a/n: hello all, this one is looong. and eh. but i want to say thank you to all my reviewers-you guys make my day :)
Chapter Five: Running Bowline
A slip knot.
Sometimes he feels like running, so he does—little steps at first, tentative, not so much a run as a quicker pace than his normal walking—and then he picks up speed, and ahead of him, through the mob of people lining the square for Market Day, he can see a path, outlined in yellow and paved in gold, and he knows exactly which way to turn and dodge, under arms and over obstacles as he accelerates—now he is jogging, boots hitting the ground in a sharp staccato rhythm, two sizes too big, hard leather smacking skinny legs, and behind him the others are just beginning to feel the inklings of strangeness, that something is incredibly wrong here, or going to be—and then he is flying, up the street and away, away from it all, pushing his arms and his legs until he cannot push them anymore, ignoring the feeling of the whole world watching as he slips easily between passerby like water over rocks—there is a breeze in his hair, and his heart beats loudly in his ears, and he feels gloriously, wondrously alive, but only for one brief moment because then, just when he has established a pattern that he can keep up for awhile, he feels the pound of his satchel (newly acquired, from the rubbish heap he found outside the tailor's) against his side and it's not heavy, but weighty, and he can feel it, one thing, one dog-eared, yellow-paged volume, the only thing in his sack right now—and then, inexplicably, he looks back.
Glen is pushing through the crowd, eyes wide, some unwritten emotion on his face, and behind him the twins, Nathan and Bryon, are shouting his name, only he can't hear them through the noise of the crowd. It's one big pantomime, and for one brief moment he's trying to sort out everything in his head, only he gets interrupted as he pile-drives into something large and firm. He is stopped mid-run, tumbling backwards, losing his balance, by a palace guard, broad-chested and maybe a couple of years older than him. The guard has a nice, walrus-like beard already growing in, and, even though he is on the cobbled street, torn between utter embarrassment and utter pain, Eugene can't help but rub the non-existent scrub that he hopes to attain one day.
"Watch it, boy," the guard barks, and Eugene has to bite back a sharp remark as he hauls himself to his feet, gives a devil-may-care grin, and stumbles off into the shadows casted by the nearest overhang. His stomach rumbles and he groans as he realizes he is now standing in front of the bakery, which is, all together, a bad idea.
He's taking count of his limbs—tired, heavy, like lead, after the sudden burst of speed—and his breathing—ragged, jagged, and painful—when Glen comes puffing up, hair in a wild brown mess around his big, baby eyes. "What's wrong, Eugene, are you awright? Were there some guards chasing after you?"
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid—
"Why'd you run off like that?" The twins have caught up, and they aren't so naïve as Glen. Nathan, impeccably dressed as he can be, adjusts his dirty over-coat in an attempt to ease out his run-torn appearance, and sets a searing gaze at Eugene as he shrugs back against the bakery wall. His brother, Bryon, cutting a far less dashing figure with his long-ish, lanky hair and casual attire, continues, "Seriously. I hate running."
He likes the twins, he really does—he'd say they were his best friends, actually, if he believed in that sort of thing—except they can see right through him, like he's the glass and they're the people standing outside of it, looking into a shop or home or heart. Part of him knows they want the truth. Part of him knows they want him to look them in the face and say, "I was running away from you, and this life, because I'm tired of being poor and I'm tired of being looked up to." But he doesn't. Instead he says:
"Glen, you remember that old lady you almost got money from a couple of months ago?" He's reaching, and Nathan can tell, and Bryon can tell, but Glen can't, he's too young. He tilts his head to one side, chest still puffing up and down, and even though he's so small Eugene can, in that one moment, see him grown. He'll be the burly, body-guard type, he thinks absentmindedly as Glen finally answers. "Yeah, I think so. Only you wouldn't let me…oh yeah! That was the day we found the book!"
"Yep. I thought I saw her, so I thought I'd run after her, maybe try to get us some money or food or something. I didn't want to lose her."
Bryon snorts. Eugene shoots him a look that could freeze water. Glen misses it all.
"Well, did you catch her?"
"Of course he didn't." Nathan's voice is oddly edgy. "What a stupid idea."
"Oh."
The book. Eugene shouldn't have brought up the book because thinking about really just makes him want to run again.
