CHASING THE WIND
Another Bloody Warcraft Fic ;)

CHAPTER ONE: Stormwind

There is a saying among the people of Stormwind City: No such thing as a free meal. Time and again, this statement is proven true. Take today's breakfast, for instance. Actually, please don't, as it is the only this I've had to eat in a day. But let us use it as an example. While I did not spend so much as a copper piece on my hot mince pie, it cost me

a broken finger
two hours of running
another long rip in a tunic that is more patch than original cloth
a solid punch to the side of my head
and another merchant who will never, ever sell me so much as a bare spool.

All things considered, it went quite well.

My bare feet pad silently across the red shingles of Old Town. Once upon a time, I had a pair of scuffed leather shoes, but these have since been scrapped and made into rough mittens for when the weather turns cold. Now, my palms are kept warm by the hot pie I carry over the rooftops. My hold is ginger but claw-like, my broken ring finger trailing limply while the others enclose the morsel in a well-worn prison. Its existence before me is proof that such things can and will be stolen if you give the street rats half a chance.

Our stories are all the same. Oh, this one came all the way from Teldrassil, stowed away in a cargo ship, and that one was born on the streets of Stormwind, but at the roots, we are no different from each other. We all fell on hard times and were trampled over too much to rise again. Most of us were orphaned by the war. We resorted to thieving and begging, as well as more desperate measures. There are few things sadder than seeing a girl you know receive copper from a man she doesn't.

Some of us get lucky. We find a job, or land our hands on a sudden windfall. Most of us don't.

I try to be mindful of who can and can't afford the loss of what I take from their purse. It at least provides me with a rudimentary education in judging a person based on appearances. If they are wearing expensive perfume and real gold jewelry, I don't hesitate if I see a good moment. If they wear cheap scent and have white bands of skin on their fingers, I figure they have recently been having money troubles and I leave them alone.

My route leads over the rooftops of Old Town until I can slide down the shingles of the Champions' Hall and roll to a stop on the sidewalk below, startling a gnome into almost dropping his canvas sack in the canal. My shoulder stings a little from the fall, my hands being occupied with the mincemeat pie and unable to help rein in my momentum. I spring lightly to my feet, ignoring the spluttering shopper behind me, and sprint the remaining few yards to the open door of a blue-roofed shop. A thick wooden sign hangs out front, which I do not spare a glance at before darting inside.

I stand hunched over for a second, breathing hard, exhilarated from my run. I know without looking around that I'm in the small flower shop on the edge of the Trade District, facing the canals. The room is crowded with rectangular wooden planters containing blossoms in every shape and color imaginable, nearly hiding the counter from view. I know without looking around that my perhaps overly dramatic entrance has been noticed. Stormwind is my city, my intricate kingdom of twisting streets and alleys and color-coded roofs. I could find my way from the Slaughtered Lamb Pub to the Keep with my eyes closed and without touching the cobblestones of the streets.

"Gracious, Elaric!" comes the soft, earthy voice, its accent faintly Gilnean. "Whatever is the matter?"

I look up and offer a tight smile to the plainly dressed, brown haired woman before me. "Nothing, Felicia. I merely felt like a run today. Oh, and if you happen to see a rather distraught gnome wander past, please tell him that the young man who nearly landed on his head is very sorry."

A rosebush is one corner of the flower shop giggles. A moment later, out tumbles a small human girl. She has dark skin and two black plaits tied with blue ribbons, dressed similarly to Felicia.

"Ady!" I cry, kneeling to give her a one-armed hug. "How have you been? Did you see any of those lightning horses today?"

She shakes her head solemnly. "No, but I did see a horse made out of connected stars. A con-consolation horse. It was very pretty."

"Constellation, dear," Felicia corrects gently.

I take a quick bite of the meat pie, which is still slightly warm. "Oh, yes. The ambassador fellow with the funny hair? Saw him and his horse yesterday."

