As Gwenevere finished guzzling down the first of the four sugary confections, Garrett couldn't help but come to the realization that he'd witnessed malnourished orphans eat with more tact and grace.
"Thought that's what your kind went to finishing school for," his thoughts escaped past thin, chapped lips before the thief could wrangle them.
Gwenevere halted her gluttonous feast, her hand still poised and ready to ensnare the second roll. A look of anxious attentiveness overtook her fragile little features. Garrett could never contain his amusement whenever such dramatic expressions would appear upon the girl's innocent, and unassuming cherub face. It was downright bizarre-although he was beginning to realize that bizarre behavior and Gwenevere, coalesced effortlessly into one another. Like some exotic meal, her antics were an acquired taste. And one which the advantageous criminal was unwittingly developing a pallet for.
"Huh? Finishing school?" the girl's face almost appeared defensive. "No, Simmons didn't send me there. He said it would be a waste of good coin."
Her answer surprised Garrett, while adding another layer of intrigue to his grim, 'noble's kidnapping conspiracy'.
"Really?" he asked, exhibiting a shallow amount of interest, "thought you would be a prime candidate for a place like that."
"How so?" Gwenevere cocked her head. The thief smirked.
"Taff, because it would be great publicity, if nothing else! I'm no expert, but I'd imagine that any school that could teach a girl like you some manners, would be pretty prestigious."
Gwenevere sneered at him, as she plucked up her next roll. She then began to meticulously lick the leftover icing from her thumb, sweet roll still clenched between her other fingers.
"What would you know about manners anyway? You're a thief who creeps around, hitting people on the head in the dead of the night!"
"At least I know how to eat properly," Garrett groused with a detested scowl. Gwenevere made a point of devouring her next pastry even sloppier than before.
"Mmm!" she trilled, taking her time with the icing-covered cherry, "soooo good!"
Garrett glared at her, cracking his knuckles in frustration under the table. Why had he done this for her again?
"You're being a childish brat right now, ya know?" he blurted, despite not actually knowing how old the girl really was. For all he knew, she was still a teenager. And given his recent bout of uncomfortable feelings for her, Garrett sincerely hoped this wasn't the case.
"I'm not a child, though!" she shouted, visibly offended. "I'm eighteen, silly!"
"Well, good for you," Garrett muttered, rolling his eyes.
"What? Can't ya tell?" the girl creature tilted her head to the side, frosting and crumbs littering her lips.
"No," the thief huffed, before releasing an inaudible sigh of relief. He wasn't a pervert after all. Just a jerk.
With a revitalized smirk, Garrett leaned forward onto the small iron table. It had been left behind by the Hammerites, along with many other pieces of furniture when the baron forced them away from this place. The idea of bulky Hammers taking tea up here whilst they prattled on about their tenants, usually brought a smile to the cynical rogue's weathered face. But not today. Today, only surrealism and discomfort visited the thief. Gwenevere stopped eating, and stared at him when she noticed his intense expression.
"Huh? Garrett? What is it?"
"Nothing," he lied. "Look. Gwenevere. As charming as this entire breakfast has been so far, I didn't bring you up here to exchange petty insults."
"Right. You came to apologize," Gwenevere gulped down her second roll.
"Yeah, about that…" Garrett's eyes twinkled amidst the lurking shadows of that place. "Listen. I get that you're peeved off about what happened yesterday."
"Yeeesh…" the girl mocked, shooting the thief an obvious look.
"But it's not my fault that you're so sensitive," Garrett continued, tactlessly. "How do you expect to become any sort of a criminal, if you can't even turn off the sympathy?"
"Garrett," Gwenevere raised one of her sticky hands to silence him, "you said you were bringing me up here to apologize. And so far, aside from these delicious sweets, it hasn't exactly been a good one. So, I'd like to just finish my breakfast and go back to the dormitories before things get any worse, okay?"
Garrett glared vehemently downward, as he watched the girl's hand reach for the third roll. Her disrespectful and downright beastly mannerisms were beginning to irk him. Oh, things were going to get worse, all right! Before he could stop himself, the contemptuous man retaliated.
Gwenevere gasped, as she felt Garrett's gloved hand tighten over hers. She gazed up at him, intimidated by the disquieting fervor present within his concentrated eyes.
"Stop. Eating," he snarled. "I stole these cakes that you're stuffing your cheeks with. This isn't your breakfast, Gwenevere—it's mine."
"Y-you said you didn't want any, though…" the terrified girl peeped, her lip quivering slightly.
