How long was long enough?

Pound, pound, pound.

How far was far enough?

Pound, pound, pound.

How free did he have to be to truly feel free?

Pound, pound—

Whatever hit his foot sent Omar sprawling on the ground, but he didn't linger long enough to check. Scrambling to his feet, he continued to pound the dark streets, lungs burning as he ran.

If he dared look back, would he find someone chasing him?

How far was far enough…?

Pound, pound, pound.

He'd told himself the tingling sensation plaguing his wrists would fade. That was days ago.

Maybe it would never stop. If it didn't, wouldn't he just get used to it? Learn to ignore it like he ignored the gnawing hunger pains?

Maybe.

Pound, pound, pound.

Maybe, if he ever stopped running long enough to think about it…

At least he didn't have to travel over the vast desert anymore. Sand and running, he'd quickly discovered, didn't mix well.

Pound.

But there had been no other option.

Pound.

Run through the desert and face possible death.

Pound.

Or stay and risk capture.

Pound.

Skidding around a corner, Omar's legs finally caught up to his lungs and he slowed down, ducking further down an alley.

Death had seemed preferable in that crucial moment of decision. It still did, if he was being completely honest with himself.

Now, the only pounding came from within, from his heart beating his chest black and blue as he gasped for air.

Much as the thought scared him, he would rather face death ten times over than go back there.

The skin around his wrist tingled, even though the chaffing was nearly healed.

Heaving, he slid down the side of a building, allowing himself a moment of rest.

The cities were better. In a city, it was easier to hide. But the cities were also crawling with prying eyes, with people who might know you, who might recognize you.

Had they sent out search parties yet? Had they advertised his escape?

Or did they even care?

Omar hoped to heaven they didn't.

He was nothing, he'd told himself. In the grand scheme of it all, what did it matter if he'd gotten away? They would just find somebody else at some market somewhere to replace him and he would be free to live his own life.

Free.

Freedom had been his to hold for more than a week now, so why didn't he feel free? Why did he feel like someone was breathing down his neck everytime he turned down the next street? Why did his wrists seem to miss the feeling of those hard, biting manacles?

Or maybe they didn't miss them. Maybe they feared them. Maybe they just couldn't forget the feeling. Forget the chaffing, the heavy metal that weighed him down, the cuts and bleeding whenever someone yanked the chain too hard.

Maybe…

Pound.

Pound.

Pound.

Omar jolted awake, wondering when he'd drifted off and cursing himself for being so careless.

He had to move. Had to go. Had to find somewhere safer to sleep that night.

Had to… to…

Pushing himself to his feet, he found he didn't have the strength to run anymore.

Maybe this city was safe enough.

You don't even know where you are.

Maybe it was far enough away.

You don't even know how many miles you've traveled.

Maybe… Maybe he might stay.

It's too early to make a decision like that.

There were a few signs indicating what kinds of shops he passed on his journey through the streets. Omar didn't pay much attention to the foreign words, gaze drifting instead to the accompanying pictures.

They told him nothing of value. Not the city, not the country—though he was pretty sure he was still in the same country. Maybe.

Nothing.

But he couldn't rely on the words to guide him.

After all, slaves couldn't read.

You're not. Not anymore.

You're free.

Right.

So, why did it feel like the city was closing in around him? Waiting for him to make one wrong move; waiting to pounce and throw him back in chains.

Omar shivered.

Maybe he wouldn't stay there. Maybe he'd move on.

Still…

It was too early to tell.

When Omar dreams, he's running for his life. An unseen villain pursues him with tireless vigor.

The same is true when he's awake.

Maybe there's no real difference between dreams and reality.

Both are all too real.

And he's growing tired of it all…

He needed there to be a difference. He needed the dreams to stay dreams.

Reality's cruel enough as it is.

He hadn't expected to be rescued. In a world that seemed hell-bent on clipping his wings and throwing him in a cage, Omar had always expected he'd have to be his own savior.

