Dawn washed over the City, splashing its rich golden hues across the dreary urban landscape. Factories hummed to life, wisps of smoke steadily ebbing skyward from their grand iron chimneys. By days end, their noxious smog would cover the sky like thick black ink. Children hollered and laughed as they ran towards the schoolhouse, their tiny shoes clacking against the cobblestone. Doves took fight from the rafters of buildings, and shopkeepers unlocked their establishments in tandem. But throughout this early morning bustle, something was amiss. Concealed by weak streaks of shadow, or pressed up against cold stone walls, a nocturnal hunter lurked.
The notorious criminal was not dressed in his usual thieving attire upon that unassuming day. Garrett, better than anyone, had perfected the strange cloaking powers of the mundane. The best place to hide a letter, was on the mantle. So it was that the master thief abandoned his trademark hood and cloak, and donned a long, heavy leather jacket. His dark and scraggly brown hair was exposed, the high leather collar of his coat protecting his neck from the biting cold. The only part of his usual attire worn upon that day, was his trusty black mask. His eyes intense and perpetually alert, Garrett took to the streets.
Despite the outdoor temperature dipping into the single digits, a cold sweat began to erupt over the thief's palms as he exited the clocktower. The entire undertaking felt surreal, like the unfathomable dreams of a madman. Maybe it was the outfit-Garrett had never enjoyed being exposed. Something about hoods had always brought him comfort; whether it was the warmth they provided, or the coverage they insured. But something lingered and teased upon the farthest reaches of Garrett's mind, whispering that this simply wasn't the case.
No, if anything, it had to be the risk. More specifically, why he was taking it. Because it wasn't gold or jewels luring the wanted man from his forsaken tower upon that fateful morning. It was sweet rolls.
After he'd witnessed Gwenevere physically break before him, the master thief had experienced a rare and most uncomfortable conflict within his mind. It had kept him by the window all evening, it had denied him slumber. And now, it had driven him down into Stonemarket Plaza, to pilfer breakfast confectionaries from the local baker.
Making sure to keep his mask tight across his gaunt features, he strolled into the exposed market district, eyes ever focused on the patrolling bluecoats. There was a woman sweeping up just beside a cart laden with colorful cakes and breads. Glancing around once before reaching, Garrett expertly swiped a small box of iced cakes, before continuing to sulk through the colorful shopping district.
A part of him wondered why he was even doing this. Was heseriously rewarding the girl for getting upset by her well-deserved punishment?! Garrett huffed, noting that he'd never been so lenient-even towards Erin. That girl hadn't gotten away with anything when she was young. Trepidation tainted his thoughts like murky water, as the veteran criminal began to wonder if he was indeed going soft.
"Burrickshit..." he muttered to himself.
Garrett prepared to exit the market. But the sight of a familiar fat drunk in a ridiculous hat stopped him.
Basso was leaning forward over a farmer's cart, his pudgy fingers interlocked behind his back. Though the thief couldn't be certain, his informant appeared to be mulling over something inside. Against his better judgement, Garrett decided to pay the old boxman an unexpected morning visit.
"Nah! Have ya got anything for magpies?" Basso asked the clearly annoyed farmer, "Preferably something with the little seeds in it? This ain't fer yer stupid frilly songbirds, after all!"
The rogue smirked beneath his dark facial shroud, the expression reminiscent of a sparse crescent moon lost behind opaque black clouds. Exhaling a brief puff of mist into the frigid morning air, he shoved his hands down deep into his coat pockets, then sauntered on over to the boxman.
"Buying your groceries, I see..." he teased, prompting his shorter associate to whirl around in surprise.
Basso looked as though he'd just been caught kissing the king's wife, his eyes wide and his lips puckered into a ridiculous 'O' shape. No doubt due to the overwhelming surprise of seeing his old friend in the market district. In broad daylight, no less.
"Garr-" Basso quickly corrected himself, before anyone could hear him. "-Uh, that is to say I mean, Jimmy! Jimmy Jahoosafits! Is that you? Ohh, I haven't seen you in years! How's the missus, Jim?"