Gwenevere was wide-eyed, a vibrant blush spread across her flustered face. She hadn't expected him to touch her like that. And with that simple, accidental contact, a whirlwind of conflicting emotions and apprehensions surged through the young thing's mind like an electrical storm. The entirety of her stay, Garrett's presence had been phantom-like in nature. Gwenevere knew he was there, but she did not mind him. The criminal abhorred her with every fiber of his being, thus coaxing the innocent maiden into a realm of false security: If he hated her, wanted nothing to do with her, then he wouldn't touch her.
Gwenevere was deathly frightened of being touched by a man in an intimate sort of way. She'd hug them, or allow them to guide her in the dark. Sex however— consensual or otherwise—mortified her. Even the idea of a romantic handhold, or simple kiss normally caused her to panic. She wasn't quite sure why this was, or how she'd first come to view the common intimate act as so wretched. Gwenevere's parents harbored a healthy interest in the topic, and weren't above carrying out their erotic couplings in public—oftentimes, in view of their very young, impressionable daughter. Maybe that was why she felt so repulsed by sex, but Gwenevere couldn't say for certain if this theory was definite. They had told her she was wrong to feel this way. 'Defective', was her father's choice term for describing his sprightly child's revulsion towards intimacy. Maybe she was defective. Truth be told, Gwenevere couldn't tell what was normal anymore.
But as she sat there, frozen both inside and out, Gwenevere came to the startling realization that Garrett's grip wasn't causing the usual nausea or anxiety to well up within her gut. Granted, he wasn't exactly being romantic or tender at that moment. Yet there was a curious, almost ineffable quality to his grip. It took the estranged child a few seconds to recognize it, as her experience with such forbidden sensations were hazy. Passion. Angry passion, tight leather around sticky flesh. Forcible, uncaring. But it was passion, nonetheless.
When at last she realized this, something was triggered within her. Like the forsaken, neglected switch on some Mechanist device, Gwenevere felt her body surge to life. Cobwebs dissipated within her mind, as sparks of intrigue and strange arousal fueled her to look into the master thief's agitated expression. She felt a slight tingle within her chest. Her celadon eyes danced.
There was something genuinely fascinating about Garrett. He despised her, and yet he still wanted to help her. Why was this? Was it the money that Basso had given him? Was she merely just another 'job' to him, as the callous misanthrope so claimed? And if so, why couldn't he have just as easily left her in his mate's custody? The boxman seemed to like her well enough, almost becoming like a sort of uncle figure to her over the past few weeks.
As her mind began to process this new overload of information, her breathing quickened. Gwenevere now found herself helplessly transfixed upon him. It had been obvious from the start that he was much older than her; at least twice her age. His grizzled face bore the obvious scars and wrinkles of a difficult, and stress-induced life. And yet, his profile was strangely... alluring. Rugged and worldly. Mysterious and melancholy.
Abruptly, the spellbound girl shook her head. Was this really why she tried so hard to befriend Garrett? Did she… truly care for him?! Just the mere idea made her want to shriek. He was a selfish, cruel man. A thief who prided himself on his own abilities, whilst refusing to use said talents to liberate others from their own woes. The image of Pierce the Liberator's cadaver, swaying limply in the breeze returned to Gwenevere's thoughts. Garrett was a greedy vagabond, a cold and maladjusted crook. If she truly had developed feelings of love for him, then she was even more defective than her father had decreed.
Half afraid, and half curious of the truth, Gwenevere steadied herself against the intricate iron table. She had to know. She needed to find out whether or not she cared for the sinister hoodlum across from her. Gulping down a wad of icy nerves, the girl shakily reached out for his gloved extremity with her free hand.
The thief's reaction, was as anticipated. Garrett's stony features reeled, as he jerked backwards. Flustered, he looked away. Gwenevere's cheeks bloomed a deep sanguine as she hurriedly tucked both of her hands underneath the table.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" the thief hollered, his features livid.
"I-I don't know," Gwenevere peeped, nestling her sticky hands into her lap. Garrett snorted, a toothy sneer adorning his irate face when he noticed how sticky his own hands had become.
"Taffing girl…" he growled under his breath, turning over his leather-clad extremity and scowling at the pastel smudges of icing around his knuckles. "These are my good gloves, too…"
"I-I'm sorry, Garrett!" Gwenevere apologized. "I'll clean them if you want me to."
"Don't bother," he retorted. "I'll do it myself…"
Gwenevere felt her stomach tighten. No longer did she covet those delicious confectionaries. Garrett's harsh reaction to her affection, had ruined breakfast. Sitting in silence, watching as the birds flew within an arm's reach of her face, Gwenevere mulled over her recent and unsettling discovery. How could she have developed feelings for such an unpleasant fellow? And more importantly, why?
