Minor swear words incoming. I'm not one to use swear words myself, but seeing as Gascon/Swaine does have a bit of a potty mouth, it seemed like I had no choice. Otherwise, his dialogue would come off as pretty weak with such words as "heck" and "dang". Dang it all to heck! (Also, I'm well aware that "dingus" is not a particularly strong insult….)

Chapter 11: There Will Be Consequences

The first indication that something was amiss was the furtive glances Reese and Jameson exchanged the moment Gascon walked into the Swift Solutions office. They were the same sort of looks he had seen pass between his father and the Captain of the Boarriors after he had accidentally started a small fire in the palace kitchens when he was nine. The resulting punishment had left a lasting scar on his memory that he didn't suspect he'd ever forget.

While Reese didn't attempt to hide a pointed glare as he left the building, the old man behind the desk had since dropped his attention to the array of papers scattered across the desk's surface. Jameson folded his arms in front of him, his next words preceded by a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry, my boy, but I'm gonna have to let ya go."

Fifteen years with a strict father had awarded Gascon ample understanding of the phrase "judgement would be swift". But even this was sudden.

He replayed the words over and over in his head to ensure he had indeed heard correctly, but every rendition arrived at the same conclusion. Maybe he'd wake up in a few moments and realize this was all just a dream. But until then, he might as well play along.

"I-I don't get it. What exactly have I done?" Oh, he knew exactly what this was all about. But he knew better than to admit to anything unless he absolutely had to.

"Ya lied to me, boy. That's what ya've done. If I had known ya had run away from home, I woulda never hired ya. I can't in good conscience enable such shameful behavior. Ya best return home to your parents."

Gascon inwardly cursed the one responsible. So Reese had squealed on him, after all. If this really was just a dream, he invited his subconscious to wake up. Anytime now. "But th-this isn't fair. I was doing a good job, wasn't I? You've said so yourself. Why should it matter-"

"I did, boy, I did. Don't think I haven't put a lot o' thought into my decision. Ya've got a lot o' promise, kiddo. But that doesn't excuse what ya did. I could get in a lotta trouble helpin' a runaway." Jameson shook his head, his eyes squeezed shut as if in physical pain. "I'm disappointed in ya. I really am."

That last statement cut Gascon like a knife. It was painfully ironic that this was the very same outcome he had expected months ago. But after Jameson had showered him with praise over his inventiveness mere days after meeting him, he had dismissed these concerns as mere pessimism. But it wasn't really pessimism if it came true, now was it?

Was he really doomed to let down every single person he met?

Gascon tried once more to appeal to the old man's mercy. "You don't understand. I didn't leave home because I did something wrong. I swear. I had no choice. I never intended to lie to you." He redirected his gaze to the man's right when his expression failed to soften. Jameson had never looked at him that way before. He looked like Father. Just like every bloody time he failed to live up to his expectations. "I-I wish you'd believe me."

The old man considered him in silence a moment longer before inclining his head in a slight nod. "I might be willin' to reconsider if ya can give me the truth for why ya ran away from home. But I mean it." He shook one gnarled finger at him. "The truth. No more lies, ya hear."

Gascon's mouth worked to find an answer. Even with this small ounce of compassion granted to him, he realized with chilling clarity that there was nothing he could actually say that would change Jameson's mind. How could he tell this man who he really was? At this point, such a bold claim would only serve to make the matter worse. Even if his real identity had been something he was willing to divulge, it seemed doubtful Jameson would even believe the truth if he heard it.

"Look, why can't you just take my word for it?" With growing horror, he heard himself speaking without thinking, yet unable to stop himself even as his voice rose in both pitch and volume that mirrored the desperation in his heart. "I swear, I didn't do anything! This is no one's business but my own! If I was just a year or two older, this wouldn't matter, now would it?"

"That's quite enough, boy."

He wasn't sure if it was the utterance of his name or the stern look in the man's eyes, but somehow, he just managed to regain enough control of his senses to reign himself in. This was starting to turn into one of those arguments he used to have with his father. At this realization, the fight died down inside him as suddenly as a bucket of water poured over an open flame, replaced instead with harsh, unforgiving defeat. As much as he wished to smooth over his recent outburst, he decided it was best not to say another word. Knowing him, he would only make the situation worse.