Not… whoever these guys were.

Once upon a time, he'd been better at stealing. Or maybe he'd never possessed that gift—curse…? But he was so hungry. Getting caught by a palace guard was almost worth it for the sweet bread now traveling down to his stomach.

Almost.

And it also told him a bit more about this city. It must have been an important place if royals were nearby.

The guard loomed over him, his vice-like grip wrenching Omar's hand upward. Would he cut it off?

Maybe being down a hand wouldn't be so bad.

Are you insane?

Would he—?

A new thought closed around Omar's brain. Would the guard take him back?

He couldn't go back. He refused to go back there.

Maybe he'd get lucky and die on the way over. Maybe he could escape when the guard wasn't looking…

With the way his wrist felt seconds away from snapping under his captor's hold, Omar didn't think that last option was very likely…

Heart beating wildly in his chest, he tried to pull away, but he couldn't do any more than that. He was trembling too much. Just the very thought that his short, beautiful stint of freedom might be coming to an end flooded his mind with a panic he didn't know how to handle.

A commotion across the square caught the guard's attention for a moment, though not long enough for Omar to even begin to formulate an escape plan.

Escape is hopeless. You're hopeless. If you don't die on the journey there, they might just kill you anyway for escaping in the first place.

Not the most comforting thought, but Omar had found over the years that he was grossly out of practice when it came to comforting thoughts.

"How many more of you do I have to deal with today?" The guard growled to nobody in particular, drawing his sword.

At the sight of the glinting weapon, Omar's heart stopped.

Until now, he'd been so set on dying before he ever went back there…

But maybe… He swallowed. Maybe he really didn't want to die.

His skin burned under the guard's unrelenting grip and Omar needed him to let go, let go!

The rising chaos in the market looked like it was being caused by some guy in a patched vest and baggy white pants. Whatever he was trying to do, Omar couldn't find it in himself to care. His mind screamed at him to escape, but no matter how he pulled, he couldn't free his arm.

All he needed was a distraction. Just one—

Omar was on the ground before he could even register the pain in his knees and the taste of dust in his mouth. It felt like the collision had knocked the wind out of him, but he couldn't tell. All he knew was that his wrist was free.

Someone was shouting curses, possibly the guard, and a blur of red fabric dashed across Omar's vision.

Seconds later, he was on his feet.

Pound, pound, pound.

He didn't care where he went, as long as he kept his freedom this time. Halfway down the street, he realized with a jolt that he was following the red fabric, which turned out to be some random guy who, if Omar had to guess, was also running from the guards. A glance over his shoulder revealed not only Patched Vest Man, but half a dozen guards as well.

All of them chasing after Omar.

Or… maybe they were chasing the red guy. Or—

Omar shut his brain off, relying on pure instinct to take him where he needed to go. Whatever was happening didn't concern him as long as he got away.

Wrong place, wrong time, maybe?

Or wrong place, right time.

After all, he was free again wasn't he?

Pound, pound, pound.

He just needed a place to hide. The red guy seemed to know where he was going, so Omar's legs drove him forward, dodging around corners and down stairs in an attempt to keep up.

When the guy skidded to a halt in what looked to be some sort of abandoned cellar, Omar followed suit.

Though he couldn't figure out why.

He needed to keep going, need to be free, needed to—

His lungs demanded oxygen and Omar sucked in a breath.

Okay, maybe that's why.

Just catch your breath and be on your way.

Yeah… Yeah, that would work.

Only, when he finally glanced up from his bent over quest for air, there were two others besides Red. Patched Vest Man and some other guy decked out mostly in green.

"I think we lost them," Patches huffed through gulps of air. "One of these days, I'll find a scam that works."

"Well, by all means," Red replied, his voice slightly heated, "take your time. I don't know if you've noticed, but I just love running for my life 24/7."

"Yeah? I don't see you coming up with any new ideas."