"Alright. Let's get down to brass tacks," Garrett disrupted the midday serenity with his haggard voice. "I might have overdone it yesterday. If you're looking for an apology, that's the closest thing you're gonna get, Gwenevere."
"More than I was expecting, honestly," the girl muttered in response.
Garrett glared at her, watching her every mannerism with utmost consideration.
As ludicrous as it sounded, her claims of being half wood nymph still bothered him. There was enough evidence to make him at least a touch leery, thus why he thought it best to exercise utmost caution with his impending interrogation. Fingers interlocked at the knuckles, the thief leaned forward and locked eyes with his apprentice.
"Gwenevere. I'm not one for empathy or pretty words. Truth is, I don't know why you're even down here."
"I already told you!" the girl cried out. "I wanna learn how to steal stuff really really good, so that I can become a vigilante and help the poor!"
Garrett pinched the bridge of his sharp nose, and released a deep, pent-up sigh.
"Right. You've already mentioned that about a hundred times now," he groused. "But why?"
Gwenevere shrugged, feeling as her appetite returned. She snagged another sweet roll and bit down.
"Why does anyone do anything? Why does Basso pay you to train neophytes? Why do you go along with it?"
"You already know that I need the money," Garrett replied in an agitated voice. "As for Basso? I've never entirely understood what goes on in that old taffer's head, or why. Best I can gather, is that he knows we're getting older, and he wants to die knowing that someone's out there carrying on the, 'important work', as he puts it…"
"But why do you go along with this scheme of his?" Gwenevere encouraged. "I mean, look around you—you're practically homeless up here!"
"Watch it," Garrett sneered down at her, one eye closed.
"All I'm saying, is that you can't honestly expect me to believe you need the money," Gwenevere spoke softly, in some ditch effort to try and placate the annoyed rogue. "You live up here rent-free, and you steal everything you could ever need or want. So what's the REAL reason you put up with kids like me, Garrett?"
The misanthropic rogue recoiled from her honest question. No, he'd sooner lose his remaining eye than tell a sticky-faced child that story…
"How many times do I have to tell you to mind your own business?" he snorted. "Anyway, considering the risk vs. payment, you're probably the worst commission I've ever taken off that bum. And that includes helping him elope with his now ex. So you're welcome."
"I…guess so?" she acquiesced, her mind still distracted by the newfound emotions the criminal's forceful touch had instilled.
Gwenevere gulped down her third roll, and reached for the last one. Garrett blinked, silently perplexed by how much she could eat. Why she wasn't bursting at the seams was a complete mystery. Noticing her disinterest, he released an agitated groan.
"Tch, suppose that's gratitude for you…" he leaned back in his seat, staring casually upward at the picturesque morning sky. The vibrant waves of amber and rose had burnt out, leaving behind a pristine blue backdrop awash with cirrus clouds. Like the flames of ancient warfare, dawn had cleansed the celestial abyss; creating innocence from conflict.
In many respects, Garrett felt as though he were now doing the opposite. Dragging a child like her down into his world of darkness and suffering, all for the sake of money. No amount of pilfered sweets would ever be enough to compensate for that. The thief's expression remained stoic and numb, as the warm sunlight caressed his face. He knew it was wrong, but Gwenevere's gluttony had eased his guilty conscience—at least for now. After all, he had done so much worse. All the more reason why this particular regrettable action provoked him so.
He was half asleep when Gwenevere's voice called out to him again.
"Gratitude?" she chimed in that shrill childish tone of hers, mildly rattling him. The criminal re-opened his right eye, allowing his mechanical marvel to zoom in on her eager, wide-eyed face.
"Huh?" he questioned, the word more of an unintelligible, muddled grunt than anything in his exhausted state.
"You said, tch, suppose that's gratitude for you," Gwenevere parroted, performing a very deep and poor imitation of the thief's gravelly voice. Garrett squinted at her, his lips drawn back as he cringed at the attempt.
"Was that really necessary?" he asked.
"Yes. That's how you sound!" Gwenevere patronized.
"Not even…" Garrett grumbled.
"Can ya just tell me what you meant by that?" the redhead pressed him, taking her time with the last of her rolls. Smudges of colorful icing and flaky crust now littered the iron table, and a few doves were already beginning to take notice. Garrett did his best to shoo them off.
"It means exactly what it sounded like, Gwenevere," he explained in a sour voice, "you, are an ungrateful little noble's brat."
The spirited girl creature fumed at his blunt assessment, her cheeks puffing up again. They beamed a wild, angry red—not unlike the shade of her tangled, unkempt morning mane.
