of time to pass out, later, alone. Two minutes and a half.
Boom-fwoosh.
Air. It is so nice, so pure, so important, such a relief, and he is gasping, grasping at it, eating it up, gulping hungry, hungry mouthfuls of pure air like a starving man (and really, he is) –
"Are you going to work your part?!" Boom.
He does work his part – he is, more than Boom, Ouranos wants to say, but doesn't, because he's not giving in and he has no breath to do so anyway (he will never get enough air). Besides, he has done nothing wrong, and he refuses to bend completely to this monster of an uncle. He will fly one day (he knows this) and the little bird needs a will before a wing. Where there is a will, there are wings, and flight. And now, flight is all he has.
No answer? Boom's squinty, still-drunk eyes glare at the boy. No answer.
Boom-splash!
Water.
Blah blah blah. There goes the air again. Blubber blubber bubbles.
Boom-fwoosh.
"Are you going to work harder?"
No answer?
Boom!
A purpling bruise on his thin cheeks, puffing for breath, and the question again.
No answer.
Boom-splash!
Water.
Boom-fwoosh. The question. A Boom. Question. No answer.
Boom-splash!
Water.
Ouranos remembers telling himself there would be a time to cry later, when it's less noticeable, at mothe- at that horrible shopkeeper's stall. Now, now is the time. His hair is beyond pain (why is he not bald yet?), he bleeds everywhere, bruises everywhere, he is a failure in Boom's eyes (not that he is, or will ever be, anything else), and he needs to breathe.
Ouranos cries.
As he comes up again, dizzy from the plunges, the tears roll down his puffy cheeks, into his gaping, air-gasping mouth, down his chin and neck, drip into the tub, mingling with the other drops of water, practically invisible. Nobody will ever know (he's not sure he's crying, himself). Boom certainly doesn't see anything. He proceeds as usual – routine, a circle. Unchanging. Familiar (Though, Ouranos doesn't go as far as thinking it is reassuringly so).
Boom-splash.
~*~*~*~
It is done.
Finally, it is done. Boom, he has tired at last of his game, and gone to sleep. Ouranos is left to gasp and vomit water. Vomit, he does. He is quiet about it – this is the only requirement Boom has for the boy. Quiet. Do what you want. Only quiet. Ouranos is quiet.
Bed is cold, dirty, and wet. It might have been drier for him to sleep outside, Ouranos thinks. He has strewn water everywhere. It takes a while for his head to clear – a long while, indeed. Water is his worst enemy, right now. It is the one thing he cannot be strong against, the one thing that regards him with cold indifference, no matter what. It clings even now to his clothes, and Ouranos sneezes – quietly. The water has left him cleaner – somewhat, but he has no friend, not right now (his best friend hates water, like he does, no wonder they are best friends, they share so much in common!), as he is shivering in his little corner. Why is he here? Why is he like this, yet again? Sometimes it happens because Boom is bored. Sometimes, there is a reason – rather, an excuse, as opposed to a lack of one. This is one of those times. It's hard to remember, after all that Boom-splashing, but Ouranos thinks, thinks hard.
Ouranos remembers.
He brought home counterfeit coins. Useless, Dirty money. Of course. It all (doesn't) makes sense now. It always (never) did. Fake money. A crime. Begged, stolen, but still fake and that's what matters about it. It's fake. Fake (like those words Boom spoke about his hard work, or his reasons (excuses) for his teachings (recreation) of the Boom-splash). Ouranos sighs. This is thievery, what he does, thievery and stealing and not a moment of honest work around here.
Where does it go?