"You don't need ideas when you have fists."

"Because that always works so well."

"I swear, you two fight like an old married couple…" In the midst of the bickering, the man in green made eye contact with Omar, whatever else he was about to say dying on his lips. "Hey, who's the kid?"

The other two finally seemed to notice him. At a loss for what to do, Omar gave a small wave.

"Don't look at me!" Patches said, hands up in mock surrender. "I've never seen him before."

Red rolled his eyes. "Somehow, I don't believe you, Mr. I'm Always Looking Out for Poor Helpless Strays."

"Don't start again," Green moaned, "you'll give me a headache." Turning to Omar, he asked, "Where'd you come from, kid?"

A shrug was easier than delving into that particular horror story. When none of them looked convinced, though, the growing pit in Omar's stomach told him it was time to speak.

"Uh," he began, licking his lips and nodding at Red, "I-I was actually following him."

Patches smirked at this. "See? Not my fault."

"Me? Why me?"

Another shrug. "Just… felt right in the moment, I guess. I-I'll, uh, well I was just… I'll be on my way in a second." Or two.

After he refilled his aching lungs.

"Wait a minute." Patched studied him carefully. "You're all alone, aren't you?"

"And what did I tell you, huh? Mr. I'm Always Looking Out For—"

"Save it, Kassim. It's just a question."

"I'm fine," Omar said.

"That's not what he asked." Green also took a moment to look him up and down. "How old are you, anyway? Fourteen? Fifteen?"

"That sounds right, I guess. I don't know." No one had ever told him.

Slaves weren't taught to read.

And young orphaned slaves could only guess as to their approximate age. Forget birthdays entirely.

"Where are you headed?" Red, or Kassim now, questioned.

"Somewhere around here, maybe. Hey, where even is here?" Because why not learn as much as you can when the opportunity arises? "What city are we in?"

And how far away was it from that little town by the sea?

No one answered his question. Patches was having what seemed to be a silent conversation with Green while Kassim looked on.

"Oh no," Kassim said at last. "No, no, no. I know what you're thinking, Al, so just stop thinking it."

"Come on," Al—who was actually Patches?—said, eyes dancing. "He's all alone!"

"But three's a magic number!" Kassim all but whined.

"I thought two was the magic number, but now look where we are." Whatever Al meant by that, it got to Kassim and the latter's expression shifted a bit.

"But…" Kassim was clearly trying to come up with some excuse for… something. Honestly, Omar wasn't quite sure what was going on here. "He's so young. He'll just slow us down."

"I don't know," Green said. "He beat me and Al in a footrace back there."

"And he's not that much younger than me," Al added, to which Kassim scoffed.

"So, like I said, young."

"Oh, my gosh," Green muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You two are the same age."

"But I'm definitely older. Somehow, by some span of time," Kassim quipped, "I'm older."

"Whatever you say." Al turned to address Omar. "Are you hungry?"

Now was not the time for sarcastic comebacks, so Omar gave a hesitant nod instead.

"Cool. We are, too. Come on."

Before Omar could even think about following Al, Kassim piped up again. "Shouldn't we vote or something?"

"We can at least feed him, right? Then we'll go from there."

Kassim looked to Green, who just shrugged.

"I'm Aladdin," Al said. "That's Kassim and Babkak."

They seemed to want him to follow them—or, at least, Aladdin did. Babkak was indifferent and Kassim looked about ready to find a good corner to mope in.

And Omar…

Omar was unsure. He didn't know these guys, though they seemed genuine enough. It had been a long time since he'd been able to trust someone.

Still…

He was hungry. He was starving.

Maybe he could just get some food and leave.

As they stepped back out into the streets, Babkak gave him a smile that rivaled the sun in warmth.

"Welcome to Agrabah, kid."

Omar offered a small smile of his own.

Maybe he would stick around for a little while.

It was still too early to tell.

When Omar dreamed, he often woke up gasping.