"I am NOT!" she argued, her mouth still full of gooey breakfast as she did so. Garrett stared blankly at her, his visage bored and annoyed as he flicked a sticky crumb from where it had landed upon his cheek.
"Which? Noble, or brat?" he encouraged her to clarify. He was, after all, still leery of the girl's origins. Of her magic, and just how dangerous it was.
Her claim of being a wood nymph crossbreed, though seemingly absurd, carried with it a great deal more weight and evidence than the master thief was prepared to deal with. Truly, Gwenevere was his riskiest charge yet. He was either dealing with a crazy noble girl, or something far more unpredictable and dangerous.
Gwenevere seemed to register upon the odd frankness of his inquiry, as her posture sank deeper into the weatherworn iron chair.
"Um… both?" she managed to sputter out, though her words were uncharacteristically reluctant and meek. Garrett just scoffed.
"You don't sound very convinced, so why should I be? Kind of like how I'm not very convinced about that little 'dream' of yours…"
Gwenevere shot up in her seat, suddenly looking very alarmed.
"My dream? Oh no!" she gasped. "Did I accidentally tell you about the flying burricks dancing in the pudding?"
Once again, Garrett was rendered speechless by this perplexing girl and her seemingly endless supply of madness. Maybe, she really was one of Constantine's after all. She certainly fit the bill for both attractiveness, and random bouts of gibberish.
"What?" the thief asked, referring to both her bizarre dream, and his internal admission regarding her beauty.
"Nothing!" Gwenevere blushed, releasing an incredibly forceful and nervous laugh. Planting her elbows upon the goop-covered table, she leaned forward and gave the thief a wide, flushed grin. "So, if not THAT one, what other dream are you talking about, huh Garrett?"
Garrett marveled at her oblivious little face for a few moments, deciding that Gwenevere was either far, far denser than he'd initially thought, or one of the cleverest pranksters he'd ever had the misfortune of knowing. For the sake of placating his own anxiety and theories, he deigned to accept the former.
"Your desire to become the next Peirce the Liberator?" he explained, in a slow, condescending voice.
"Oh yeah, that!" the redhead trilled merrily.
"Yeah. That," Garrett repeated with an air of gruff sarcasm. "Gwenevere, you don't honestly still want to become a vigilante after what happened to him, do you?"
There was a touch of genuine concern within his gravelly voice, but after what he'd subjected her to the evening prior, it was all but lost upon the girl. Gwenevere picked apart the last of her roll, her green eyes narrowed and incredibly cold.
"Oh, you mean after I saw the City Watch murder a man while the greatest sneak of all time did absolutely nothing to stop it?" she plucked the cherry off of the confectionary, and popped it into her mouth. "Yes. More than ever."
Garrett chose to overlook her impish behavior, the response she'd given far more unnerving for him. Gwenevere had seen a man's life end before her virginal eyes. She'd undoubtedly heard as he gagged and choked, watched as his limber legs flailed and struggled as they searched frantically for solid ground. She'd listened as the raucous crowd cheered and laughed, clamorous as wild Pagans for his suffering and demise. How could she possibly wish to help those same people, after witnessing how they treated their last great savior?
"Why?! Why would you even risk being strung up like that for complete strangers? How many of those bloodhungry morons do you think Peirce saved? Yet in the end, all they wanted was to see him die. How can you find it in your heart to care for anyone so capricious?"
Gwenevere looked down at her empty platter of sweet rolls, and frowned.
How indeed… she trembled, feeling as her cheeks lit up again.
Garrett noticed this, and for a moment, he was sure she would start screeching at him about social liberties and compassion again. But to his surprise, Gwenevere remained eerily silent for the better part of five minutes. Then, and in a voice which poorly masked her lament, the girl proceeded to speak.
"Not everyone is like that, you know? Some people genuinely need the help," she croaked. "And if you DO help them, they'll never forget it. No one ever forgets someone who saves their life."
The thief sat in stunned silence, watching through his mind's eye as a Keeper guided a starved, filthy street urchin away from the grips of a cold and almost assured demise. But nothing within his stoic visage betrayed this bittersweet memory; Garrett refused to give her the satisfaction of being right.
"Yeah? And what makes you think I'd listen to an idealistic neophyte who doesn't even know what she's talking about?" Garrett snapped, lurching forward and slamming his palms flat upon the table. "I, was born in this City, Gwenevere! I spent my childhood trying not to get murdered or starve to death. And I know full well, what sort of cesspool this place really is. What makes you-a naïve girl-think you know this city so much better than I do?!"
"I never said I knew it better," Gwenevere retorted, before falling very still. "But what I do know, is that there are good people suffering in this place. I may be a naïve girl, but I know suffering when I see it!"