Gascon left Jameson's office, his mind still numb from the shock. How quickly things could change when fate willed it. Every ounce of success, gone in an instant. And now, he had to start all over again. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Everything had been going so well for him, up until-

His hands clenched into fists. "There will be consequences", eh? Well, he'd see about that.

Reese hadn't gone very far by the time Gascon managed to track him down, the soreness in his injured ankle doing little to slow him down.

"Oi, dingus, what the hell is your problem? What I do with my life is none of your damn business! You had no right to tell anyone!"

Reese turned to face him with a slowness that would have been unnerving had Gascon been in any other mood. "We agreed ya wouldn't talk to Katrine anymore," he said, his voice low. "Ya didn't hold up yer end of the bargain."

"I didn't agree to anything. You did." Without thinking, Gascon shoved him as hard as he could. Even then, Reese was merely taken aback by a couple paces, but he otherwise came nowhere close to being knocked over.

"Ya don't wanna mess with me, kid."

"Am I supposed to be scared, then?" Gascon bridged the gap between them once more by advancing several more steps. "What are you going to do, you bloody coward! I bet you're all hot air, you piece of-"

Reese had punched him in the face before Gascon had even seen it coming. The blow was enough to cause him to lose his balance and send him falling onto his backside. In shock, he wiped a trickle of something warm from his upper lip, leaving a dark crimson stain on his sleeve.

"Just take my advice, kid. Go home before ya make an even bigger fool o' yourself." Without a second look, Reese walked away, leaving Gascon sitting in the middle of the street, breathing heavily, but otherwise speechless.

Had he still been a prince, no one would have dared lay so much as a finger on him. Just one of the many immunities afforded royalty. As if he really needed another reminder that he was definitely not a prince anymore.

As if it wasn't already abundantly clear that, without his former title, he was absolutely nobody.

Another advantage of being a prince, Gascon had learned, was that one was never made to endure aches and stiffness beyond any reasonable means. If anything needed lifting or any other sort of shift in its position, there were servants for that. Stairs need not be climbed when the object of one's desire could be fetched for them. Even dressing oneself was usually done with assistance, or it would have been, if Gascon hadn't so often left his chambers at times he wasn't meant to.

Pain in life was natural and to be expected, but royalty got to avoid most of it. But he wasn't royalty anymore, and that was enough to signify that all physical labor now fall to him. Now that he was no longer welcome in Jameson's employ, and with the prior knowledge that Lari's main industry of fishing was also beyond his miserable abilities, he was now given no choice but to return to patrolling the streets of the cliff side village in search of work of any kind.

It had taken just a day to confirm that offering his services as an inventor was futile. Outside of Hamelin, his mechanical abilities were nowhere near as desirable as he had hoped. Jameson had clearly been an anomaly. And he had already blundered that opportunity just as he feared he would any other.

Although he had chosen his earlier employment with care, his standards had quickly dwindled at roughly the same rate as his guilders. As many possibilities as he had once believed to exist in the world, there were clearly very few good ones, all of which, regardless of their quality, ended with a frightening inevitability, for one reason or another. He had hoped his black eye had been the one thing preventing people from wishing to hire him, but it became clear once the blemish had eventually faded from his face that this was not the case. Apparently the problem rested solely with him and him alone.

As a result, he had come to wonder if one's role needed to fancy you just as much as you fancied it. And as Gascon laid awake until late into the night, his body stiff and sore from the day's labors, he mused over the possibility that there really was no place for him in this world.

And would it even matter if the opposite was true? Either way, how could he ever compete when his little brother was destined to become a Great Sage and an Emperor? He could scour the globe if he chose, but nothing he ever did could possibly come close. Their father might have been right, after all. What would he ever amount to?

Summer passed him by, followed by an autumn that was certainly not a surprise for anyone who hadn't grown up in a city devoid of seasons. Considering he was not one of those people, he had to wonder just how cold it was planning on getting when winter was supposed to be the coldest season of all.

A mere month or so since losing his job with Jameson was enough to make him feel like an old man as he hobbled down the stairs of the Cat's Cradle on yet another morning that had arrived far too soon, more akin to a walking corpse than anything else. In fact, he had begun to theorize that the supposed ghosts and ghouls of the Tombstone Trail were not actually members of the undead at all, but merely tired people worn out from too much work. Soon enough, he'd become one, too. He was sure of it.