And frightened and alone.

When Omar dreamt that night, his back was burning, alight with thin, phantom streaks of fire, but when he jolted awake this time, he wasn't alone.

Aladdin slept soundly on his right, with Babkak to his left.

Somehow, that knowledge left him feeling comforted.

Omar couldn't remember the last time he'd felt comforted after dreaming.

And he hadn't even known them for a full day.

Life, however, had taught him not to hope too hard.

Interlude

One of the first things he noticed about the kid was how quiet he seemed. On any given day, Kassim or Aladdin could talk your ear off—or each other's at the same time.

Omar was different, Babkak could tell.

Aladdin was friendly with everyone, a trait that had clearly been inherited from his mom. Omar wasn't unfriendly, he was just… hesitant. Wary, almost. Content to sit back and let Aladdin do the socializing.

Kassim was a very touch-oriented kind of guy. Always had been. There wasn't a day he didn't have his arm slung around one of the gang's shoulders, giving you a hearty clap on the back—on punching you in the arm for messing up.

Omar was… Well, Babkak had learned pretty quickly that the youngest member of their motley crew did not share Kassim's affinity for touch.

And that was fine. That was… fine. It was a new sort of dynamic to navigate—and it gave him a scare and a blackeye—but it was fine.

They would get through it like they got through everything. Together.

Only, Omar didn't seem too keen on doing that. None of them came from backgrounds where they were used to being alone, except Omar.

Omar was the odd one out. He was the puzzle waiting to be solved.

The more Babkak began to put together the pieces, however, the more he wasn't sure he wanted to. Whatever had instilled that lingering fear in those dark brown eyes, Babkak was certain he either didn't want to know about it…

… Or he would know and want to find it and strangle it.

"Where do you come from, anyway?"

Omar glanced up from his work at Kassim, who languidly munched an apple in the afternoon heat. Despite his initial misgivings and complaints, Kassim had quickly warmed up to Omar, asking him the most questions of them all.

It never felt like an interrogation to Omar, merely a deep-rooted curiosity, with that touch of concern they all had in their voices when it came to Omar's past.

The two of them sat on the roof of the hideout, Omar giving Aladdin's vest a proper patch job and Kassim taking a minute or two—or five—to rest.

"I mean," Kassim went on before Omar could come up with an answer, gesturing toward the sewing, "how do you know how to do that?"

"Uh… My mom taught me." We'll go with that. It was the easiest answer.

A dark shadow passed over Kassim's eyes, but only for a second or two, disappearing before Omar could think too much about it.

"Yeah, mom's are good at that."

Omar wouldn't know, but he nodded anyway. "Where's yours?" Because maybe if turned the tables a bit, he wouldn't have to evade any more questions.

Kassim shook his head. "Nope. It's too early in the day for backstories."

A comfortable silence fell over the rooftop as Omar went back to working on Aladdin's vest and Kassim gazed out at the cityscape.

"You're not from Agrabah, are you?"

With a smirk he thought Kassim might be proud of, Omar countered, "Isn't it too early for backstories?"

At this, Kassim let out a laugh. "You learn fast."

The praise was a welcome change from some of the other things he'd been told about himself throughout his young life…

It had been a little over a week and a half since Omar was taken in by this small gang of misfits, but no one had said anything about kicking him out yet, so…

And though it had never been said aloud, there was a sort of silent understanding that Omar was an official member now.

"Oh yeah," Kassim had said once, grinning at a particularly large purse Omar had swiped off a visiting noble. "Four is definitely a better number than three."

For the first time in his life, Omar felt content and even, dare he say, happy, if not still a little hesitant.

He knew they were all curious about his origins and he'd be lying to himself if he didn't admit he was curious about theirs, too. Though he wasn't quite sure about Babkak, he knew Aladdin had lost his mother, but that wasn't really a secret. Out of the four of them, Aladdin seemed the most open. Kassim had lost several people. Even though he never said anything about it, Omar could tell by certain reactions he had; certain expressions that would cloud his face.