Garrett glared into his mate, ending Basso's nonsense forthwith. The boxman seemed somewhat miffed by this, pouting momentarily like a small boy. He muttered something about some taffers being born without a sense of humor, and courteously concluded his purchase with the vendor. The portly fence had apparently decided on a medium burlap sack of large seeds, which Garrett couldn't quite identify.
Turning back to his hoodless friend, Basso gave the thief a wink, and began walking back towards the Crippled Burrick. And Garrett, joined him.
***
A rancid odor of piss and wood rot ravaged Garrett's nostrils as he entered the cluttered tavern basement behind his oldest associate. Early morning light permeated the dusty windows, coating every crumbled newspaper and forgotten crate in a fine, periwinkle sheen. Basso groaned, stretching a bit after he'd tossed aside the rather heavy sack of mystery seeds. Then, the boxman waddled over to his makeshift kitchen, and reached for a chipped mug and a rusty can of stale coffee grounds. Garrett surveyed these actions as he took a seat in Basso's desk chair. Basso glanced over his shoulder at the thief, spooning out some of the limp, ashy grounds into his mug.
"Coffee?" Basso asked, making a cup for himself.
"No thanks," Garrett shook his head, reaching for his pipe. He sprawled out in Basso's armchair, one leg up over the armrest as he began to smoke. Basso shrugged, and closed the cupboard door above him. He turned around, staring at his mate's fresh look between sips.
"That's a young, bold look for someone like you," the boxman commented, gesturing towards the thief's jacket and bare head. "Course, when yer that thin I suppose you can pull anything off."
"Taff off," Garrett muttered, taking in a deep puff. The embers within his pipe glowed orange briefly before fading again.
Basso smirked, and set down his coffee. Untying the previously procured bag of seed, he scooped up a generous portion into his palm before walking over to Jenivere. The magpie was preening herself upon the window ledge. Her black eyes glistened like onyx marbles as she watched her handler approach. Her monochrome head craned and twitched, the hungry creature's curiosity evident.
"Here ya go, sweetheart," the old pauper crooned, leveling his hand with the bird's beak. Jenivere began to feed immediately. Basso chuckled softly to himself, marveling downward at his cherished pet. "These Growers sell better animal food than the stuff you get in the shops. They also sell pretty good people food, so I'm told-fresh produce and all. Me? I usually just eat pickles an' tavern grub. Or whatever leftovers Sophie brings me."
"You're fortunate she still cooks for you, Basso," the callous criminal commented. Basso shot him a perturbed look.
"Why do I get the feeling that yer tryin' ta insult me?" he asked. Garrett released a cloud of thick grey smoke from his gaping lips, before licking the roof of his mouth to savor the rich flavor of tobacco.
"Probably because I was," he chided. "You can't even cook toast. You survive on a diet of bar nuts, pickles, and whatever slop the Crippled Burrick can't sell. And judging from the coffee grounds stuck to your teeth, you can't even dothat right."
Basso ground said teeth, resisting the urge to toss a nearby raunchy novel into Garrett's face. But it was something akin to curiosity that stopped him. For lack of a better, far more colorful term, Garrett was acting like an even bigger taffer that morning than per usual. What's more, he was behaving oddly, if a morning trip into the market wearing that rebellious get-up was anything to go by. And of course, it was.
Basso knew something was up, and he had a pretty good suspicion that whatever it was, it had to do with that spunky little redhead. Scratching his chin, the boxman pondered the situation. If he wanted an answer, then he'd have to be cautious with his return fire.
"Yer in a mood, I see," he snorted. "What were you doin' up so early anyway? And why were you in the market?"
Garrett's face grew flustered beneath a haze of smoke and shadow. Basso's concerned, and inquisitive response had indeed surprised him. He'd expected his robust friend to grow red with outrage—not this. Breathing through his teeth, the thief set his pipe down upon the cluttered desk, stretching his arms upwards with a groan.
"I swiped some sweet rolls for Gwenevere, as an incentive for her to start up her lessons again," he explained, revealing the small pink box beneath his long coat.