It was later that very same evening, the only time of day that actually felt relatively warm, and the only time he didn't want it to, that Gascon found himself trudging up a particularly steep incline he swore hadn't been there when he had first passed this way an hour prior. He would never understand why anyone would build a town in such an inhospitable location when there were surely plenty of flat places to put it. The only consolation was the fact that his last odd job for the day was complete. All he had left was to report back to Mimi for the few measly guilders she thought his work deserved. She paid him less and less every day, he was certain of it.

With no other way to make the time go by, he settled for watching his lengthening shadow walking before him as if it thought him too slow and wished to reach their shared destination first. It was one of his few remaining possessions, he thought to himself with hardly a hint of amusement, verbal or otherwise.

Shortly upon Gascon's arrival back at Mimi's Delivery Service, a thin and wiry woman shuffled outside with such haste, it was as if she had been watching through the window for his return. Her hair had been done up in a hurried bun, just as it was every morning he saw her. Today, more stray curls hung in her face than usual, like limp springs that bounced with every step. She was one of the few people willing to give him anything resembling consistent employment. He had a feeling she only tolerated him because he was also one of the few people willing to put up with her.

"How long does it take to deliver three bolts of fabric? You're late, like usual, ya know." She planted her fists on her thin waist, in much the same manner as a certain maid who went by the name of Hilda. And like Hilda, she was all talk. At least, the broom she was known to wield had yet to make contact with him, despite how often she shook it at him.

He suspected he could learn to teleport between locations within seconds, and she would still say the very same thing. There was no pleasing some people. If his options hadn't already become as scarce as her charm, he would have quit ages ago. He drew in a long breath through his nostrils before he trusted himself well enough to respond. "Mrs. Marina's place is clear on the other side of town. I had to walk up six flights of stairs to get there." He didn't exactly count, but he doubted she ever had either. "Trust me, that stuff wasn't getting delivered any faster."

The woman's chin tilted up as she studied him. "Stairs? There are no stairs between Mrs. Marina's house and my own. Where did ya even take that delivery?"

It was now his turn to pause, and he glanced back over his shoulder, as if he could confirm from this distance the accuracy of his efforts. "I brought it to the place with the dolphin weathervane. The old woman there thanked me for it and everything. You said Mrs. Marina was old, right? Did I get that wrong-"

Mimi pursed her thin lips and shook her head with enough vigor that a few more strands of her springy hair popped free. "Not a dolphin, I said the house with the whale on the weathervane, ya stupid boy! Ya musta taken the delivery to Ms. Bertha. Her mind's been goin' the way o' low tide for years. She'll take anything ya give her, no questions asked."

Gascon crossed his arms with a sigh. "Fine, I'll get it back and take it to the real Mrs. Marina. All right?" So help him if he didn't throw the delivery right into the ocean. What's that? Delivered to the wrong place again? So sorry.

Her eyebrows climbed upwards upon her brow so quickly, he half wondered if they had been launched clear from her forehead, never to be seen again. "I don't think so! Ya've messed up for the last time! You're not gettin' a single guilder from me, either!"

Was she bloody serious? Money was the only reason he had suffered her presence for as long as he had. Take that away, and the time for being reasonable was over. Gascon's eyes narrowed. "Oh, yes, you are! I've worked myself to the bone all day for you! What about all the other deliveries I made? Oi, where are you going? I'm still talking to you!"

Mimi had retreated through her doorway, and when she emerged back out into the open, she had her ragged, old broom clutched in both hands, granting her a striking resemblance to a witch. And not merely the female wizard kind of witch, either. More like the kind that ate children and turned unsuspecting victims into toads. He had never seen her use that broom for actual sweeping.

"Are you seriously threatening me with that again?" he continued, though he made sure to retreat several paces. "One of these days, I'd really like to see you use it." Of course, he certainly didn't mean today. Perhaps he should have specified…

"Mrs. Marina's been a loyal customer since my husband was lost at sea, and I can't afford to lose her now! I shoulda known this is what I'd get for hirin' rabble like you!" She stepped closer. "If ya really want to see what I can do with this, I suggest ya say one more word."

He did. And since he was feeling generous, he spared her a lot more than just one. "Are you sure the sea's the reason your husband never came back?"