She looked up at him, pink mouth agape and tears in her enchanting green eyes. Garrett sneered at her, as though she were the most distasteful piece of garbage he'd ever seen.
"You know what suffering is? You? Have you ever gone hungry, Gwenevere? Had you ever even seen a homeless person before coming here?"
"Yes. To both of those things," she admitted, ending her sentence with a quaking warble. The thief could tell she was incredibly uncomfortable with the direction in which this conversation was headed. But he could have cared less. Much, much less.
"Elaborate," he issued his challenge with a scornful glare.
Gwenevere closed her eyes in defeat. She knew that she had to tell him. He had given her so much; he certainly had the right to know. After all, both he and Basso already knew that she had stolen at least once before. It was time to finish that tale; to finally put it to rest. The young woman glanced upwards, watching as the cirrus clouds swirled lazily within the cyan abyss. As her mind began to relive that awful night, she turned to Garrett.
There was a remorseful longing reflected within her eyes; one that made the misanthropic rogue wish he'd never pursued this tale at all. But it was too late for regrets now. Gwenevere, had already begun her story.
"Before I came here, I'd lived with Lord Simmons for many years. He wasn't kind to me by any stretch, but the staff always treated me well. I didn't have the nicest room, or even the best things to eat. But I seldom went hungry…"
Garrett interlaced his fingers together at the knuckles, steadily bringing up both of his index fingers to touch the stubbled flesh just above his upper lip. She seldom went hungry, but it had happened. This, he found curious indeed for one so privileged. More ammunition for that little conspiracy theory of his.
"Go on," he dipped his head in approval, wild eyes pensive in the shade. Gwenevere smiled bitterly.
"You know, Garrett? What you said about how I'd never seen a homeless person? One year ago, you would have been right. For the longest time, I wasn't even allowed to go outside."
"I'm not interested in your sob story," the thief groused coldly. "It doesn't matter now anyway. Just get back to telling me why you'd ever want to help the people down here."
"Because I have seen something terrible, and done something far worse," the girl creature began, an ominous darkness coating her every syllable. "For the better part of fourteen years now, Lord Simmons has kept me hostage; locked away behind iron bars like some sort of pet. And, in many ways, I guess I was. I was his little show dog—and sometimes, attack dog. The kind humans always command, but never lavish with any sort of fondness or love. I grew up believing that the rest of the humans here would treat me poorly, too. But then, I met the Miller family…"
"The Miller family?" Garrett questioned. "Never heard of them."
"They were a middle-class family who fell on tough times and lost everything. The husband lost his job at the First City Bank and Trust, and the mother was unable to support her two children on the small amount of coin she garnered from sewing. Eventually, they were forced to leave their home, and ended up loitering on Simmons's doorstep."
"Why there, of all places?" Garrett raised an eyebrow. "Interfering with nobility like that—did they have some sort of death wish?"
Strangely, his jaded humor seemed to upset the girl, as Gwenevere bit her bottom lip in some feeble attempt to halt her impending tears. The bizarreness of her reaction alone, prompted Garrett to cease his chuckling and stare at her.
"Gwenevere?"
"Not as such, but that didn't stop…" she gasped, taking in a large breath of chilly tower air. It exited her small nostrils, sending a soft puff of crystalized mist into the shadows surrounding them. For a moment, Garrett was sure that she was going to break down crying. But, to his astonishment, she managed to compose herself. Gwenevere continued, her voice quaking now. "I wasn't allowed to go outside unattended, even though I had no chance of escaping during the day. But I often snuck out into the garden late at night. Being surrounded by all those beautiful flowers and trees always seemed to soothe my troubled mind."
Talk of the Trickster, of the forest. An unexplained familiarity and fondness for plants. A portion of Garrett's disquieting theory regarding Gwenevere had nearly been proven. It was only a matter of time before he knew whether the other parts held any merit. For her sake, he sincerely hoped the doll-eyed child before him wasn't what she claimed to be. Garrett detested the idea of having to slit her throat as she dreamed.
"Let's talk about your hobbies and interests some other time," he snapped. "Now, what happened with that homeless family? And what does it have to do with your reasons for wanting to become a vigilante?"
"Everything!" Gwenevere snapped back.
"Tch, this story better be going somewhere…" Garrett snorted, crossing his arms and muttering as he rolled his eyes upward to observe the tower's architecture.
"It WOULD be, if you stopped interrupting me!" Gwenevere griped, and continued her sorrowful tale. "Simmons would have whipped my hide if he'd caught me talking to vagrants, but I couldn't just stand idly by and let them starve! I HAD to help them!"