He was perfectly fine until he read the book. Until he started thinking that a life like Flynnigan Ryder's would be a whole hell of a lot better than the life of Eugene Fitzherbert.
And Flynnigan Ryder never did have to look out for anyone but himself.
The smells of the bakery are making everyone tense and the tension is growing thicker in the air. Eugene thinks he should start walking, back the way he came, towards their original destination—which happened to be the small food stall a few streets over that regularly gave out scraps—but he doesn't have the energy to at the moment. Instead he eyes his satchel, placed around his shoulder, hanging at his hip. He fingers the leather strap and suddenly everything breaks.
The leather bag falls to the floor, opening and spilling out the one thing inside. He's holding the other end of the leather strap, the one not attached to the bag anymore. He groans. So that was why it was in the rubbish heap.
Bryon starts laughing and suddenly he is too, and so is Nathan, and Glen is laughing because the tension is gone and, even though he is small, he could most definitely sense that, and when, finally, the moment has passed and Eugene has scooped up his satchel in his arms like some grotesque, misshapen baby Bryon chokes out, "Claire can fix your man-bag for you."
"Satchel."
"Whatever." Bryon smiles, and for a moment everything is normal again, and Eugene does not have any wishes or dreams except to stay in the capital and take care of the only family he's got.
"Let's go get lunch, huh?" Eugene says softly after a moment's pause. "Then we can head back home."
"Can you fix it?" Eugene bats his eyes. "Please?"
"Ugh, men," Claire throws her hands in the air before shoving one angrily through her sharp, mousy brown hair. "You cannot do anything yourselves, and you break everything you touch."
"I—that is absurd, I did not break this!"
"His poor man bag!" Nathan cackles as he and Bryon enter the orphanage, towing a rather sick looking Glen behind them. The boy had one too many cupcakes at the food cart, mostly because he kept batting his eyes at the daughter of the vendor running the thing who then kept feeling bad and giving him more. He stumbles to a stop in front of Claire.
"I don't feel so good," he mumbles.
The straw that broke the camel's back.
"WHAT DID YOU FEED MY LITTLE BROTHER EUGENE FITZHERBERT?"
"…cup…cakes?" he purses his lips and curses the twins for leaving him. John and Michael, sensing a brawl, come in from the adjacent room and squat down, eager for a show and some entertainment. Eugene blanches.
"John, can you take Glen to the sleeping pallets? He needs to lie down."
"But—"
"Now."
Eugene may be leader but even he is cowed by Claire. She watches as John forlornly drags a green-looking boy out towards the one bedroom, motioning for Michael to follow him. "Shut the door."
For a moment as the boys leaves Eugene lets his eyes wander. They are in the entry hall, a square little room with peeling, fading wallpaper and jagged floors that pop and squeak under foot. To the left is a small kitchen, where there is never any food, and to the right the sleeping quarters, which is just really a long room with seven or eight thin pallets laid out nicely and neatly in a row. There is a set of stairs, which leads to the caretaker's quarters. Mr. Wells means well, Eugene thinks as his eyes wind up the staircase to the dark of above, where the kids rarely venture, but he would be doing a lot better if the government gave us more money to use.
Money. Money, money, money, again. If only he was like Flynnigan Ryder. If only he could buy his way out of everything.
Claire rubs her eyes when everyone is gone and sighs once all the doors are closed and they are alone. She's a few months younger than him, with the temper of an ox. Hell hath no fury and all that. Her short hair gleams dully in the light that's shining through the one pallid glass window, and her grimy face frowns at him. He stands there, awkwardly holding his satchel in both hands, even though he can do it in one. The book peaks out.
"How'd you break it?" she asks at last.
"I was running."
"Why were you running?"
"I'd rather not say."
He can't lie to Claire. She'd catch on even more quickly than Nathan and Bryon. In fact, he's certain that she knows the answer anyway as she reaches for his bag and heads to the kitchen, where their meager supplies are stored in the cupboards instead of food.
"You owe me a dress." Is all she says as the door swings shut behind her.
He sleeps through the night but feels bone tired the next morning as he peels back his eyelids. His gaze meets the dark wood of the ceiling above, and he can hear the quiet, measured breathing of eight or so kids next to him. He lays there for a moment, thinking about everything and nothing, before swinging himself into an upright position rather quickly. He rubs his eyes as he feels next to his pallet for his boots. Slipping them on, he grabs his shirt and then stands. His boots make clicking sounds on the floor, nothing too loud, but hopefully a few of the kids will wake up. He needs help today—they need food. Lots of food.