Gascon took off running as soon as she lunged for him with an enraged shriek, his sore legs feeling suspiciously better now that he had need of them again.

His pace didn't slow until he was well beyond earshot of the woman and further disparaging remarks concerning his intelligence and rank in life, though depending on how long he had been able to hear her, he had a sneaking suspicion she had pursued him part of the way. It only took him another fifteen minutes of walking, not including the break he had taken to catch his breath, until he had reached the inn.

Trudging inside, Gascon reached into his pocket and pulled out his last five coins, which he placed down on the counter before him. Now that the day was nearly at an end, he had begun, once again, to feel like a human anchor. He would have liked very much to collapse on his bed and remain there for at least the next month or so. "This is all I have right now," he told the innkeeper, even his very words sounding as heavy as he felt. "I hope it's enough."

The portly innkeeper studied what remained of his money, one arm resting on the counter, as if such a pitiful amount should even take much time to count. "I'm sorry, hon, but that simply won't cut it this time. I've already lowered my rates enough for ya. I can't accept any less."

Gascon chewed on his lower lip as he processed what all this meant. She couldn't really be serious, could she? Perhaps he had misheard. "Well, what do you expect me to do? Sleep outside?"

"Like I said, I'm sorry, but I've got a business to run. If that's really all ya have, then I'm afraid I'm gonna have to turn ya away." When he continued to stare at her in disbelief, she asked, "Ya have anythin' ya need to get from your room before ya go?"

He used to have a small stash of guilders saved up from his time with Jameson beneath a loose floorboard. But if he had still been in possession of it, then this wouldn't be happening, now would it? All that left him with was the clothes on his back and his pistol, which he always kept with him. Lari was a safe enough town, if you ignored the presence of certain people who enjoyed ruining other's lives. But somehow, he just didn't feel right leaving something that important behind.

He shook his head, snatching his few remaining guilders from the counter and returning them to his pocket in bitter acceptance. "No, nothing. I've got absolutely nothing left, no thanks to you."

The woman's apologetic frown failed to have any effect on his demeanor, and he left the inn behind without another word. By now, the sun was starting to set, though even its fading glow did not reach him here, where the shadow of the cliff had fallen over the soon to be sleeping town.

Half of him considered begging Mimi for what she owed him, but all sense of motivation had since fled from him, leaving him feeling empty. As if he needed to give her another reason to gloat. This had been a long time coming. He had adamantly denied it, had assured himself repeatedly that something was bound to happen, that fate would have no choice but to look favorably upon him eventually. But fate had nothing planned for him. He had no grand destiny. No greater calling, a purpose that only he and he alone could fulfill.

Long had he imagined what his life would have been like had he not been born into royalty. Back then, it seemed there was so much the world had to offer outside the confines of the palace's bronze walls. He could have been an adventurer, he had often mused. He would see the world, his life defined by freedom, sweet, glorious freedom. A life free from responsibility, where he could do anything he wanted and go anywhere he pleased, his home wherever he happened to be at the time. He fantasized about all the wondrous things he would experience and the grand adventures he would overcome. And at the end of each day, he would sleep beneath the stars that Hamelin had so callously shut out.

One day, he would be the master of his own destiny.

But now that he was standing here in the deepening darkness, as the stars he had so often dreamed about blossomed overhead, he couldn't see the possibilities that had once seemed all too real in his mind any more than he could pick out each cobblestone in the shadowed path beneath his feet. With the inevitable approach of nightfall, he was feeling anything but adventurous.

He chose a direction at random and started walking, the soreness in his limbs unmatched by the hollowness in his chest. What would his father say if he could see him now? If he could see what a failure his eldest truly was. He couldn't even keep a job. He couldn't even keep a roof over his head. Born the son of one of the wealthiest people in the world, now he was wandering the streets of some rundown little village in the middle of nowhere with naught but five measly guilders to his name. He had been given every advantage, life handed to him on a silver platter. How had he managed to screw that up? If anyone had fallen farther, he'd like to hear it.

Anything to prove that he wasn't the biggest idiot to have ever lived.

By now, night had well and truly fallen. The few who had still been out had since returned home, leaving Gascon more alone than he ever could have possibly imagined. Lari could have been a ghost town, for all he knew, his heart sinking further with each and every window whose light was extinguished, one by one, until only the streetlamps and a sliver of moonlight remained.

