Title: Given Half the Chance 1/8
Author: Kay Seda
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Life in the Witch's O.Z. is tough, and bound to get tougher.
Characters: Glitch, some OCs, and spoilery familiar faces
Warnings: a little mob brutality in this bit

"Russell!"

Russell Demason was the blacksmith in the village of Redbrook. As was typical of blacksmiths he was a tall, broad man whose skin and clothing were constantly marred by soot and scorch marks. He had brown eyes and long, pale blond hair which he we in a braid that ended between his shoulder blades.

He did good, quality work for which the village was grateful. He also kept mostly to himself, which was frustrating for fathers of eligible young ladies looking to marry into a lucrative local business. Russ much preferred the life of a bachelor in his modest home above the smithy, his apprentice Lindsay Wylain his primary company.

He did not generally involve himself in the personal problems of others, especially not in that day and age, unless it impacted his work, his extended family, or if he deemed it necessary.

This last was the case when Lindsay ran back into the smithy shortly Russell had closed for the night. The boy was breathless and excited.

"Russell, they've got a man down the old elm, they're going to string 'im up!"

The blacksmith wiped his hands on his leather apron and squinted. "What's this?"

Lindsay pointed the way with a grin. "They caught the man who was stealing Mrs. Flemming's peaches."

"And he's getting hung for that?" Russell asked, incredulous, as they started down the road.

"Uh huh," the apprentice replied, his expression turning serious as he delivered the juiciest part of the news. "It's a headcase."

Russell's expression darkened and he picked up his pace, apron slapping against his thighs as he ran.

It seems half the village had gathered around the tree in the golden-pink sunset, the excited buzz of the mob building as Russell pushed his way his way to the center. There was Breaman Matthews the grocer, and the former councilman, and Mr. Tarnaky, and a bruised, bloody man dressed in old royal livery, his skull bisected by a tell-tale zipper.

There was a a loop of rope around the headcase's neck, and it seemed like any fight he may have had left had been beaten out of him.

"Russell!" Matt Breaman called and tossed the loose end of the rope over a sturdy bough. Several local boys clambered to take hold of it. "See what we found under Mrs. Flemming's peach tree?"

"And since when is thieving a capital offense?" Russell demanded.

"Who knows," Louise Toll muttered. "Maybe it is now."

"'Sides, it's a headcase," Breaman said and took hold of the rope along with the others. "Who knows what he's done. Or could do."

This caused a little uncertainty in the crowd, even as the headcase was hauled up by a pull of the rope. He gasped and his bound hands went to his neck, bound feet kicking uselessly.

Russell cursed and looked around for someone to appeal to. "But he's already been punished!"

"Headcases are harmless," Alda Menw added. She gathered her two young children to her skirts and turned away, stricken. "That's... that's the point."

"And why's he wearing that outfit?" Tad Eilig called.

"Stolen, likely," Mrs. Flemming snapped.

The councilman who had represented the town before the Zonian Assembly was dissolved, Jared Wessinger, found his voice. "No, it's not. This man was the queen's advisor."

Silence filled the glen. The men pulling on the rope stopped, let the headcase down so his toes touched earth.

Russell shook his head. "He's truly done nothing, then."

"Like hell!" shouted Mr. Tarnaky. "My sons died fighting the longcoats, and for what? Azkadellia still took the crown. We- he lost!"

"And you see how well she rewarded him," Tad drawled.

The headcase, the advisor, whimpered and continued to struggle feebly.

"Let him down," Louise said quietly. She smoothed her hands over her hips, a nervous gesture. "No better than her if we don't let him down."

"He's got all our blood on his hands!"

"Do we really want his on ours?"

Mrs. Flemming sneered. "Who'll he steal from next?"

"No one," Russell said firmly and stepped forward. "I'll look after him, least 'til he's well enough to move on."

Breaman arched his eyebrows. "Can you manage another stray, Demason?" At Russell's nod he shrugged and let go of the rope, the other men following suit. The headcase crumpled to his knees before Russell caught him.

As the blacksmith worked on releasing the bindings he looked up to find the counsilman watching. "What's his name, Mr. Wessinger?"

Jared blinked, and thought for a moment. "Galitch," he relied. "Ambrose Galitch."

Russell nodded, and carefully brought his new charge to his feet to begin the walk home. It was a bit of a challenge as he had to half-carry the man. Lindsay, nosy as ever, trailed along with him.

"Should I fetch Doc Nerry?" the boy asked, but Russell shook his head.

"I'll manage, just get the upstairs door open for me and then go home to your ma, okay?"

The apprentice complied, and was gone before Russell settled his guest in a kitchen chair, where he slumped bonelessly. Russell backed off with a sigh and surveyed the ragged, gaunt figure before him who a scant two annuals past had been one of the most powerful people in the Outer Zone.

Now he was mute, helpless, and barely conscious, another victim of the Sorceress' amusing idea of justice. That made him worth Russell's help, just like when he took Lindsay in so he wouldn't be recruited by the Resistance. Just like he took in his cousin's wife and child when they'd arrived at his door in the dead of the night.

"What's this?"

Russell glanced up. Framed in the kitchen doorway was a tall, sad-eyed woman whose dark blond hair was swept back in a bun. Her young son peered around her warily.

"This is Mrs. Flemming's thief," Russell replied. "Wessinger says he used to be the queen's advisor."

"Blessed Ozma," the woman whispered and came forward to stand at Russell's side. She reached out to touch the headcase's face but pulled away when he ducked. "Who did this to him?"

Russell shook his head. "Breaman and his lot. Know anything about laundering a royal uniform?"

"I'll do my best," she muttered, then looked to her son who still hovered b the door, curious. "Can you get us a cloth, and the aid kit?" The boy nodded and went to his task, so she returned her attention to the headcase. "We're going to fix you up and get you some food, okay?"

"No use asking him, Adora," Russell remarked with a humorless smile. "You know headcases can't talk."

fin