Adeline holds her small hands out to me, and I cram the rest of my meal in my mouth so I can scoop her up and perch her on one hip. She is really getting too big for such antics, but I don't mind. I make a cursory inspection of the shop out of habit, reassuring myself that no gilders are present, or any customers at all. The three of us are alone. "Where's Bernard?"

"Out on a delivery, as it happens," Felicia says brightly. "The Gregories ordered some black and white roses the other day."

"That's great," I say enthusiastically, knowing how much that actually meant to the Gumps. Business for a shop along the Canals is shaky enough, but on top of that, the store is small and tucked into an out-of-the-way corner near the wall. They have offered to hire me multiple times, and on each occasion I refuse because they can't afford another employee.

"The ambassador," Ady insists, pronouncing the word slowly and carefully, "isn't really an ambassador. He's a venter. He told me so."

"Adeline!" cries Felicia. "Don't use such language!"

I shrug. "It's not a bad word, just derogatory. It's perfectly applicable in this case."

"He used it himself," adds the girl. "When I asked him where he got his star horse."

"Be that as it may, it is uncouth language that I will not permit in this house."

"That's what I want to be when I grow up," Adeline continues. "If they get lightning horses and star horses an' stuff."

"It takes a good deal more than riding around on a noble steed to be an adventurer," I point out. "You have to fight people, put down horrible beasts, infiltrate orc camps, the like. And when you first start out, there'll be lots of running and fetching things for others. Most will use you like a trained dog."

"I know," she says solemnly. "What's infiltrate?"

"'To...go into in a sneaky manner,'" I provide. I set Ady down and tip an imaginary hat to Felicia. "Well, I wouldn't want to be any more trouble. Good day to you."

"If you need anything..." Felicia starts to say, like she always does, bless her. And each time my answer is the same.

"I'll keep it in mind, but I don't wish to attract unfavorable attention to this store. Don't worry, Felicia, I can take care of myself." I wave to Adeline and hold up my thumb and forefinger with a cheeky grin. She frowns and raises just her pointer finger.

"Aha," I murmur in satisfaction as I leave. Outside, it's the same old routine- one light leap onto the water barrel, one foot on the window frame, push off and twist myself up onto the roof. I'd like to say that the ascent is graceful or smooth, but grace requires energy. My movements are practical and efficient, not elegant.

Once on the rooftops, I run, inhaling the sharp morning air as I race across the city. My city.

I don't frequent the central Trade District. I keep to the streets along the Canals and Old Town for the most part, where the city guards don't bother me. Gilders, we urchins call them, because of their badges. Today, though, I do not fear them. There's enough commotion down in the square and linking avenues that I will be easily missed, or so I hope.

I make my way through the crowd, focused on my don't-look-at-me charm. It's not a real charm, but it's a way of thinking and acting to escape notice. Usually it's not enough, usually my rags set me apart from others, and the guards spot me, which seems to put down Ady's claim that I can turn invisible. But here, the crowd is so thick and diverse that everyone stands out, which is the same as saying nobody does. I dodge past a shadowy figure mounted on a spectral dragon, a night elf being followed around by a water elemental, a tiny gnome arrayed in outlandish glowing red armor, and a human with a sword half again as tall as me slung over her shoulder. Your typical venters, looking to find work, or drink, or a place to stay the night before they fly off in their relentless pursuit and eradication of evil. Or something of the sort.

Many venters are a bit of a joke. They're essentially glorified mercenaries looking to make a name for themselves by killing this bandit lord or slaying this dragon, and the only reason the guards don't kick them all out is because some of them actually do kill the bandit lord or slay the dragon. A few make a difference in the world, save people's lives. A very select handful become renowned as bandit-killing-dragon-slayers and are sought out by other people in need of help. Of those, perhaps one in a thousand does something truly amazing, like help defeat the Lich King or Deathwing. Those people are often scarily powerful and seem to suddenly vanish off the face of Azeroth. Off doing great deeds in some remote corner of the world, no doubt.