Basso's eyes narrowed in confusion. He didn't know which baffled him more: the news that devout little Gwenevere had ceased her training, or the notion of a hardened master thief stealing baked goods.
"Urm, what now?" Basso blinked. "Why'd she stop? The kiddo seemed so determined the last time I saw her."
Garrett released a thick puff of smoke, followed by a heavy sigh.
"We had a bit of an…altercation last night," Garrett explained in a nonchalant, slightly aggravated voice. "She broke into the bottom room of the tower yesterday morning, then ran off into the forest. As punishment, I took her to watch Peirce the Liberator's execution. She hasn't so much as spoken to me since."
The placid rogue watched with a brusque expression, as Basso's chubby face sagged; drawn downward by the gravity of a most mortified frown. For a moment, the boxman's cheeks were pallid; sugary and sullen. That is, until they blazed back to life with a deep, infernal shade of red. Basso's mahogany brown eyes narrowed like those of a predatory bird, as he locked them with the apathetic criminal sitting before him.
Basso had been Garrett's most trusted friend—perhaps his only friend—for longer than most men remain married. Consequentially, Garrett had witnessed the collapse of the boxman's own dreamy little marriage; watched as two hands parted ways, still bearing the rings he had swiped just for them. And so too was the boxman well-acquainted with his own share of ugly little secrets.
He would never forget the stony somberness prevalent in Garrett's features, after the hooded misanthrope had first made the forsaken clocktower his new home. Naturally, it hadn't taken the master thief long to uncover every square inch of that once holy sanctum. But he hadn't been prepared at all for what lurked within the deepest recesses of that monolithic hourkeeper. And Basso highly doubted, that Gwenevere had.
He must have mulled over his thoughts for a solid minute, watching as the leaden smoke twisted and played around Garrett's sharp nose and pensive eyes. But all Basso could manage to croak out, was a strained whisper of, "you did…what?!"
Garrett blinked, the boxman's perceived confusion irking him a little. How much more precise could he possibly be? Very slowly—and with another frustrated sigh—he proceeded to explain the situation again.
"Gwenevere's upset because of what happened yesterday, Basso," he began in a slow, condescending manner, "she—"
"-I heard ya the first time!" Basso interrupted him, waving his arms upward and about in a furious fashion. "Why the hell would you do that?!"
Upon realizing the situation-that Basso, drunken failure Basso-was once again questioning his methods and intellect, Garrett began to grow bitter. But it wasn't the questions or irate discontent of a fallen locksmith which rattled him the most. That would be the nagging doubts swirling around within the thief's own mind like noxious fumes.
Why had he done what he did? What could have possibly made him think that taking an innocent kid like Gwenevere into the darkest section of the City to watch a public hanging, was indeed a clever idea? If only for the sake of the instilled discipline and fear, it now seemed a moot point. After all, Gwenevere's aspirations were whimsical daydreams at best, and unsettling delusions of grandeur at worst. The fact remained: doe-eyed virgins, did not become illustrious vigilantes.
So why then, had Garrett taken her failings seriously for even one solitary moment? Why had he cared to dignify her dreams with even a passing semblance of reality or consequence? That, was perhaps what troubled him most of all. Against his finest attempts, he found himself growing conscientious regarding the girl's future—and Garrett did not like getting attached to anything, least of all pretty faces. That was always a grievous, and often tragic, mistake.
Briskly snuffing out his pipe, Garrett stood from Basso's chair.
"I don't know!" he defended, splaying his arms outward for a moment. "I thought it would make her take her training more seriously, if she saw what could happen if she doesn't."
For a moment, Basso's face remained locked in perpetual animosity. His pronounced nostrils flared with each heated breath, his brown eyes wide and bloodshot. Finally, and in an almost disturbing shift of demeanor, the boxman emitted a low chuckle.
"Oh, I get it," he smirked. "Yer havin' yerself a little crisis of conscience, now ain'tcha?"
This unexpected accusation seemed to rile the thief even further. Stomping forward, Garrett shoved his index finger mere inches from his fence's bulbous nose.
"Now you listen here, Basso, cus' I'm only gonna say this once: I'm not going soft."