"I take it that this is finally where we come to the meat of your little 'story'?" Garrett groused, his bored expression an intricate façade to conceal the abject disgust within his eyes. So, daddy dearest not only sent aggressive bounty hunters out after her, but he apparently beat the poor girl too.
"How exactly did you intend to stop them from starving, Gwenevere? Did you perhaps nick them some cake from the kitchen or something?" The thief grinned at his own dry wit.
"Not exactly…" Gwenevere held up her index finger; a sly, yet saddened look within her eyes. "Remember that gem I told you and Basso about? The one I stole?"
Garrett's satisfied smirk crumbled. He nodded, as the pieces slowly began to fall into place. Gwenevere shut her eyes, and the thief could tell that this next part of the story was incredibly painful for her to revisit. But even still, he did not object to hearing it. He needed to know what drove her; although he was beginning to figure it out. But one question still remained unanswered: Just what sort of traumatic outcome did this story indeed have, if it had driven a girl like her down into the depths of his world?
"We had become somewhat close over the last couple of weeks. I'd go out there after midnight with leftovers from the evening's meal, and hand the goodies off to them. But on this particular night, I had an even better idea. An idea which, I thought at the time, could get them off the streets for good…"
"Giving them the bauble, I take it?" Garrett acknowledged, already noting several missteps in her so-called 'plan'.
For one, giving an obviously destitute family like that a prized gemstone, was the equivalent of signing their death warrant. Secondly, most folks didn't have a clue how to locate a proper fence to part with said goods—let alone a fence who'd deal with both high-risk stolen property, and an equally unknown seller. The thief silently scoffed in spite of the depressing story he was hearing. Why did Basso's stupid fat mug immediately pop into his mind just as Garrett had made the attempt to visualize such a moronic fence?
"Yes. I told the father to meet me outside the manor gates at midnight—same as always. I told him that I would hand it off to him there. Naturally, he agreed, because he trusted me," Gwenevere's eyes grew turbulent again, as she tucked her bottom lip beneath her teeth. "But something… something went horribly wrong..."
"What happened?" Garrett inquired, although he already had a pretty good guess.
"The watch. They were waiting for us in the shadows. Simmons must have found out about our secret meetings by moonlight. They arrested the man, and blamed him for the theft, even as I still held the jewel in my hands…" Gwenevere locked eyes with Garrett, her green irises riddled with intense pain. "I fell to my knees and begged for Simmons to let the poor man go. I demanded to know why he was being punished for my obvious crime. I'll never forget what he told me…"
"What did he tell you?"
"He told me that the only thing a poor person is good for, is taking the blame for a nobleman's crimes. He said he couldn't allow me to besmirch his good name by taking responsibility for the theft. People would call it a disgrace, that he allowed his own daughter to steal from him. But they would never miss a homeless man…"
Gwenevere sobbed, her gaze falling upon the dirty iron table. Garrett said nothing, listening intently to her genuine whimpers. She shuddered as the insidious lord's last words echoed throughout her mind like violent thunder:
"Remember Gwenevere: Through your veins flows the blood of the untamed wood. You are a beast, and like it or not, people will always die because of you."
Gwenevere sobbed, her sticky fingers shaking as she fought to continue her morbid tale.
"That's another reason why I know I have to do this for them—nobles treat the poor terribly! Like pawns, or, or sacrificial lambs to the slaughter!"
A description which had far more in common with her own situation than the thief before her realized.
"At least we can agree on that," Garrett nodded. "Nobles are scum."
"I ran away that night, with the fortunate aid of my nana. When she learned of my deeds, my desire to aid the poor, she mentioned a man in the slums. Basso. Nana told me that she'd once known him, and that he had some connections to thieves. I thought, if I could become a thief too...then maybe I could atone for my folly. That night, I swore to myself that I would become the best thief that I could possibly be. I would help other families, by giving them coin and food. I promised that I would always help those in need. That night, I decided to become a vigilante."
Garrett mulled over her explanation, feeling as his heart grew frigid. There was nothing he could do in that uncomfortable moment, beyond feeling incredibly guilty over the whole situation. Gwenevere, had almost certainly been abducted by Lord Simmons. To what end, the master thief hadn't a clue. But one thing was evident: She was not of noble birth. Yet, by some outrageous irony, the girl before him embodied this quality far better than any privileged member of the upper classes ever had. She was noble not in blood, but rather, in spirit.
Garrett steadied himself within his seat, taking a deep breath in order to calm his racing heartbeat. As a long, distressed sigh exited his nostrils, the thief looked down at his ward. Tearstains lined the corners of her bright eyes, streaming down her cheeks like translucent war paint.