Not that I'm bitter.

Not that I need help.

I see a blue-electricity horse and think of Ady. "Three," I mutter. Its rider's back is turned. I snake a hand into his pocket and come away with a fistful of copper pieces. Unfortunately, the horse takes exception to my unusual scent and rears, neighing in a harsh, metallic voice. The rider, startled and fumbling to pick up the slack in his reins, sees me with a handful of his money and a very guilty expression. "Oy!" he shouts angrily. I think he starts to reach for a weapon.

"Boo!" I scream at the horse, which bolts. I can hear the man cursing and yelling after me, but I don't stick around. I can either run or do my vanishing trick, not both, and with all these people around to bump into, being unseen won't mean undetected. Besides, they provide excellent obstacles for a man on a horse.

Am I surprised when the blue-electricity horse sprouts wings? Yes. Yes, I am.

Damn venters. You can never tell what all they've got up their sleeves.

Rooftops are right out. Me, running out in the open, against a flying steed won't end well. Narrow alleys, on the other hand, might give me enough of an advantage. I pelt along the streets, over bridges, and through stores that have a back exit. This is not a new experience for me. I've had my fair share of chases, though usually the pursuer doesn't have a flying mount. The familiarity of running through this city with adrenaline coursing through me is oddly comforting, and I keep enough of a head to avoid open spaces. I finally lose the man somewhere in the Dwarven District by sprinting full-tilt into a store, doing my vanishing trick, and using my don't-see-me charm as I exit. The venter lands, investigates the store, flies up to circle around the district a few more times, then heads off back in the direction of the Trade District.

I let out a long breath in relief as I pocket the coins and turn away. Too soon.

She appears in front of me, out of thin air, way better than my don't-see-me charm, and knocks me flat on my back with barely a flick of her wrist. I try to scramble away, but she kneels and pins me to the cobblestones. I wrench futilely at her impossibly strong hands, then go limp like I've given up.

"You should know better than to steal in my city," she says, eyes flinty.

"Come on, Lydia," I wheedle. "An elf's got to eat."

"Did you know that pickpocketing is a whipping crime in Orgrimmar?" she asks coldly.

"Hadn't the foggiest," I say, though I read about it somewhere. "I'm sure no one there need fear for their pockets."

"Oh, crime still happens," she assures me, "but the criminals have the decency to not get caught."

"My apologies for not running faster."

A hint of a smile. "Damn you, Elaric. If you only did something with those brains of yours, you could go far. Why can't you stay off the streets? I know for a fact the Gumps offered you a job."

"I'd miss the thrill of it all," I lie. I would give a hand to get away from this flea-infested life. Alright, so the adrenaline rushes really do something for me, and I love this city and all its shady recesses, but this is not the path I would have chosen.

Lydia sighs. "Just hand over the money and I won't need to haul you back to the station."

Shamefaced, I slide a hand into my pocket and pull out the handful of copper, handing it to her awkwardly in the positioning.

"All of it," she says without so much as a beat.

"Gee, miss," I say, innocent-eyed. "I thought that was all. I never learned to count, you know."

"Oh, shut up," she laughs, pulling me to my feet and pocketing what I gave her. "I better not see you around."

I dust myself off and give her a salute. "You have my word, ma'am. I'll be extra sneaky around you."

I watch her saunter off, thinking Lydia wasn't a bad sort, as gilders go. You wouldn't think she'd be particularly caring about others, seeing as what she chose for a job and her outwardly frosty manner, but she is if the mood strikes her. You can tell she likes you if she drops the hard shell and is willing to smile and laugh.

As I stroll through the Dwarven District, looking for nothing in particular, I reach for the silver piece I kept from the venter's pocket. Instead of cold, reassuring metal I find paper. "What the hell?" I mutter, pulling it out. Written on it are two words and a letter.

Nice try. -L

"Son of a black drake!" I swear, whirling around, but of course she's gone, of course all that work was for nothing. The Forsaken take Lydia and her tricks.