He had nowhere to go. Nowhere. What was he going to do until morning? What was he going to do the night after and the night after that? The gravity of his current situation gripped his heart like an icy claw, and he felt his chest grow tight, his breathing constricting within him.

No, this was no time panic. He had to be sensible. He had to commit to a place to stay. He had no choice. He couldn't stay awake forever, and the sooner he got used to this new arrangement, the better.

Blimey, this couldn't really be it, could it?

A man stepped out from a nearby alley, nearly knocking Gascon over when they collided. Without missing a beat, the man snatched him by the arm, though he had his doubts that the gesture was intended to prevent the boy from losing his balance. The teen attempted to pull himself free, but the man held on firm. Granted time for a second, if unwelcome, perusal, Gascon noted that the man wore a long, brown trench coat, his stringy, unwashed hair framing a gaunt face.

"'Tisn't safe to be out so late, boy," the man said, his voice low and raspy. The humor lacing his words only served to make the statement that much more threatening.

"Leave me alone," Gascon warned. He just managed to keep his voice from shaking despite the hammering of his own heart. He had seen people like this during his outings in Hamelin, but only when he strayed from the main thoroughfares. The man exuded danger as much as he did a foul odor. He made sure his next words came out with more force. "Let go of me!"

Gascon tugged with renewed strength, and only then did the man release him, sending the boy reeling backwards with such force that no amount of flailing could prevent him from landing on his back in the street. Releasing a croaking sort of laugh that hinted at some long untreated disease, the man turned away and walked off just as the teen scrambled to his feet. Gascon took off in the opposite direction at double the pace as his earlier meandering, halting in his retreat when he realized that something was off. No clear evidence had presented itself to make him believe this. It was more of a sinking feeling that, perhaps, their brief encounter had been more than mere coincidence. This was confirmed when he checked his pocket to find that the few guilders he had remaining were missing.

Inwardly cursing his own carelessness as much as the one who had robbed him, he turned around, proceeding several steps back in the direction where the man had gone before he lost his nerve. What would he even do if he found the thief again? People like that were dangerous. For all he knew, the man had a knife, and…

Gascon had a gun. But could he really use it if it came down to it? He had never shot anyone before. It was just five guilders.

He only had five guilders. What the hell was wrong with people?

He had nearly forgotten what kinds of criminals roamed the streets at this hour after every law-abiding citizen had retired to bed. What happened after dark had never been of much concern to him. Because he used to have a locked door to keep him safe at night. Because he used to live in a palace with armed guards. But security cost money. And without it, there was nothing between him and the outside world. There was nothing stopping some desperate lunatic from sneaking up on him while he slept, and…

The next alleyway he ducked into was, thankfully, unoccupied. Gascon collapsed in the corner farthest back, where the shadows were deepest, and he had the best chance of blending into his surroundings. He could only hope that no one would find him here. He continued to shiver, as much from the cold as from his recent ordeal, and wrapped his arms around the legs he had pulled to his chest. In fact, the only warmth came in the form of several tears that had managed to slip down his cheeks despite his best efforts to repress the flood of emotion that threatened to well up from within him. He couldn't afford to make any noise. Not when that man, and other people like him, were still out there.

He forced himself to draw in one deep breath after another as his mind struggled to focus on anything other than how badly his day had gone. He was still alive. That had to count for something, right? And those five guilders weren't going to last him much longer anyway.

Blimey, he hadn't a single coin left. How was he going to afford food tomorrow?

Gascon squashed these thoughts as soon as they managed to creep into his awareness. Right now, the only thing that mattered was sleep. And sleep was free.

As if the price of a good night's rest really mattered. Discomfort alone was enough to ensure he would get very little, if any, sleep tonight. But most pressing of all was the repeated refrain of a question to which he had no answer.

What's going to happen to me?

Bloody hell, what was going to happen to him?

Oh, Gascon, you poor dear. You poor, ill-mannered, dear. As much as it pains me to write about such unfortunate events, we all knew this was coming, didn't we? And this isn't even the worst of it…

And yes, Mimi's Delivery Service is indeed a reference to a certain Studio Ghibli film, which was included for no other reason than…I just felt like it.