Certainly not towards feeding his stomach (it growls gain). He was not fed tonight, Ouranos wasn't, because he was bad. According to Boom, anyway. Hungry. Hungryhungryhungry. That's what Ouranos is, right now. So hungry. Why does he spend his days begging for money when none goes toward his stomach? Oh, he thought that already. But, it's true! He wants his efforts to go towards himself, not Boom! Oh, hungry hungry hungry…
After a silent search of the place-he-lives-in, Ouranos gives up on his quest for food. No food. Go hungry. Well, he's no stranger to hunger. That doesn't make it any more enjoyable, though. Ouranos glares at the filthy wall. Next time he begs or steals enough money, he's buying food for himself rather than giving it all to Boom, even if doing it before had resulted in some very unfortunate consequences. Stealing… stealing is wrong. Ouranos thinks. But no. he must amend this thought.
Stealing is wrong… when it doesn't go to help those in need. When it goes to the vices of a cruel and drunken… Keeper, it is wrong.
Keepers like Boom.
Even his snores are loud. Ouranos hears them, through the wall to the third and last room of their filthy home. He has a bed. Ouranos knows this. He has a bed, even if it's just a lumpy pillow, sunken mattress, and a blanket or two. Ouranos is not allowed into that room, but he catches glimpses all the same. He has a bed.
Boom has a bed.
Now how is this fair? Ouranos wonders this. How? Why, why does he go hungry, cold, and wet, abused and hurt, moneyless, possessionless (he has nothing) while Boom, who doesn't do anything but get drunk and gamble all their money (stolen and begged by Ouranos) away, gets a bed, and clothes and alcohol? Ouranos does not understand it. But no. He does. He understands alright. He wishes it wasn't this way though. Life is never fair.
A thought.
Hasn't he, at some, point, heard of them… now what was the name again? He doesn't quite remember, a town of thieves, thieves who stole for the good of the people? Now, why can't he remember the town? He'd heard some town gossips talking about it, people eager to know about the outside world (never him, of course). The dust all around him shuffles. He listens. It, the dust, knows more than him, knows things from the very beginning of time, knows things far and wide. It can tell him, and tell him it does.
Lunpa.
Lunpa! Of course! Ouranos thanks his best friend. Best friend indeed! Smart, kind, caring. Best friend. Lunpa. The thieves town – noble thieves, though. Apparently they steal only what is needed and give to the poor – he even hears that they have their own honour code of some sort, one that they follow rigourously. Well, that would be a sight to see. Thieves with honour. Ouranos likes this idea, actually. To steal, but be honourable…
He jumps up (silently) and stands straight and tall, hands on his hips. A heroic pose, at least until he overbalances and falls (silently). Could he be a hero, a heroic and honourable thief? He laughs to himself (silently). No, not he. Still, it is food for thought – food, oh how hungry. He nestles back into his… well, his nest of (not as) wet blankets again and sighs. Even if he can't be a hero it's certainly an intriguing idea. To steal and be so powerful… Yet only use it all for the good, give it to the needy, follow some code of honour… Yes, Ouranos likes this idea very much. A dream, perhaps, an aspiration.
At last, the little parrot has a goal to fly towards, high in the open skies.
Can he spread his wings?
Will he spread his wings?
No, not yet. It is not time.
Still, it is better (so much better) than nothing. Ouranos reflects in the quiet nighttime, and he realizes something. Realizes that…
It is much better than nothing. Because nothing is all he has had, since Boom became a part of his (not) life.
The dust tugs his hand. It is talking about something – he presses an ear to the floor to hear it better. His best friend brings up a memory in his mind's eye. It is he, befriending dust. His new friend watches as he vomits water (as he often does). It is asking him, asking him questions, curious innocent questions that Ouranos takes for granted.
'Why don't you leave?'
Coughing, he stares at it. It's not obvious (nothing is the same with this friend)?
"Because I have nowhere to go."
'Find somewhere. I know so many places. Find one.'
"I won't belong."
'Find somewhere to belong. Some place where you can enjoy yourself and be you and do something you love. Lots of people do. I've seen them.'
"I can't."
He breaks into hacking coughs, then.
Now – Ouranos frowns. He had nothing then. Now, though, he has something. Not much of a something, but a something nevertheless. And something is (always) better than nothing. (Always). This he knows. What will he do with his something? The dust asks him. It wants to know, not that he has changed.