In my anger, it takes me a moment to realize something. She could have just taken the silver piece and left it at that. But no, she wrote a note and put it in its place. Which means she thinks I can read. Which means she might know who I am.

And when did she have time to write that out, anyways? Does she just walk around with those notes in her pockets?

In a black mood, I find myself on the dark shore of the pond that swamps one corner of the city. It laps against the walls and swirls around the large grate set so water from the stream outside can wash through the Canals farther along. A lone fisherman is casting into the murky waters, although what he hopes to catch besides garbage is beyond me.

I stare out of the grate at the hills and eventual forest beyond, seething in frustration. I wouldn't steal if I had other options. Get a job? Hah, yeah, and who'd hire a filthy urchin whose clothing is only held together by grime and force of will? Become a merchant? Where would I get the goods? Who would buy from me? Ask my family for help? Ha ha oh, you were serious.

When I was a little younger and less disreputable-looking, I helped out in the Gilded Rose Inn for a bit of coin here and there. As I grew older and couldn't keep as clean, the customers would look at me strangely. One or two left upon seeing me. I could take a hint. After that, I tried to make an honest living out of begging and doing odd jobs. When that proved unsustainable, I gave up and resorted to less legal activities. That was when I stopped having wild ideas about earning enough money to take a ship back to Quel'Thalas. I'd never have enough unless I fell to straight up burglary, which I refuse to do. Besides, Stormwind might be harsh at times, but I know these streets and the people on them. What do I have in Silvermoon? A house that long ago passed to a different owner, a vague hope of finding relatives? No, thank you, I'd probably starve to death. Better a hard life than none at all.

As my anger drains away to be replaced by weariness, I eye the grate with new interest. Perhaps what I need is a little break from the same old streets and pale stone buildings. How long has it been since I went out of the city? Five months at least. Maybe a short little soirée will help get my thoughts in order, calm me down. I run a hand absentmindedly through my hair- long, matted, probably filthy -and make a decision. The main gate, the Valley of Heroes, is the choice entrance of people on foot and on horses, as it's large, easily available, and rather dramatic. I would stick out like a chimaera in a flock of sheep. As a general rule, I prefer to go unnoticed. There's another reason I avoid the Valley of Heroes, but I shove it to the side of my mind angrily. Dwelling on the past is useless.

I wade out into the pond, earning a concerned glance from the trash fisher. Like maybe I'm the one who's insane. The water is cold, sharply so, but it feels good after a moment. I dive under the surface, almost gasping in a lungful of liquid at the chill. I open my eyes, squinting against the sting of stirred-up silt, and stretch myself out. The first strokes are careful, experimental, as it's been a long time since I swam. Soon I get into the rhythm of it, darting through the green weeds at the bottom like some sea creature.

I used to go swimming all the time on Quel'Thalas. I'd forgotten that.

The grate is large and in ill repair. The bars, while thick, are rusty and bent, creating gaps wide enough for a skinny elf to fit through. I wriggle past and surface on the other side, taking a deep breath of the air beyond the walls of Stormwind. It tastes different, somehow. Clearer and wider and full of unknowing.

Since I'm already soaked, I dunk my head and scrub some grime from my hair. My last bath was in one of the fountains a disgustingly long time ago.

A quick finger-comb, and my hair fans out around my shoulders, unnaturally orange and yellow like some blood elf. Strangely nostalgia-inducing. I remember being jealous of my brother, for his strength and his sun-colored locks, for how my mother treated him. He was her favorite son, no question. He was always going to be the hero.

It all seems laughable now. My idiot twin brother.

I wonder if he's alive. Where he is. Who he is. If he ever tried to find me.

I wonder what happened all those years ago to tear my family apart.

The grass feels strange beneath my bare feet. Springy. Alien. After so long spent on twisting, narrow streets, the feel of natural ground gives me a little shock every time I put a foot down. And to look up and see no walls... It is terrifying and has the feeling of exposure.