"Well, if you ain't guilty, and you ain't goin' soft, that only leaves..." as the realization struck him like a tidal wave, a goofy grin expanded itself synonymously across Basso's scruffy face. "You LIKE her..."
Garrett's eyes widened, his mouth gaping into an irate, bottomless well of absolute stupefaction.
"Oh you've GOT to be kidding me!" he hissed, glaring daggers into Basso's satisfied expression. The boxman burst out laughing.
"Annnnd, that dramatic bit of denial seals it as fact, my friend," the robust pauper nodded, quite pleased with himself. Revenge had been enacted, and it was sweet indeed.
"How about sealing that senseless, flapping mouth of yours before I close it for you?" Garrett threatened, his stare growing dark. "You can't seriously think I'm interested in that high-strung redhead."
Basso crossed his arms in defiance.
"Humph. And why not? She's sweet, and loving—"
"—half my age, at most," Garrett interrupted dryly.
"Yep, yep. That's probably true," Basso nodded. "But have ya LOOKED at her lately? Why, if I had a dame like that livin' under my roof—"
"—Irrelevant," the thief snapped.
"No, no, hear me out," Basso attempted to placate the sour criminal. "I know that you don't do the whole 'wine em, dine em' thing. But! I know as well as you do that a man's got needs, and there's a lot to be learned from a little pillow talk, if you catch my drift…" he winked, elbowing his friend in the ribs. Garrett appeared genuinely sick.
"I don't taff information out of women. That's your thing," he poisoned. Basso mockingly clutched at his chest and winced.
"Ooh, that smarts," he chuckled. "But seriously—try it some time. Ya never know what they'll tell ya. Maybe, Gwennie knows the secret code to her father's safe?" he tempted in a playful singsong voice. Garrett just scowled.
"Well, Gwenevere's heavily implied that Simmons isn't even her real father," he replied with a snort. Basso's face brightened with surprise.
"Really?! Way ta go, Lady Simmons!" he belted out another raucous belly laugh. Garrett didn't so much as giggle.
"I'm dead serious, Basso," he admonished. "She said some…really weird things to me yesterday. And she's also been pretty vocal in regards to not being dubbed a noble right from the start. Come to think of it, do you see any family resemblance between Gwenevere and Lord Simmons? Or Lady Simmons, for that matter?"
Whatever crude joy had dazzled Basso's face, drained away forthwith.
"Garrett, are you seriously suggesting that Gwennie ain't their kid?" he asked his mate in a low murmur.
Garrett turned away. He'd neglected to reveal the truly disturbing evidence which had first led him to this theory. Questions which still nagged and pricked at the darkest corners of his mind. How did Gwenevere know Constantine? Why would she say she was half nymph? Constantine, or the Trickster as he was best known, held a direct link to those sultry and fearsome woodland women. The pieces of Gwenevere's story—however ludicrous—all fit together.
But the thief refused to acknowledge the glaring correlation. The girl was playful by nature. Perhaps this was all just some elaborate jape. It had to be. Because if even a fraction of her story were true, then Garrett had far greater things to worry about than powerful nobles and bounty hunters. If Gwenevere was indeed half nymph, then he had unwittingly welcomed a literal monster into his abode.
Clearing his thoughts and steadying his nerves, Garrett faced his friend once more.
"Well, it would make sense at least. Now we have a definite reason for why she ran away," Garrett shrugged. The boxman grumbled miserably under his breath.
"Well, shit. That certainly explains the less-than-loving bounty hunters he sent after her," Basso murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Another noble's conspiracy. Why the taff ain't I surprised..."
"Tch, you shouldn't be," Garrett groused.
Without warning, Basso grabbed his mate by the collar of his leather jacket, and pulled. Garrett lurched forward, shock written across his gaunt features. Too surprised by mild-mannered Basso's sudden show of force, he merely blinked, and met the intense gaze of the adamant hooligan.
"Garrett, ya gotta promise me—now, more than ever—that you'll keep that poor girl safe!" Basso's grip tightened upon Garrett's collar. "If Lord Simmons trulyhas kidnapped her from someplace, who knows what she's been goin' through up in that manor?"