He cannot get the picture of Claire's skinny arms as she grabs his satchel from him out of his head.
The room is in complete darkness, except for the small crack of light escaping out from under the door. He trips over something at the foot of his pallet that he does not see, and his hand meets smooth leather. He grabs up his satchel and pushes his way to the entry hall, shutting the door behind him.
The morning light is streaming through the entry, and Eugene catches Mr. Wells's retreating form as he heads back up into his room. Mrs. Wells would have made him wake everyone up. But Mrs. Wells is gone, and she took Mr. Wells with her, and left Eugene with eight kids.
Entirely unfair, the whole situation, really.
The sunlight makes the room look falsely happy, and for a moment he feels lighter as he glances down at his bag. Claire stitched up the handle with thick, coarse, white thread, and also added a dark patch which she stitched on haphazardly in the corner. He smiles. She must have thought that would have been the next likely place to break.
He knows that if he doesn't wait for the others to get up he will not get anything accomplished today, but he opens the front door anyway and steps out into the smelly streets of the slums, eyeing the castle in the distance and thinking about a path lined in yellow and draped in gold.
They are all hungry, huddled around the little fire in the stove they can manage in the kitchen. He has pulled in some firewood he found around the house and, overall, he thinks he did a good job. The fire pops and crackles merrily. Glen's stomach growls, cupcakes of yesterday forgotten.
They had no food today.
Eugene hunkers down on his knees, arms brushing with Claire who leans her head placidly against his shoulder. Nathan and Bryon are trying to keep their mind off of the hunger by playing a game of cards, only, the orphanage owns no card decks, so they are playing Prisoner's Dilemma with nothing but their imagination.
"One…two…three!" Nathan shouts. "Even!"
"Odd!"
"I win!"
"Liar!"
John is looking uncomfortably angry, as always. And he smells. Eugene can hardly hold that against him, though. Michael squats next to him, the perfect side-kick. Eugene wants to role his eyes at the whole scene, but one look at the group huddle around the fire and the few loaners hanging in the shadows stops him. Also, he is distracted by Glen, who, tired, hungry, is trying to ignore the nag in his stomach, and is asking, "Eugene, can you read us the book?"
He mostly reads it for Glen, who is the youngest, but also because he likes it, and he thinks the others like it too. From his shoulder Claire mumbles tiredly, "Yes, please."
"Alright, then," he gets up and rummages for his bag, finds it, and pulls out the book. Settling back down, he opens to a dog-eared page, where they last left off, and starts to read. His voice isn't magnificent. It isn't deep or light or airy, it isn't velvety smooth, though he can make it so at times—though is voice is only just there it weaves magic as he begins.
" 'Chapter Eight: The Crown.
After Flynnigan returned home safely from his encounter with the thugs he found himself staring wistfully into the distance, but for what he did not know. His life took on a boring, monotonous routine that he grew to despise, for he did not think himself fit or adequate for the duties of running a castle. Everyday his butler would come in and ask him questions concerning finance, and he would answer. Everyday his chef would ask him what he wanted to eat, and he would respond. Everyday he would sit at his desk in his library and look intently on the horizon from which he had just so recently returned.
It did not take long for Flynnigan to realize that adventure, which he had so carelessly tasted in the past three months, had poisoned his body and soul, and nothing would placate his need, desire, and want except more of the very poison. So it was that he was fervently wishing for a challenge when one came.
It happened on the second month after his return home, when, in the dead of night, he was awoken by an awful screeching sound coming from the treasury. He sprang to his feet, faster than his fastest guards, and raced towards the noise. Flinging open the heavy doors to his gold-room, he found, inside, the most appalling sight.
A small hole had been cut in the roof, through which a man was being lowered down on a rope, directly over Flynnigan's most prized possession, a crown of enormous wealth which he had gathered in the land of the Moon on his adventure to find the fabled healing flower there. He sprang into action, whipping up a sword from where it lay glittering in a pile of gold near his feet, and raced towards the thief. The man, thinking Flynnigan a terrible, awful apparition come to bring him down to hell for his deeds, screamed, fumbled with the crown, and dropped it onto the floor, where it shattered into a million pieces.