I am intoxicated. Completely and utterly hooked on this wild freedom.

I could run all the way to Ironforge. I could swim to Kalimdor. That is how energizing this is, to be outside. There are no guards, no other urchins, no confining walls, no rules, it feels like. Not that I paid much heed to them in the first place.

Also nowhere to shelter from the rain, nowhere to steal food from, nowhere to eavesdrop and learn the news from around the world, nowhere to go if I am injured or sick, nowhere to hide.

I take another deep breath and turn my sights to Elwynn Forest.

As I walk among trees for the first time in almost a year, I begin to think of my mother, which is not a common pastime for me. If this is how she felt every time she left Silvermoon, maybe she was justified. Hah, right. She probably never bothered to stop and smell the freedom, she was too driven. As I grew older, she grew darker and left more often. She was always leaving, leaving, leaving, until the day she left and never came back. It used to confuse me, and I would wonder why I had no father and barely any mother, until the day one of the servants took me aside and explained it to me in simple terms that a young child could understand. I understood it alright, that the hatred in her was stronger than the love, even if I didn't think of it in those words until I was much older.

When my stomach begins to growl, reminding me that this time should have been spent prowling around Stormwind looking for something to eat, I turn myself back in the direction I had come, hoping I'm not lost. No, there is that farmstead I passed, and if I go just beyond it I will begin to see the walls of Stormwind through the trees. Relieved, I pick up the pace.

As I pass the white and blue farmhouse, a voice calls out. It belongs to a young woman with a sweet face and golden curls, leaning out a window and waving. Unused to being singled out by attractive women, I have to glance around to be sure it is me she wants to talk to. "Hey," she's saying, "hey, wait up!"

I hesitate. For some reason, I feel like this is a turning point. My hard-won street instincts tell me to duck my head and pretend I didn't hear, but part of me wants to know what this is about. The decision is taken from my hands when the woman comes flying out her front door, curls bouncing, and stops in front of me. "Are you an adventurer?" she asks breathlessly. "I can tell, you know. The way you carry yourself."

"I-" I say, bewildered as to how she can see an adventurer in a ratty, skinny street urchin, but she's already cut me off. It's rather like being run over by an elekk. "Great! Are you headed for Stormwind City? It's just through the trees-well, of course you know. Are you? Going there, I mean?"

"Yes, but I-"

"Oh, thank the Light! I have this letter, and my mother won't let me send it-well, I haven't asked, but it's for Tony and she doesn't like him. She's so controlling! I'm in love! With Tony, I mean, and she can't even see it! So, will you? Deliver it, I mean? The letter? I'm sure Tony could give you some coin for it; it would mean so much to the both of us!" Her eyes are bright and hopeful. So young. I find I don't have it in me to tell her I'm not an adventurer or a courier.

"Sure," I tell her. "Where-"

"Oh, thank you thank you thank you! He's in the Trade District, staying at the Gilded Rose Inn. He's there for business; he usually lives on a farm a couple miles from here. I just knew you would help!" She hands me a folded piece of parchment sealed with red wax and, with another delighted wave, runs back to her house.

What just happened?

Well...the Gilded Rose is a little out of my comfort zone, being in the Trade District, but if this Tony is willing to tip the delivery boy, it could be worth it. I pocket the letter and continue back to Stormwind. It isn't until I am standing before the walls that I realize swimming through the grate might not be the best for the letter I am now carrying. That leaves the Valley of Heroes, or the sally port that empties into the Cathedral District, where I know four people who wouldn't mind at all if I ended up floating in the Canals.

Sally port it is.

The first obstacle is the doorway itself. It is narrow and under constant guard. For the most part, the gilders ignore the street rats unless we're getting into trouble or cropping up in a respectable part of town, but the city guard isn't too keen on letting people dressed in rags enter Stormwind. Today, I am fortunate. It is Lydia posted by the sally port, lounging against the wall looking bored. She raises an eyebrow as I approach. "Not here to ask for your hard earned money back, are we?"

