"Aww, c'mon, Tricks. 'e's just a titchy one, and he looked so pained. Only wanted to help." Marlo pleaded his case, largely in vain, to a childhood amore who was looking for no excuses. The bulky youth knew his attempt at argumentation would fall on deaf ears – moreover, knew that Tricks had a point. It was indeed dangerous to saunter about with a noble clutched in one's arms, particularly if they were as big as Marlo's (intense physical labour had put a great deal of meat on his once paltry bones). Yet Marlo couldn't just let the boy lie about, seemingly half dead, amongst the refuse and tools.
Unsurprisingly, Tricks was not swayed. She held fast. "I don't give a damn! Leave 'im, or you'll regret it, putz!"
It was already too late. A small crowd was beginning to form. Despite their overt fear of being associated with injured nobles, the workers could not help but gaze inquisitively at the spectacle of this young couple bantering back and forth. And banter they did: though the debate was rather simple and repetitive, the two sides battled fiercely. Marlo had learned how to fight back, if a little clumsily, over the years. He'd been forced to. Though hardly imaginative, he was still bright enough in his own methodical way, and could hold his own against Trick's sharp tongue for quite some time. In this case, it was sheer willpower that allowed Marlo to maintain his posture on the subject.
The noise had brought little De Loco, his body still pained, back into the reality of the world. Young as he was, he knew little of the typical noble abhorrence for a commoners' touch: indeed, the closeness was rather reassuring. It was a feeling of warmth and concern he'd never been exposed to before. Or, perhaps, it was secluded to the time when he'd only just been born, clutched tightly in his mothers' arms for a few brief moments before being plucked cruelly away by his father.
In his jangled, innocent way, De Loco wondered why he'd never had a mother. The woman who'd bore him was never allowed to see her child past those initial minutes after childbirth. De Loco's father made sure of that. His child would be strong, and resolute; no coddling by some weak-minded, frail faced matriarch. No, his would be a man's world, and as such De Loco himself had set about rearing the boy. Being unpossessed of any viable parenting skills, however, the senior had bungled things badly with the junior. He was harsh, cold, and brutal, traits the man was coming to recognise as a mistake – yet his pride dictated he had no place in correcting himself. De Loco was never incorrect towards the outside world, and he alone had the privilege of doubting his motivations. A twisted, barbed circle of misguided intentions and selfish thoughts.
Little De Loco buried his face into Marlo's chest. The feeling of it was so good, so wonderful, that he didn't even hear the clarion call of his father when it first pierced the air. It took a sudden, vicious repetition, closer this time, to startle the boy out of his temporary sanctum and back into reality.
Elder De Loco looked absolutely furious. His jowls shook, eyes popping. The monocle that seldom left his face flew from its place and clattered amongst a pile of old rags and discarded sticks. None of the words he uttered made any sense, yet everybody present understood their meaning. Marlo was in for it now. The guards that flanked him on either side would make sure of that.
Labourers scattered, ragged cockroaches suddenly exposed to the light of reality. Tricks, too, fled: she loved Marlo, but her sentiments did not extend towards protecting his stupidity. Hopefully, he wouldn't die.
Marlo blinked slowly. That he could have been doing something wrong in keeping the boy from harm was an odd concept. Granted, he knew all too well that nobles frowned upon any creature of a lower class, but this was a mere act of courtesy. Shouldn't the father have been happy that his son was still alive? For this man did indeed appear to be the paternal figure, albeit a rather old one for such a young boy: the similarities between the two were as plain as day.
It took De Loco a few moments to suppress his indignation enough to form words clearly. What came next was a disgruntled mangling of the language, yet still comprehensible after its own fashion:
"Ooogh. . . you sick. . . oogh. . . down, my son. . . reeeeedown, put him down you stupid cow, you peasant fool, son of a whore looper piece of trash, scum, he's got a genius IQ and you'll never, down, agggh down, downdowndownDOWN!"
And with that final exclamation, his bestiality released, De Loco rushed Marlo. Surprising his escort. The old man seldom took challenges head on like this. His face, beet-red, contrasted to the pale white surprise upon Marlo's, made all present wonder why such an animal had been afforded a spot amongst the admiralty.
Marlo could understand the reaction. His son may have been in danger. Yet, it was a bit over the top: Marlo could have easily crushed the young boy's neck, had it been his inclination to do so, long before De Loco ever managed to stampede over. Rushing in put little De Loco in even more danger, didn't it?
Didn't it?
Or was the man simply trying to retrieve what he thought of as his property, something that he would accept if it were damaged, so long as the remains returned to his stubby hands?
Marlo just didn't get it. He didn't get it as De Loco's hands began to pry fiercely at his son's leg in a desperate attempt at rescue, the boy crying out and clinging all the harder to Marlo (it was a purely animal instinct to seek protection, one that he would pay for later with several lash marks for disobedience). He still didn't get it when the guards, leaping into the fray themselves, slammed him over the head with a pair of extremely well placed blows. And he certainly didn't get it as the warmth of his tiny load left his arms, and his vision waned into nothingness, and all the world congealed into brilliant stars and, then, black.
--
The De Loco clan was famous for its fits of hysteria. The symptoms exhibited themselves far too often. Many speculated that it was the price they paid for being so damned smart; after all, one could only be so excellent.
De Loco forced his son to walk back to the skiff, his cane rapping constantly upon the boy's heels. One of the guards was dispatched to convey his apologies to the king for having departed in mid-inspection, and to express deepest regrets to another noble family – the De Winters, cousins of the king – for not being able to show them around (they were De Loco's appointment immediately following the king). His Vice Admiral was called down for tour duty instead.
Marlo was interrogated and released after a few weeks. Officials on the work site recognised him as one of their best labourers, and decided the Fortress was far enough behind schedule as it was without having the youth killed.
Throughout his dismal imprisonment, Marlo wondered vacantly about his long-absent best friend, and where he was. Little De Loco had done much to remind Marlo of Galley. It was all in the eyes. Geniuses and visionaries carry a spark in their orbs that can neither be extinguished nor ignored.