Furious at the loss of one of his finest treasures, Flynnigan sprang towards the man just as, frantically, the thief was pulled up through the hole in the roof and out of sight. Incensed that anyone would dare steal from him, Flynnigan hung the sword he was carrying around his waist and stormed out of the treasury. (The sword was later to be known as Hollow-Point, for all the dastardly, hollowed out men which it's sharp point struck).
He had no time to berate his guards for not attending to the thief sooner because, for the first time in several months, he was not itching for adventure—the poison had found him at last. Wasting no more time, he readied his steed, mounted, and pounded out of the courtyard towards the thief.'"
When he hears the news he is chatting Claire up in the entry hall, fingering his satchel absentmindedly. Glen races in, panic on his face, eyes wide, and Eugene's stomach drops.
"What's wrong?" Claire and Eugene say immediately, almost in unison. Glen can barely speak through the tears that are springing to his eyes, and Claire grabs her brother gently by the shoulders. "Calm down, Glen, really."
He takes a few great heaving breaths.
"Now, tell us what's the matter."
"J-John s-s-aid he was ti-tired of being hungry, and f-fed up with Eugene n-not trying and so he w-went to the banker's p-place and he s-s-stole some money and now the guards are after him!" Glen ends in a high cry and Eugene can't help it, he says:
"That damn little bastard."
Claire hugs her brother, looking over the thin shoulder to meet his eyes. "What are you going to do?" she asks, and in that moment something twists painfully in his stomach.
"Go save him, I guess. Glen, where are Nathan and Bryon?"
"O-out l-l-looking for him."
"Ok. Hey, bud, I want you to keep this safe for me, alright?" He hunkers down on his knees and pulls The Adventures of Flynnigan Ryder from the satchel's depths, hands it gingerly over to the shaking boy who takes his head for one moment out of Claire's shoulder and peers at the offering.
"M-me?"
"Yep. I want to act out the next part. I'll play the thief, and you can be Ryder, but that means you have to learn the parts."
His saddest lie ever, yet Glen doesn't seem to notice. Claire does, and she narrows her eyes.
"Eugene Fitzherbert, you are to stay right here." She tries to keep the bossy aspect, the control that is normally there in her voice, but it sort of shakes and gives out. She watches Glen take the book reverently, tears momentarily dammed by the fantastic gift that has been given him. "John has been a nuisance since he first came here, and that's that, he'll get what's coming to him—"
"But if Nathan and Bryon find him before the guards do, and then the guards catch them with him—well, you know." He shrugs. "One big mess. And lots of jail time. That's not good."
Claire stands. "Eugene, just stay."
"Sorry, Claire," and part of him really means it, really does, "this is for you." He bends in and kisses her lightly on the cheek. She's blushing a bright red as he flashes his signature grin at her, walking out of the orphanage and into the light of the street.
He doesn't say goodbye because part of him wishes that it wasn't.
There are guards swarming the market, especially around the banker's place where a window has been shattered near the deposit boxes and gold coins are glinting on the floor, itching to be picked up.
Huh, Eugene eyes the mess, guess I underestimated that kid's guts. Messy job, though.
He slips into the crowd, looking for two familiar faces, but he doesn't see anyone. For a moment he starts to panic, because if Nathan and Bryon get caught up in this he'll never forgive himself, but then he tries to calm down.
Tries being the operative word. He feels tightly wound, like a spring, and adrenaline is coursing through his veins. He clears his head.
If I were John, where would I go?
The kid wasn't smart enough to head back to the orphanage, right? Or rather, he was smart enough not to do that. Because going back there would put the whole place in danger. There'd be a formal investigation of Mr. Wells, who couldn't handle it, Glen and Claire would probably be split up, Nathan and Bryon possibly put in jail, the whole place shut down—
Never mind. John was stupid enough to go there.
Eugene begins down a side street, because he knows that the kid would want to stay to the shadows. He can hear the guards' sharp heels clicking out a pattern on the stone as they travel in groups behind him.
He's jogging now, heart pounding, because he has to catch up to John before he gets back to the orphanage—
"You sorry son of a bitch!" he hears a yell, a thud, and suddenly he turns into the nearest alleyway. Nathan and Bryon are standing over John, who is cowering in the corner, clutching a large bag of gold coins to his chest. "You were going to take that back to the orphanage, weren't you?" Bryon snarls. "You were going to endanger everyone!"