"No, you can bloody well keep it," I growl. "I just want to get back into the city."

She waves a hand negligently at the gate. "Go ahead. If I were you, I'd avoid the Valley of Heroes, too."

I stop. "Lydia," I say, "what do you know about me?"

She regards me without answering for a moment, then responds quietly. "Enough."

I swallow. How she figured it out, or found out, I can't guess, but I am fairly confident she knows my story. I walk through the sally port without another word.

"The Jameson gang is on the prowl," Lydia calls after me. "You watch yourself, Elaric."

Like I need the warning. I jam my hands into my pockets and breathe out slowly, slipping easily into the don't-see-me trick. I can tell it's a good one because none of the people on the streets so much as glance at me. Their eyes slide right over. I'm proud. I usually draw attention in the Cathedral Square as it is the residence of all the upper class, with their fancy silks and jewels. Just the trim from one of those elegant capes could keep me in purchased meals for a month. The Titans know what they would have in their pockets… No. I can't take that risk right now, the Square is the most well-patrolled district in Stormwind. Hopefully this Tony is a generous tipper to errand boys.

I make my way over smooth, regular paving stones that are so much nicer than the rough cobblestone found everywhere else in the city, past the soaring spires of the Cathedral of Light, past the rich and ignorant. I wander. Stroll. Act like I fit in, which is a challenge given the state of my clothing. No one sees me.

I walk beneath the stone arch nestled between buildings and find myself back on the Canals. I cross the bridge, slip quickly under the second stone arch, and sigh in relief as the yellow tile roofs of Cathedral Square recede behind me. The Jameson gang usually keeps to the white stone streets. In the Trade District, I am safe from them.

That's the idea, anyways.

I let go of my don't-see-me trick as I near the blue-shingled inn. A sign swings near the door: The Gilded Rose. Above the name is a painting of a mug of ale, to show what sort of establishment it is and to direct those who can't read. The door is open, allowing the sounds of music and laughter to drift out into the street. Someone is playing a flute. The noise is gentle, giving the Rose an altogether different atmosphere than the Slaughtered Lamb or Pig and Whistle. I can smell the Rose's light scent of beeswax candles, and the stronger smell of something roasting. Boar, maybe? My mouth waters and my stomach suddenly seems to remember that I haven't eaten since this morning.

A guard stationed across the street at the auction house scowls at me. I walk briskly into the Rose, keeping my eyes fixed ahead to give the undeniable air of someone with legitimate purpose. Inside, one or two people turn in their seats to stare at me. The Rose is the habit of merchants and venters waiting for their wares to sell at the Trader's Hall across the street, and among their silks, furs, and armor, my rags draw eyes. I am irritated. What would I not give to have new clothes that don't draw attention? How many more places would be open to me if I looked like I belonged there?

Allison the innkeeper sidles over to me, face pleasant but eyes stormy. "Can I help you, dear?" I translate: Can I help you find the door?

I bring out the golden-haired woman's letter. Thankfully, the cream-colored parchment is unsmudged and the red wax gleams officially. "I am looking for Tony. I was told he is staying here." I keep my accent the crisp, enunciated dialect of Elwynn Forest's upper crust, with none of the twang and slur of Westfall or the tumbling rush of Stormwind's unrefined. Allison takes a prim step back, looking at me curiously. Perhaps she recognizes the young orphan who used to help out around the inn, or maybe she finds my face vaguely similar to a certain other elf. She opens her mouth, and I can see the question on her tongue, but then she simply shrugs and calls out to a man in the corner.