Ouranos frowns, harder, deeper.
'Your face will freeze like that one day.'
Ouranos glares at his friend. Not the time for comments like that.
Dust shrugs and slumps, waiting for an answer.
Ouranos thinks. Never before had he had a goal, and aspiration (his own blue sky to aim for). He hadn't seen the sky before, only ever heard tales of it, little bright parrot. Now, he has a sky. Now, he has a reason. He never tried to run away from Boom before. There had been nowhere to go, and compared to that, Boom was something.
Something is always better than nothing.
Now though… there was a hope. A dream. Dreams came true, sometimes. Would his? The dust shrugs.
'It will if you let it.'
Ouranos nods. Lunpa is not so far from Kalay. Well, it is not as far.
'Not as far as what?'
…Hm. Well, the point is, he can make it. He can. He must. Ouranos nods to himself. Yes, good. The frown is gone, replaced by a determined countenance that lights his whole (too old) face.
Can he spread his wings?
Will he spread his wings?
Yes. He can. It is time.
'Food? Money? Think, Ouranos!' his friend chides, worrying that he would be too rash.
He would steal some. Might as well, if he is headed to a town of thieves. He'd beg some or steal some. Easy. That issue was covered now.
Boom-snore!
'What about him?' his friend asks, both of them hearing the loud snore that racks the walls of the small place-he-will-no-longer-live-in.
Ouranos' eyes widen as he remembers again, the water, the choking, the hits. He raises a hand to his recently blackened eye and bruised cheek, lets it slide to his cracked lip. As his hand continues its way down, it presses (too hard) on his throat and suddenly he is doubled over again, coughing (silently). He retches – it feels like water is crawling up his throat again – but there is no more left to throw up but his own spit. He gasps (silently) as his friend watches on worriedly.
Him. Boom. He should pay. Ouranos wants to make him pay.
'You… You would kill him?'
He freezes. Kill…? Kill him? Take a human (human in form, at least) and blood relative's life? Like those soldiers, killing his mother, father, sister? Would he? Could he? His mother would never approve. He remembers her, always kind, trying to help his uncle even then, sending what little money they could spare, wanting him to better himself. Ouranos' father had disapproved, he knew. His mother had persisted – there had to be some good in him, she said.
Ouranos laughs sourly. Where is his good heart now, mother? Still. Kill him? Could he? His mother's work and hopes would go to waste, then. But again, look where hope got her.
"Ouranos, you are destined for great things."
Where is that greatness now? His mother… he utters a choked sob (silently), clinging to the tattered rags beneath and around him.
Mother…
'You would kill him? Dishonour her memory?'
Boom… but Boom had hurt him, hurt Ouranos. Hurts Ouranos. Mother… what should I do, mother? Ouranos is confused. Boom wouldn't have a chance to grow good (if he can) if Ouranos kil- makes him pay. His mother's brother. In a way, he is all that is left of her. Would Ouranos take that away from himself?
'Will you?'
"…I can't." he speaks finally (silently), fisting (almost dry) rags and dust (it complains) as he glares at the floor.
'You cannot kill him. Your mother… would be heartbroken.'
Ouranos nods, numbly. Even knowing this, he is angry now. He stands, leaving the rags. He will not kill Boom. But so many thoughts of mother has brought another thought to his mind. Somebody else. Because in the end, isn't it her fault?
Her. That girl. He wouldn't have been punished so badly if it weren't for her (he does not listen to the dust saying Boom would have found another excuse; he is angry). She gave him the counterfeit coins. She, her, it was all the sausage-seller's fault. Yes. Yes. Somebody to blame. Her. Her fault. She is why he is here, drowned back to life, angry and about to run like he never has before.
Why is he here?
Counterfeit coins.
How did he come across those coins?
Her.
So simple! He was thinking it before.
Why is he here? Why is he vomiting water again, worse than ever before? Bruised, bleeding, hair half torn out?
For doing something wrong.