"Gwenevere. What you're after… there are so many people in this city, and every one of them is looking out for only one person: Themselves. In my opinion, if you try to help them, you're only going to end up hurting yourself."
"But you're still mistaken, Garrett. While this incident may have been what finally got me to wake up and take charge, it's far from the reason I'm here."
The thief's eyes narrowed, and whatever sympathies and concerns he'd mustered up for the starry-eyed child before him began to wane; along with his patience.
"Okay, so why do you think you're here then, Gwenevere?"
"I'm here, because I realized that things are never going to get better in this city unless someone does something about it!"
"But why does it have to be you?!" the worldly man barked. "Given where you came from, what makes you think that any of these people would ever want to associate with you? Like you said, nobles treat us like dirt, Gwenevere. So what would stop say, some disgruntled beggar from exacting a little revenge on you?"
A question which held far more genuine concern than the criminal let on. Gwenevere stared at him, feeling both hurt and surprised by her mentor's grim outlook.
"Why do you always assume the worst in people, Garrett?!"
"Because unlike you, I've seen it. And trust me when I say, that there isn't a desperate soul in this city who wouldn't try to manipulate you if you offer them such blind generosity."
"What makes you think they'd manipulate me if I'm trying to help them?"
The thief tore his eyes from hers, trying to keep her from seeing that which he kept locked behind that tenacious gaze.
Keepers. Hammerites. Pagans. Given the opportunity, they had all used him as their puppet at one point or another. Tasks ranging from mere favors to outright dangerous missions had been conducted through him. And due to the cold breath of death on his neck, Garrett had rarely been in a position to decline. Although he knew himself gifted, talented, Garrett also knew how the rest of the world saw him: As a criminal who would do whatever he had to, in order to survive. To keep the knife from his neck. A knife, which all too often, the wrong people held.
He still remembered how he had clawed his broken body from Constantine's manor. The Keepers who had rescued him had given only mandatory treatment to his injuries. With a gaping hollow where his right eye had been hours before, and an entire body riddled with an intense agony, the thief had somehow managed to leave that hell. Only to instantly be forced into rescuing the Hammerite priest when he'd gone to their temple for assistance. Despite his fresh, life-altering injury, and lack of depth perception, they still put their own causes first. This was the way of the world as Garrett knew it.
It was times like this that the thief truly wanted to know where Gwenevere resided. What did she see in this city, or the people therein, that was so important to her? So worth saving.
"Gwenevere, trust me when I say that I know first-hand just how selfish and cruel people can be. If they don't respect you, then they view you as a tool; especially if you're freely giving, or desperate. Then they'll just use you up until there's nothing left. That's why you should really think this whole, 'vigilante' thing through, Gwenevere. The miserable people of this city aren't going to be quick to respect such a decision."
"I don't want respect! I want to help people!" she screamed. "I don't care if they treat me badly, if I can save—"
"-Never...say that!" Garrett hissed. "It doesn't matter what you strive for in this life; if you don't demand respect in your endeavors, then you won't survive. You are valuable Gwenevere, and so is this help you wish to give. But never give it freely. Even if it isn't gold, you should at least demand something for it. At the very least, that should be respect."
Gwenevere gawked up at him, her face flushed and awestruck.
"Umm… o-okay…" she stammered, her green eyes wide.
Garrett merely smirked at her surprised expression, though only a sliver of a grin was noticeable.
"And by the way, not that I care or anything, but what you did for that family? That took some serious guts. I think you underestimate just how valuable your services could hypothetically be…"
"Hypothetically?" the girl cocked her head.
"Yeah. If you keep following my lead, and if you get really good at what I teach you, then I imagine you could hypothetically become one hell of a vigilante one day."
"Y-you really think so?!"
"Yeah."
"T-thank you, Garrett," Gwenevere's cheeks were alight with a soft pink blush. This, was quite possibly the nicest thing her cynical teacher had ever said to her. "And…and I'm sorry for being such a meanie earlier."
The thief sat there motionless, feeling as a frigid gale violated the sanctity of their breakfast nook. In truth, he wanted to apologize too. Not only had he been judging this generous, kindly girl before him far too harshly, he'd also done unspeakable things to her. Things which held a direct correlation to the mental torments inflicted upon her by Lord Vladimir Simmons. Although the realization utterly disgusted him, the stubborn man still found himself unable to form any semblance of an apology. Instead, he looked upon her with meaningful eyes, and a shadowy heart full of bitterness and remorse.
"Well, you had your reasons," he smiled.