Tony has the lanky look of someone who grew very fast in short amount of time. I judge him to be around eighteen. His dress is plain but clean and well-kept, his hair sandy brown and in want of a trim. He eyes me with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity until I hand him the woman's letter. His expression brightens instantly as he breaks the seal and sees the words within. He thanks me profusely, even shakes my hand, and I come away with three silver. I wish him luck with his lady, and then I am outside once more, strolling through the streets with a grin a mile wide stretched across my face. Three silver buys a lot if you know where to take it. When I look at the coins, I see real bread, hot stew, a coat for the coming winter. I will be able to go for weeks without stealing or begging. These thoughts make me giddy, and with my head in the clouds I don't watch where I put my feet.

"Well look at this," drawls a familiar voice. "Haven't seen Elaric parkside in a few moons. Thought you'd finally learned your lesson."

Ice slides down my spine. Melard Jameson steps out of a doorway and blocks my path. Only now do I realize my feet have carried me back in the direction of Cathedral Square, and into a narrow alley. I am about to turn and run, but too late I sense people behind me. Dammit dammit dammit. Melard never hunts alone.

There are four of them, three behind me and Melard in front. I am trapped. I shift so my back is to the wall, keeping my face smooth and composed even though my heart is pounding. Boys are like wolves; they are provoked when a target shows fear. I can't scream for help, not when my opponents are the Jameson gang. They're the sons of wealthy merchants and politicians, rich kids who amuse themselves by playing bad boys and terrorizing small children, beggars, anyone poor, and idiots who walk blindly into dark alleyways. As I have always been at least two of those things things simultaneously, they took a loathing to me right off. For years we had waged a quiet shadow war, but about five months back I managed to break Melard's arm in front of his gang. Two nights later I was ambushed. They pulled a knife on me. I shattered a collarbone, slashed at a few faces with some broken glass, got beaten twelve colors of hell, and barely escaped with my life. I have carried a blade ever since, and don't go near the Cathedral Square. Until now.

"What do you have there?" one of them asks, seeing my hand still clenched around the silver. I've never learned his name, but I think of him as Pig because of his thick body and small eyes. He grins at me with crooked teeth that have seen several fists.

I unconsciously tighten my hand around the money. It is mine. They cannot have it. They do not need it. Even if they kill me here today, they will need to cut it from my fingers. I say none of this, however, because they will take it as a challenge. "It's your mother's locket," I say evenly. "She gave it to me to remember her by."

I am honestly a little surprised when Pig offers response to my words. He reddens. "You're a filthy liar. No one would sleep with street trash like you."

"No one?" I ask innocently. "Then where'd you come from?"

My focus narrows to his hands as the words leave my mouth. A flutter of motion on one of the roofs threatens to distract me, but I manage to ignore it. My preparation is rewarded. Pig is stupid and prideful; he is easily provoked. He rushes at me, swinging meaty fists. I wait until the last moment and duck with inhuman speed, and his blow lands on hard stone. He sucks in his breath, I push it back out again by slamming my knee into his stomach. By this time, the others have recovered from their surprise. Soon I am embroiled in a mess of angry hands and feet and words, mentally cursing myself for not drawing my knife when I had the chance.

Byrn, Melard's brother and second-in-command, gets past my hastily constructed defense and strikes me in the chest. White-hot fire spirals out from the injury. I can't breathe, can barely move. When he draws his fist back, I see he is holding half a brick. There is blood on it. After that, the fight goes to hell. You can't even call it a fight, really. I break a nose and give out a few bruises, but once Pig is recovered it is four against one. I don't have much of a chance. I try desperately to keep my feet, because on the ground I'm at their mercy. My wrist breaks with a crack, and the coins ping off into the gloom. I make a desperate grab for them with my good hand, but it's far too late. While I am distracted, Melard shoves me to the filthy cobblestones of the alley. Despair wells up inside me, because now it is a kicking game and there is no way out. I'm dead already.

Well, I can bloody well take a few with me.