What did he do wrong?
Bring home counterfeit coins.
Who gave him the counterfeit coins, and laughed?
Mother- NO! The girl, the shopkeeper, sausage selling girl! Not mother!
Why?
Why?
Why?
She looks like mother. She reminds him of her. Maybe, if she hadn't been surrounded by meat, she would even have smelled like her, lily scented and warm and so, so gentle, home…
Mother is home. Home is gone. Mother is gone. Then… Why is she here?!
That girl, why is she alive? Taunting him, torturing him, her face like his dead, dead mother's, her voice (when not yelling) like mother's, her everything, reminds him of mother, but mother is dead and gone and burned like everybody else, everything else, so why is she still here? It doesn't make sense.
How can he solve this problem? Yes, it is a problem, in Ouranos' mind, because his mother is dead and therefore shouldn't even look like she's still existing. And she is, at least, that girl is. She is a problem. Problems need solving. Why, why does she have to be a problem? Why can't she be opposite to his mother (he ignores that it seems she is, at least in the way she treated him) and why did she have to be the reason, reason why he spent the past few hours taking a 'bath' and vomiting water? The dust is stirring around his feet, he pays it no mind. It's a little annoying, actually, the way it moves, and is it yelling at him? He scuffles it a little with his foot, a quiet 'go away'. He's busy thinking right now. A problem, she is. A problem…
He remembers his thoughts, floating to the front of his mind unbidden, as he discovered those coins were counterfeit. Hadn't he…? A sift through the memories. Yes, he had. The dust is still stirring. He can hear it, muttering a little. '…' Shush, dust, Ouranos is thinking. You're interrupting his thoughts. He had thought, back then, he had wondered (he doesn't know where it came from) whether she would have looked the same, same as mother, even when that happened… Well, isn't that the perfect way to solve his problem? …Perfect, no, not exactly. Not perfect, but it is a solution, and that is what he needs, a solution… Even if it is this type of solution.
Why?
Solution-making aside, it is all he can think. Her face, her voice, her very existence is what bothers him, troubles him, makes him unable to think. Why, why must she resemble her so much, how could she be so cruel, so as to hurt him like this? An innocent little beggar boy, at the mercy of a horrific handler, and she does this? (He refuses to listen to the dust, who is saying she could not possibly know about Boom) The dust murmurs even more at his feet, whispers of 'badbadbadbadbad…' assaulting his ears. Doesn't it remember they need to be quiet? He is not going to do anything to Boom, remember, but if he's pressed… Well, as long as the man (the term 'monster' may be more suitable) doesn't wake… If he does, because the dust whispered, his best friend will hold that spot no longer. Why? A mantra, repeated over and over in his mind, drowning out the whispers of 'bad', clouding his vision with little black "why"'s. His solution is made, somewhat. No longer can he wait. He will scream the little black word if he does not go solve this problem! Well, she will be his last detestable feat, before he leaves this place (forever, he hopes).
He wants to see her cry crimson tears.
'Ouranos! Listen to me! Don't do this!' the dust wails and stirs in puffs at his feet. It is twisted logic this boy is using, a twisted logic that found roots frighteningly fast and grew like poison, spreading through the boy's mind. He is ignoring his common sense! Now he stands, eyes shadowed, and grabs a piece of shattered glass off the dirty ground. It will have to do. 'OURANOS!'
The dust is kicked aside ruthlessly; Ouranos does not listen (his best friend is hurt). The old man has watched it all, as he must, and this time he yields easily to Ouranos' push, letting him out (silently) with ease. He does not even creak. Finally, he can do as he wanted. This, after all, is the boy who is kind and respects his elders, and the old man remembers him running here, earlier, forcing at him in fear. He had been too tired then, but he is rested now, and there is less fear. There is something else, though. He is confused (and worried) as he watched the boy walk out. This is not usual behaviour.
'He has murder in his heart.' The old man observes as puffs of dust follow him out.