Omar didn't talk a lot with the gang, not yet, but he noticed.

He noticed the way Aladdin and Kassim often fought for control, but Babkak was clearly their leader.

He noticed the way Babkak could make any kind of food taste like heaven.

He noticed the way Kassim and Babkak spoke about Aladdin's mom as if they'd known her at some point.

He noticed the way Aladdin and Kassim could almost read each other's minds in some moments.

Noticed when Kassim seemed a little too protective of him when they were out on the streets; noticed Aladdin's habit of helping literally anyone they came across that tugged at his bleeding heart strings.

And the way Babkak's concern for him had doubled after that one time Omar had accidentally punched him in the face.

In his defense, it had been an instinctive reaction to the unexpected touch. Lost in thought one night on the roof, Omar hadn't heard Babkak come up behind him until the latter's hand was on his shoulder.

And Omar's fist was in his eye.

The mere thought of it made him wince, even though Babkak had said it was fine. Kassim was still learning not to sling his arm around Omar's shoulders. Or maybe he wasn't aware of the way Omar flinched every time he made physical contact with one of them.

Instinct. He blamed his stupid survival instincts.

He just… couldn't remember a time when touch was kind and loving.

"I'm such an idiot."

If Al were there, Omar figured he might say something like, "You're just realizing that now?"

And then Kassim would shoot back with another well-crafted barb he didn't really mean. That would start a short argument, one Babkak wouldn't even try to diffuse because "Honestly, it's gotten entertaining over the years," and Omar would have some sort of distraction to focus on.

Instead, it was just him and Kassim.

And he had nothing to distract from the familiar pain of chains biting into his wrists; from the way his chest didn't seem to be working properly anymore.

From the dark, looming dungeon walls and the panic flooding his brain.

So, this is what happened when you got caught by the guards.

They put you back in chains.

They took away your freedom.

And Omar had just been getting used to that beautiful word. Freedom.

"This is why I told Al we shouldn't split up." Kassim continued to shift the blame around from him to Al to Babkak, but Omar wasn't listening.

The world was quickly becoming a blur.

All sound was garbled by the buzzing in his ears.

He needed to escape. Now that they had him, they were going to take him back and he couldn't go back.

But he didn't want to die, either. Was it too much to ask to just be able to live happily with the gang and roam the streets as a free man?

Someone was calling out to him. Kassim, he reminded himself. The only other person in their cell.

He wanted to answer, needed to answer…

The thudding in his chest made speech impossible.

His heart had swallowed his voice box.

Phantom pain seared his back and he realized that, until now, he had gone a record amount of time without thinking about those cruel whips—without even dreaming about them, either.

If he couldn't catch a breath, maybe he really would die before they had a chance to take him back.

He hoped he wouldn't.

Breathe!

Something brushed up against his leg and he shuddered.

But this time, the touch was grounding, somehow. He didn't want it to go away. It centered him enough to concentrate on Kassim's voice through all the turmoil in his head.

"Omar!" The thing—Kassim's boot, he noted—nudged his leg once more, a little harder this time. "Omar, look at me! You have to breathe, okay? Omar!"

Yeah… Yeah, breathing would be good. That sounded good. It sounded like a plan, it—

A strangled gasp tore through his throat, but it gave him just enough air to last until he could get some more.

It was already a challenge to fill his lungs with the way his arms were chained to the wall above his head, but his next breath yielded even more air than the last.

Maybe he could do this.

You have to do this.

An eternity seemed to pass before the panic faded into a fatigue that had Omar slumping back against the wall, grateful the guards had let them sit instead of making them stand up chained.

If he turned his head slightly, he knew he would see Kassim's face twisted with worry, so Omar just let his eyes slip closed.

"Are you all right?" came Kassim's quiet question a moment later.

