Fifteen year old Alfred squinted at his watch; 8:51, it read through the dim lighting of the quarter moon. It had only been about a half an hour since his last break, yet he was already beginning to get tired. Usually, he could last for three hours at most, but his stamina was running low, deadly low. In the clearing, Alfred was an easy target, so in his need for a refuge, he continued to run towards the London lights, his breathing now frantic. Even in the distance, he could still hear the guard's husky breathing, the guard that been tailing him, trying to bring him back to that awful place, that orphanage, since two days ago. The little blond had been trying to lose him for while now, but for some reason, sooner or later, Alfred would begin to hear that pained breathing again.

"Haah..... Hah..." He was panting now. Thinking back, it was a miracle that he even figured a way out of the orphanage, let alone making it this far. He could hold out for a little more, right? That was just his way of saying he didn't even want to think about what would happen to him if he got caught.

Finally, he made it to one of the squares, one especially filled with foliage to be exact. "Well… At least I can rest now," he thought as he clambered towards a gigantic rowan tree, though he really could care less about what kind of tree it was as long as it hid him. From the decreasing sound of sloshing mud, he could assume that the guard had lost his track. The blond sighed in relief. At this point, he was overly grateful for the tree that was blocking the elements. The sky was pouring buckets and as a result, he was drenched.

At this Alfred laughed dryly. "Well, you're in London, it's to be expected." Big Ben chimed loudly throughout the streets, as if laughing with him. His stomach gurgled in chorus, making Alfred blush a little. He couldn't even remember the last time he ate. Undoing the zipper on his backpack, he took out a messily wrapped half eaten hamburger. It would have to do, even if it was cold. He was thirsty, too, and his assumption that he could just "drink the rainwater" wasn't turning out well. When Alfred's stomach was soothed, he set off for a warmer place to situate himself in.

He stood himself up again, using the trunk of the tree as support. His legs were barely holding himself up, soaked down to the bone like that and numbingly cold. Feeling a sharp pain as he walked, it was entirely possible that he'd sprained his right ankle, but with the cold, it was hard to tell. None of these held him back from his goal, however.

It was a gopher hole that did him in, in the end. Alfred collapsed into the cold, wet grass. Days of running away and evading the orphanage caught up to him. Using the last of his strength, he curled up, hugging his knees. If this was to be his last stand, he didn't care. He had already escaped with the risk of getting caught. He had already thrown all of his pride away. He just didn't care anymore.

"You there," a voice called, slurred obviously from intoxication. "What're doin' in the rain like that? –hic—"

Alfred could hear the voice clearly, also followed by something—an umbrella?—shielding his face from the pelting rain, but his eyes, as stubborn as ever, would not open for him, for they were overwhelmed with fatigue. Whoever it was that now brushing the hair out of his face, he was definitely not one of the men that was pursuing him. His voice, though slurred, was warm and tender, with a strong, biting British accent.

"C'mon lad, lemme treat you to some tea. It's bloody cold ou' here" the man said again, hoisting Alfred's arm onto his shoulder. The boy tried to match the other's footsteps but fell with each attempt, ending up having to limp along with his good leg. Tired and cold, he nestled his head along the other man's warm shoulder.

Where they were going to, he didn't care. Who the other man was, he didn't care. He had forfeited his will to live long ago.

But that didn't stop Alfred from clutching on to a slender silver lining of hope.

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