"Eugene," Nathan sounds relieved, turns and comes a few steps towards him.
"The guards are everywhere." Eugene is suddenly immensely angry, and his voice comes out flat and cold. He knows what he has to do and he hates it. Because if this was going to happen he wanted to decide it on his own terms, not on someone else's.
Especially not John's.
"I didn't think—I just—I'm so hungry—" John scrabbles for an excuse and a few gold pieces escape through the top of his bag.
"We're all hungry." Eugene says.
"And you were willing to put everyone in danger. Because you were hungry," Bryon is shaking with rage, and the situation is getting out of hand, and Eugene can hear the guards coming down the side street where the alley is on. He needs to act now, but he doesn't want to. He steps forward.
"How many people saw you?"
"I don't know—ten, maybe?"
"Nathan, Bryon, leave. Get back to the orphanage, the quick way, so the guards don't see you."
"But Eugene—"
"I'll be fine."
"No, we aren't leaving—"
"Do it!" he doesn't usually yell but things are desperate and they need to leave now. They sense the urgency in his voice and walk quickly past him, into the alley, where they stop and stare back at him. "Don't waste your life for him," Bryon mutters and then they are gone. He turns his attention back to John.
"The guards will be here in less than a minute."
"I don't know what to do!" John shrieks hysterically, clutching the bag to his chest and rising to his feet.
"You are going to look scared and hand me the money when the guards turn that corner. If they ask why you did it, say I threatened your family, the orphanage. Say it was their safety for the gold. And take a few pieces back—just four or five. That should buy everyone food for a couple of months."
Poundpoundpound—
"But…"
"What?" Eugene snaps, motioning for John to come stand in front of him. He does so, until the two are facing each other, clearly in view of the alley's mouth.
Poundpoundpound—
The poison has found him at last. Adrenaline courses through his veins, mixed with anger, and it is a heady concoction.
"What about you?" John whispers, and Eugene thinks, for the first time in his life John might be feeling something akin to guilt. He doesn't get to answer, though as the pounding reaches them and five guards round the corner of the alley. John thrusts the gold out shakily, whimpering with actual fear, "Please, sir, just don't hurt me—"
"Stop! You there!"
From the corner of his eye Flynn spies the walrus mustache of the man he ran into forever ago, although it could have only been minutes. Time is passing oddly in his world right now.
He sprang into action, whipping up a sword from where it lay glittering in a pile of gold near his feet.
"Did you order this poor boy to steal the gold?"
The guards are advancing slowly. John looks torn between running and cowering. The alley opening is blocked.
"And if I did?" He flashes a devil-may-care grin.
So it was that he was fervently wishing for a challenge when one came.
"He threatened to kill my family, sir!" John squeaks. Eugene wants very much to punch him. Without The Adventures of Flynnigan Ryder in it his satchel hangs limp and empty at his side. The bag of gold , which he grabbed from John, is thick and heavy, like he is holding a rock the size of the palace between his hands.
"Is it true, boy?" The walrus-bearded mustache man inches forward, hand reaching for the sword at his side.
"Perhaps."
"Enough with the riddles boy, and hand back that gold! You are under arrest for the attempted thievery of the National Bank of Corona and you—
Flynnigan. Flynn. I. Gan. Flynniganflynnigan.
What would Flynnigan do?
"…are hereby and henceforth no longer privileged to live within the walls of the city. Now what is your name boy?"
Ryder. Ryder. Ryder.
Eugeneeugeneugene.
There is a moment's pause and he knows he is standing on the edge of something he will never be able to look back on, thinks for a moment, of his previous life and allows another to dwell on the future in front of him. Heck, being wanted couldn't be all that bad, right? Lots of girls, gold, freedom.
"Your name, boy!"
He opens his mouth to speak and knows whatever comes out of it next will decide his future for years to come.
"Flynn." He smiles dashingly. "Flynn Rider."
He drops the gold in a heap at his feet, where the loose potato sack John had been carrying it in opens and spills its gold contents onto the cobbled street. He sees a path lined in yellow and paved in gold and it takes only a moment this time before he is off, shooting past the guards like a blur, hands free of the gold, heart free of the guilt, head heady with adventure—
Sometimes he feels like running, so he does.
Only this time, he doesn't look back.