Garrett jerked back, straightening his collar with a rough tug. He glowered down scornfully at his fence.
"Let me guess: you want me to find her real parents and bring her home now? How about I adopt the village stray, and become the next Robber Hood while I'm at it?" he jeered. Basso frowned.
"I don't expect you to do anything beyond what I paid ya ta do," he admitted firmly. "I know you ain't the charitable type. Just…just promise you'll keep that kiddo safe until she can fend for herself, okay?"
Garrett's face darkened, as his mind once again painted pictures of tall, ligneous women with wooden talons and fearsome grins. Fingers dripping with manfool blood; each drop perfectly complimenting a vibrant set of crimson eyes.
If Gwenevere was indeed one of them—even partially—then she was more than capable of fending for herself already. If she was really half-nymph, then it was the thief who needed to exercise extreme caution around his seemingly ditzy, and unassuming little houseguest.
***
Garrett returned to the clocktower later that morning without incident. His plan to hide the obvious in plain sight, had apparently worked better than expected. In retrospect, he supposed the hood was his most notable article of clothing. Builder how he'd missed wearing it that day!
As he neared the dormitories, the thief could hear a distinct scuffling from within. Whatever his pouty little apprentice was up to, she wasn't trying to be discreet. Bracing himself, sweet rolls in hand, Garrett knocked on one of the doors. The scuffling ceased, and Gwenevere's muffled voice permeated the resulting quiet.
"Go away, Garrett. I'm still mad at you."
The thief smirked, glancing down at the glazed breakfast treats in his hand.
"Are you sure? I brought you sweet rolls," he tried to sound as cheerful and generous as possible, which was anything but easy.
"Leave them by the door. I don't wanna see you," the girl creature answered back.
Garrett's brows furrowed. He'd ventured into the perilous streets of the City to steal these for her. Sweet rolls of all things! Something the master thief had absolutely zero interest in.
Perhaps it was due to his denial of sweets from a young age under stodgy Keeper rule, but Garrett found the taste of refined sugar downright nauseating. The unnatural richness tickled his teeth, and gave him a stomachache. Why the nobles could easily grow fat off things like chocolate and pastries, he hadn't a clue. A ripe, red apple was more than enough for the worldly rogue.
"I'm not gonna leave them out for the rats, Gwenevere," Garrett snapped. "You either come out and take 'em from me, or I'll toss them out the taffing window."
"NO!" the young woman shrieked. Abruptly, the door swung open, nearly smacking Garrett in the face. Gwenevere stood before him, wide-eyed and panting. "No, you mustn't do that! It would be such a waste!"
Garrett smirked a little, and held out the box of goodies for her to see. Gwenevere pried up the lid, and peered inside. The sweet rolls were beautiful. Each of the four pastries were iced with a different pastel hue, dusted with powdered sugar, and adorned with a candied cherry on top. The runaway shut the lid, and smiled up at her mentor.
"Thank you," she nodded, reaching for the box.
Worried that she would simply squirrel it away in her room without so much as accepting his apology, the thief's stiff fingers clamped tighter around the package. When she found that she could not take it away, Gwenevere's small smile crumbled.
"Hey! What gives?" she wailed. Garrett smirked down at her.
"I want you to eat them up in the belvedere with me," he clarified. "I have something I need to talk with you about."
An incredulous look donned Gwenevere's face.
"What is it? Is it about what you did yesterday?" there was something akin to venom within her words.
"Yeah. Is that gonna be a problem?" Garrett was growing defensive.
Gwenevere's eyes widened, her hands falling from the box to the sides of her body. She shuffled her foot, and pursed her bottom lip in discomfort.
"Please tell me…that you're at least a little sorry?" she peeped.
"Taff, Gwenevere. Why do you THINK I brought you these? 'Cus I sure as hell ain't gonna eat them," Garrett retorted sardonically.
Gwenevere smiled up at him, her eyes glistening with the return of sheer hope.
"I suppose I could eat up there with you. If only to hear you out," she agreed.
So, sweet rolls in hand, master and apprentice ascended higher into the clocktower together.