Crimson, crimson, tears of crimson. Ouranos sees them, sees them everywhere now. They have replaced his little black "why"'s. The little whys started bleeding too, and they poured tears of crimson. Crimson that Ouranos now sees. So much, filling his thoughts, clouding his vision (far worse than the black words had), it is running down his cheeks, it wells up in his eyes and tips and falls and drips and it is thick and red like his hair and it burns him it is a fire that trails down and chars every part of him that it touches and-!
Thump. He crashes to his knees, the shard of glass digging into his hand, cutting, slicing layers of calloused, then soft flesh as he brings both hands to his head, gasping, eyes too wide. The dust catches up and scurries around him.
Crimson. (ba-bump)
And now he is running, Ouranos is, his feet pounding (ba-bump) like his heartbeat (ba-bump), and his (hurt) best friend roils after him (ba-bump).
'Stop!' (ba-bump) No.
He knows where she lives – he knows where many a stall- and storekeeper lives (every beggar and thief would), and he runs (ba-bump) there through the dark alleys (ba-bump). It is so late that it could almost (not quite) be called extremely early, but even so, Ouranos avoids the popular streets and where the drinking dens are (ba-bump). He wants nobody to see him. All he can think as he runs (ba-bump) is to stop it, end the crimson agony his thoughts are drenched in (ba-bump), escape. Take it all out. He want to see her cry crimson tears (ba-bump).
Like mother. (ba-bump)
'Stop!' (ba-bump) Shut up.
He is (ba-bump) too far (ba-bump) gone.
Ba-bump.
He-ba-bump.
Is-ba-bump.
Here-ba-bump.
Dust is sprinkled with blood, collecting all that fell from Ouranos' cut hand while he ran, and dust watches in fear now as the boy (he is only a boy) leaps onto a few crates stacked against the house's wall, jumping onto the roof of the bottom level and peers through the window.
Ba-bump. She is there. Ba-bump. So still. Ba-bump. So calm. Ba-bump. Asleep and relaxed. Ba-bump. That will change.
Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.
Ba-bump.
The windows in Kalay have no glass (glass is for the richest, still). It will be easy to go jump inside and land softly, he can dig the shard in before she knows it, he can scrape one eye clean before she is even fully awake – she will be crying crimson tears as she screams.
It will be beautiful.
Beautiful, and drenched in the crimson that is plaguing him right now, and once that is done, once he has done it, he can see if she really does look like his mother. After all, his memories of her face while smiling and happy and gentle are fading away already – they will be gone, eventually. But the last memory he has of her, the one where she cries (and he realizes he has never seen her cry before, and the only time he has is when she cries blood and has no more eyes to cry from) is bright in his eyes, stained in red and very, very clear.
Too clear.
He inspects it, the window. Yes, he is small enough to fit, and skinny enough (that goes without saying). He is trying to figure out the best way to get in, perhaps this leg first, and a front landing? Or, maybe a less graceful one, but one he can use his hands in, so that he is quieter? Death should come and hover, swift and silent, not in a loud thump of a too-thin boy's landing. Yes, both legs first is better, turning so he can lower himself. There is nothing below him there but floor, though a small table with mirror and some little bottles on it are nearby, he must be careful not to knock that over (Death does not arrive crashing mirrors and bottles to the floor, either) as he descends, and walks over to her – anything he can trip on while he walks? – no, doesn't look like it, all the better then, as he comes upon her sleeping form, so like his mother's, mother, oh, mother, crimson, crying tears of crimson –
"What are you doing?" the speaker is a boy like him, perched atop the roof of her bedroom, and looking down in curiosity as the little parrot hastily withdraws a foot from the window in confusion. His first idea is to flee, but he is too curious, and at any rate, he is caught. As he looks around, the rain of crimson is washed away some. He sees (more) clearly now.
