The day had started out relatively normally. Mama handed out an assignment – in this case, Galley was to pay a visit to the Upper Valuan marketplace and nab some goodies – and dismissed the longhaired young man with the casual flick of her hand. Galley, as always, took the task with as much attitude as possible (not that Mama cared, as she knew he would do it one way or the other no matter what) and headed out.

The whole process took a few hours, most of which included travel time in the lonely depths of the sewers. Actually stealing items of value took little less than a half-hour. The man, who'd not been home, immediately called for police upon returning and finding his home ransacked, but by the Galley was long gone. He'd come off with a small, gold-plated clock, a few jewels (family heirlooms, in fact), a sword crafted out of the finest moonstones available, and several thousand in cash.

Of particular interest to Galley, however, was his final discovery, one that he determined would never find its way into Mama's lithe fingers: a green moonstone, ebbing with raw magical power. He pocketed the fine prize alongside his old silver stone, and a blue one he'd acquired several months prior. Three down, three to go. His magical powers were considerable: Galley was fully possessed, now, of the ability to not only bombard foes with water, but strike glimmering needles into the depths of their hearts. It was an ability he so longed to perform upon Mama, and knew he would, some day. When he was strong enough.

But that day was not now, and upon returning home, Galley realised that the decisive moment might be a long ways off. Mama was nowhere to be found. This was an unheard of event, as she was always there to greet him upon his return from capers, usually with overly zealous palms outstretched seeking riches.

Not today, though. Her old and worn pile of carpets, blankets, and towels was abandoned. None of the cooking pots had even been brought out, indicating she'd been gone for a substantial chunk of the day (she was usually preparing dinner by the time Galley returned every day). Indeed, several of her belts of throwing knives were strewn about the floor, accessories that Galley had never once seen her remove in all his time with her. A few of the candles had gone out since he left, something Mama never tolerated: she was, after all, always on-hand to re-light the wicks. Something was most definitely wrong.

Panicked for a reason he could not fathom – he hated the witch, after all – Galley plumbed the sewers for any sign of his matronly overlord. Nothing turned up. His normally stoic demeanour began to break apart, piece by piece, replaced steadily by an irrational concern for her wellbeing. After a long six years of building up his emotional walls, the young man suddenly found them being torn down, his youthful brilliance shining through the gaps. Where, where, where?

After a while, he started calling out her name. All was done in vain. Only his own lonely voice bounced back to him, echoing into the depths of Valua.

A thousand battling thoughts merged in his head, all seeking answers to critical questions. Who would look after him? Who would clean the hole? Do the sewing? Feed him? Who would comfort him, even if in a cold fashion? Who would he talk to? Who would praise him? Who would he argue with? Even share his beleaguered dreams with? He'd spoken to Mama, once or twice, of what he hoped for; she'd merely laughed and dismissed his notions as adolescent naivete. But it was the fact that he had somebody to report them to that was the point. He needed, he craved, the attention.

That was it, though. Mama, the most despicable of all his former companions, was gone. Galley was on his own now, completely. Even the boss of the Sewer Rats was gone.

His mind rebelled at that. No, no; she just went out somewhere. Just because she's not there now doesn't mean she won't ever be again. Go back and wait. You'll see.

He practically bounded back to his ragged hole, briefly disappointed that nobody awaited him there yet hardly dissuaded from pursuing his plan. He would wait. Hell, he would even surprise Mama, and then secretly revel in her anger, by seating himself on her bed.

Which he did. It was strangely comfortable.

He waited.

And waited.

And waited.

A few stray wisps of breeze wafted in from the gothic hallways of the sewers and shut out the dim light of the remaining candles, one by one, eventually plunging Galley into a miserable darkness. He didn't even know that he was crying.

Where was the confident little boy now?

Would he ever be in control again?

Galley had never before felt further away from reaching his dream. In his desperation, Galley reached out for any dream he could manage – and wound up falling asleep, the visions of the unconscious his only source of solace.

--

There was a man before him, now, floating freely in space.

He was the most regal figure Galley had ever come across. Tall, with short-cut hair, gaunt cheekbones and a roguish goatee, his figure was swathed in a black cape so magnificent that Galley could only guess at its worth. Thin, golden chains hung in fashionable spots upon its heavy frame. It looked as though the inside of it was edged in crimson velvet. Yet all paled in comparison to his eyes: striking and magnificent, encompassing the whole world and beyond within their limits. Galley saw future, he saw destiny, he saw everything he wanted to be.

"Who are you?" he asked, his trademark cynicism when faced by a stranger temporarily dissolved.

The figure smiled, yet the curves of his lips held no humour. "You answered that to yourself, just now: I'm the ideal you."

And Galley knew it was true, for he'd pictured himself in that very cape a thousand times, possessing in his meagre body all the majesty and grandeur that the man before him projected. This was his dream. This was Galley as he would be, if he was successful in everything.

"I'm not a vision of the future, nor your destiny, whelp," the man insisted imperiously, "simply one possibility on a road of possibilities. This, too, could be you." With a wave of his hand, the figure brought a decrepit looking invalid into existence, bearing the same features as himself but garbed as a simple peasant. His back was crooked in all the wrong places. The thought of himself, years from now, as this sad looking old man – indeed, there was no fire at all in his eyes, just blue seas of premature ageing – sent Galley reeling backwards with revulsion. "No, no, that can't. . ."

The regal Galley grinned. "Oh, it can. And so can these." Suddenly, Galley found himself amidst an ever growing crowd of possibilities, of butchers and bakers and soldiers and salary men and jewellers and pirates and merchants and hobos, all with his eyes but none with any glimmer of happiness or satisfaction for their accomplishments in life in their bearing. All were depressed, sullen figures, for none had achieved real success, not that which the youth who sat buried amongst them longed for, that which now floated high overhead and stared down at him with those pupils so vividly blue and sparking.

He was sinking, pulled by thousands of dissatisfied fingers, joined to mouths that screamed out for a better life, for him to seek retribution for their failure, to strive, to achieve, to be. Be what? He asked back, frantically, suffocating, and they all pointed while still dragging him down, pointed to that man in the sky.

The caped man no longer glared down upon his youthful counterpart, however, nor any of the myriad of failures that surrounded Galley. His mind was amongst the stars, flying and reigning, unconstrained by any man or woman. And then he was gone, and Galley reached out for his dream, but it was too late. He was crushed by his manifest uselessness.

--

And when at last he awoke, Galley knew what he had to do, bathed in an absence of light as he was: he had to join those who'd so effortlessly earned his contempt for years now. He needed to become a noble.