My fingers close around the hilt of my makeshift knife - more of a shiv, really - as the first boot catches me in the side. I grunt in pain, twist away, and manage to stab one of my assailants in the shin. I hope to shove him aside while he is off-balance and make my escape, but someone else steps on my hand, pinning both me and the knife to the ground. I stifle a scream as my ring finger is rebroken. The knife is pried from my grip, and two boys kneel on my arms to hold me down while Melard turns my blade in his hands. I can see my reflection in his eyes, a wild, battered figure straining futilely against restraining arms. "A piece of trash," Melard announces, still examining my knife. "Kind of like you. I doubt anyone will miss either." He flips the blade, catches it by its ragged leather hilt, and crouches next to me. I watch him raise it, weak afternoon light glinting along its edge. It seems to move in slow motion. Now would be the time for some dramatic, or at least defiant, last words, but I am coming up short with nothing more than "Screw you all, whoresons" and I don't want to die with their laughter ringing in my ears.

A long-fingered hand reaches out and grasps Melard's wrist, stopping the knife's motion. "That's enough," says the man, who has literally appeared out of thin air. Like Lydia.

Melard's face is a joy to watch, first startled, then confused, then angry, moving through each emotion in less than a second. I want to laugh, and do. It hurts.

Melard tries to jerk free of the man's grip, but is held fast. My rescuer must be strong, much stronger than he looks. He calmly turns his hand, twisting Melard's arm until he is forced to drop the knife. The other boys watch in mute shock, until one of them stammers, "I-I know you!" It's Pig, the heavyset fool. The man fixes him with an icy stare, and the boy quails and stumbles back. The two holding me are quick to follow his example, leaving Melard to deal with the newcomer on his own. I watch it all happen, entirely disoriented. The Jameson gang aren't afraid of anyone. The law enforcement sucks up to their parents, and anyone else they can beat into submission. But somehow this man scares them.

Meanwhile, Melard's face completes its transformation by going bone-white. "We were just…" he says, trailing off as if hoping the man will interrupt before he has to finish the sentence. He hesitates, then reluctantly mutters, "Teaching a lesson."

The man smiles thinly, thin as the edge of a blade, and jerks Melard to his feet before releasing him. Jameson slinks off after his gang, not giving me a second glance.

I am offered a hand, which I ignore. I set my teeth and get slowly, slowly to my feet. My right wrist is broken, and at least one bone in my left hand. Byrn's brick probably cracked a rib or two. My face is a bloody mess.

Once I am standing, the stranger looks like no one special. He is an inch or two shorter than me and has a slender build. His eyes, hair, and neatly trimmed beard are the same dark amber, his skin tanned from work in the sun. I judge him to be in his early thirties, noting a few scars and wondering if he's an adventurer. He doesn't wear armor, though, just plain, dark clothing that has seen hard use. The only item of interest he wears is a small blue and gold pin like the ones the guards have, but a different shape.

Part of me is dying to ask who he is, why he'd save an urchin, why the Jameson gang is so afraid of him. The other half is older, wiser, toughened by the streets, and has had enough of this bloody alley. I maneuver the word "Thanks" past a bloody mouth and split lip, then make to dart off into the shadows.

His hand grips my shoulder. "Wait." Light, he's strong. I can't pull away without risking further injury, and his voice is full of natural command. My curiosity wins out, and I turn back to him. His eyes flick quickly over my face, and I feel as though I am being read like a book. I stare right back at him, trying not to squirm. When he reaches for a pocket, my stomach swoops, I am sure he's going to pull a knife, but no, just a bottle. He holds it out, and I see it's a glass vial of reddish liquid, stoppered with a gold clasp. My eyebrows creep up. I snatch it from his hand and drink it down in a single swig, in case he changes his mind. The effects are immediate. The sharp pain in my chest flares and vanishes, the bones in my wrist and ring finger straighten. My nose snaps back into place and the dull ache of my bruises fades away. The only things I will have to remember the beating by are a copious amount of blood down my front and a faint, lingering aftertaste of (strangely) burned sugar and citrus fruit. A healing potion. You have to be rich or a venter or both to get your hands on something like that.

"Who the hell are you?" I demand.

"Mathias Shaw," he answers calmly. "Walk with me."

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