"Are you trying to sneak into her room?" he leaps down, seemingly unruffled by finding a stranger here on a roof. "Hey, what's that in your hand? It's red-"
Ouranos gasps, and backs away, nearly losing his balance. The other boy grabs at his hand, and winces, letting go suddenly as his skin tears from the glass. Ouranos lands in a heap on his best friend, who scolds him even as it cushions his landing. The glass lands in the building's shadow, and Ouranos doesn't try to go get it (he sees clearer). "Wh-What do you want?" after being mute and silent for so long, Ouranos' voice is even more gravelly than before, as if carrying a hint of smothered screams.
"Nothing. I was just wondering what you were doing. Are you okay?" the boy leaps down too, much more gracefully and lands on the crates Ouranos had climbed earlier. The sack on his back doesn't escape Ouranos' attention.
"I'm fine." He rises, ignoring the boy's offered hand to help him up. "Sorry about the cut."
The boy shrugs. "Whatever. It happens." He keeps his hand out. "I'm Sean, by the way."
Mistrust in his eyes, Ouranos regards this stranger for a while before hesitantly shaking his hand. Dust watches as the new boy suppresses a wince and Ouranos grits his teeth. They let go quickly, both hands tacky with their own and the other's blood. "Hey, look. We just shook with blood. We're blood brothers! Now, since I'm your brother, you have to tell me what you're doing here!"
Completely nonplussed, Ouranos stares at the boy. Who is he? What is he doing here? He had interrupted (caught) Ouranos when he was about to… Oh… About to… None of the questions he has right now are asked, though, and instead, Ouranos points at the sack and asks, "What's that?", as he observes the boy more. There is something of himself he can see in this stranger, undernourished and haunted, but his hair and eyes are blue (like the open sky) and he seems much, much more energized than Ouranos. Mostly, though, he notices the colours. Blue. Like the sky. The little parrot is curious.
"This?" the boy asks, hoisting the sack onto his back more securely. "Oh. Well, it's…" he hesitates, and appears almost defensive, like he doesn't want to say. A sigh. "You won't tell anybody, right brother?" He doesn't even wait for Ouranos' numb nod. "It's money. Coins. Lots of it. Enough to keep me rich for the rest of my life. I think, anyway." (he is just a boy as well) "Well, I stole it here… from somebody." (Mistrust) "And now I'm running. You promised you wouldn't tell, right? So don't. I answered your question, now won't you answer mine?"
Ouranos frowns. Money? All that is money? There must be a lot. Yes, he had answered the question… But how to answer this? "It's… A long story."
"Well, I haven't much time. I guess you can't tell me." His brow furrows.
'His face will freeze like that one day.' The dust whispers up to its best friend. Ouranos spares half a glance down, in amusement.
"Say!" Ouranos is surprised by the exclamation, and a little worried. It seems so loud in the quiet night-almost-very-early. "Why don't you come along with me? It doesn't look like you have a home." (No, no home. Only a place-he-does-not-live-in-anymore.) "We're going to be running, mind, but I have enough here to support us, and you can tell me your story! Right, Brother?"
Ouranos is surprised by his openness, his brightness. "I… Where will you go? Will you go to Lunpa?" (Dreams come true, sometimes.)
"Lunpa? The thieves' town?" Sean considers. "Maybe. I don't know where I'll go yet. I just know I have enough money to go anywhere!"
Anywhere. It is this word that strikes Ouranos. Anywhere. The sky. Open sky. (Dreams come true, sometimes.)
Sean is looking at the sky, seeing it lighten. "I don't have much time. Brother, you must decide." (Anywhere.) He holds out his hand, still the one bloody and cut. (Blood. He knows it better than himself.) "I ask you one last time." (Open sky. Will he spread his wings? The parrot is a parrot and not a sparrow. Anywhere.)
"Will you come with me?"
~*~*~*~
And since we all know what happens, I left it at that. This is somewhat hinted at in canon - Ouranos is afraid of water and boats when crossing the Karagol sea. I just (with permission) took an idea for the earlier mentioned RP character and created this. I hope it was an enjoyable read, and please, please review~ ^^ Thank you.