The honesty and warmth contained within his expression astonished Gwenevere. She wasn't sure how she felt about the thief's new power over her heart, or the small fact that he'd smiled more at her during this morning meal than he ever had over the course of the last few weeks she'd been living and training with him. Frantically, she searched for any sort of diversion. Her eyes registered on the colorful, sticky mess she'd left upon the table.
"And thanks for breakfast, too! Those sweet rolls were so tasty!" she beamed. "What flavor were they supposed to be, anyway?"
Garrett blinked at her.
"Um, sweet?" he remarked in a sardonic tone.
"Oh. Well, I didn't know, since I've never had them before."
Her answer prompted the thief to crook one of his dark eyebrows. His stiff frown deepened, and his left eye began to twitch ever so slightly.
"Gwenevere, if you've never had sweet rolls before, then why the hell did you get so upset when I threatened to chuck them out the window?!"
"Because, it's such a terrible thing to waste food that other people could be eating," she closed her eyes and nodded. Then, her expression grew incredibly sad. "Anyways, I was a little eager to eat them myself. I've never had sugar before, Garrett."
The thief's eye twitched even more.
"A few days ago, you told me getting fat off of cakes and pies would be a small price to pay," Garrett reminded her.
"So?"
"So, how can you make a statement like that if you've never even had sugar before, Gwenevere?"
Gwenevere locked eyes with him, allowing her mentor to bear witness to the overexuberance budding within.
"Because! I've SEEN a lot of nobles eating that stuff at parties and the like, and they always seemed to love it!" she explained, with a sort of passion Garrett had never heard used to describe sugar. "That's why I was so hopeful that you lived in a bakery when we first met. I really, REALLY wanted to try the stuff. If people are willing to overindulge in something like that, then it's BOUND to be good, right?"
"Wrong. Have you tasted the swill they sell down at the Crippled Burrick? And yet taffers like Basso are constantly getting pickled off the stuff."
"Oh, I see," the young woman twiddled her sticky fingers in embarrassment. "I suppose that was a bad example then…"
Garrett wasn't concerned with the girl's logic, or how great or poor her example had actually been. What did trouble him, was why she'd never so much as tasted sugar before.
"So, you've never even had a sugar cube?" he asked.
"I haven't! Can I try that next, please? This stuff is wonderful! I can't get enough! It's AMAZING!" she exclaimed.
"Sure," Garrett smiled again.
"Yay!"
Standing from her iron chair, the girl creature began to spontaneously dance about. She spread her arms and twirled in a spellbinding, yet jovial manner. The behavior reminded Garrett of Pagans; how, during his time amongst them in their fight against the Mechanists, they would dance and howl beneath the moonlight.
Secretly, he found himself just a bit jealous that such simple people could find joy in the mundane like that. It was a talent he'd never possessed—a simplicity he'd never known. And apparently, Gwenevere possessed it too.
She giggled and laughed for a time, before coming to a halt at the base of the tower's stone parapet, and gazed upward at the glorious blue autumn sky, breathless and exhilarated. Her red hair fluttered behind her like flowing ribbons, and Garrett could smell a pleasing floral aroma wafting up from her gorgeous tresses.
He was slightly concerned by her behavior, or how exposed she might have been to the masses below. But all of this was overshadowed by the deep sympathy he now harbored for the unwitting maiden. What kind of life had the poor girl been living with Simmons, to have never even tasted sugar until now?
Gwenevere took a moment to catch her breath, feeling as the jittery sensation of her sugar rush began to wane. She looked over her shoulder at Garrett, the sunlight shimmering through her wild ruby hair.
"Thank you, Garrett. I really, really mean it," her playful smile turned solemn. "And in case you were wondering, yes. I do forgive you for what you did yesterday. I know now that you were only trying to help keep me safe in your own Garretty way."
The master thief gaped at her, his features growing pale in lieu of her unexpected kindness and appreciation. Never before had anyone been so understanding of his particular quirks and flaws, let alone so appreciative of him. Though he wanted to say so much more to her, the antisocial moonlighter could only manage three simple words:
"Don't mention it," he murmured, abruptly turning his head towards the door.
Garrett released a loud yawn. He wanted to get some sleep, to get away from Gwenevere and all of the uncomfortable emotions she'd been triggering within him lately. Not to mention all of the disturbing things he'd been learning about this spunky little runaway's past. Her claims at being part wood nymph did indeed bother him—if they were true. Garrett already had proof that Lord Simmons had been horrifically abusive to the poor girl.
The more the thief learned about Gwenevere's past with the prestigious lord, the more he learned about how horrible he'd treated her, the more Garrett wanted to keep her far away from him. It was an… odd sensation to say the least. Usually, the things he stole from the nobles didn't dance and giggle.