The best Omar could offer was a nod. It was easier to lie with silence.

"Good." Kassim heaved a sigh. "You freaked me out. Thought you were going to pass out or something…"

"I'm fine." He wanted so badly to say it, to put the whole thing to rest and move on—to where...? But the words wouldn't come.

"What happened?"

Omar couldn't answer that, either.

Because he didn't know. He'd panicked, he guessed, which was odd. He couldn't remember something like that ever happening to him before…

"W-What are they gonna d-do with us?" The words were shaky, barely audible, but at least they were words. And at least they were finally making their way out of his mouth.

"Hold us here for a while," Kassim replied. "Not too long this time, I don't think, since they didn't actually catch us with anything."

Omar forced a nod, eyes still closed, Kassim's boot still pressed against his leg.

Breathe…

Though it was easier now, Omar found himself growing too tired to even focus on something as simple as taking a breath.

Maybe he could just fall asleep or something…

"Why?" Kassim's voice held that familiar hint of curious concern that Omar had gotten used to hearing from time to time over the past month. "Where did you think they were taking us?"

"Nowhere." Omar swallowed. "I don't know."

It was a long minute before Kassim replied, his question freezing Omar's blood. "Back to whoever put that brand on you?"

His eyes snapped open and he glanced sideways, hoping the shock wasn't showing up on his face—and knowing full well it was.

Omar opened his mouth, then closed it.

He knew. Kassim knew. How did he—?

"You're not the only one with nightmares," Kassim explained with a shrug that was trying too hard to be casual. "Your shirt was all twisted up one night and I noticed it, that's all."

Heart thudding in his chest once more, Omar braced himself for the onslaught of questions. After all, Kassim was the king of questions.

Instead, he felt a strange relief washing over him as Kassim said, "You don't have to talk about it. I know you don't want to. I wouldn't want to, either." A ghost of a smirk stretched his lips. "Besides, it's a little early for backstories, don't you think?"

Omar nodded, but Kassim wasn't done.

"I mentioned it to Babkak. The brand, I mean. He probably told Al at some point, who knows? Just…" Kassim sucked in a breath, locking eyes with Omar. "The palace guards? They don't care where you're from. They'll keep us here a little while, sure, but they're not gonna go through all the hassle of taking you back to your old master, even if they actually knew where to take you in the first place, which they don't. Okay?"

Another nod as his brain struggled to comprehend this new, wonderful fact.

"And since I found out something about you…" Kassim's gaze shifted to the far wall as he sighed. "I guess it's only fair you learn something about me, so we'll swap. Babkak and I used to do that all the time, back when it was just the two of us. I feel like it was just his roundabout way to get me to open up or something, but he's never admitted to it. Anyway…" Another sigh, heavier this time. "So, there was this kid once who was… very important to me. You remind me a lot of him, sometimes, actually. But he… Well, I was young and I couldn't protect him the way he… he needed me to." He was rushing through the short tale now, almost as if trying to get through it as quickly as he could in order to avoid any unwanted emotions.

Kassim didn't do sappy emotions, or so he said.

Omar didn't mind, though. He was good at listening.

"I couldn't protect him, which is why I promised myself that I'm not gonna let the same thing happen to you."

It would take years until Omar learned that this "thing" was a bad mix of illness and starvation, and still longer for Kassim to actually mention his little brother by name. In that moment, though, Omar didn't need any further explanation than Kassim was willing to give.

Because it felt… good to have someone looking out for him. The whole gang looked out for him, like they did each other.

Omar had never had anyone like that before and it was one of the things he would fight tooth and nail to keep from losing.

"I mean," Kassim said with a dry chuckle, pulling Omar out of his thoughts, "our arms are gonna hurt like hell when we get out of here, but we will get out of here. I can promise you that."

When they did a few days later, the sun had never seemed brighter. The air had never tasted sweeter.

And Omar's friends, his brothers, had never looked better. Truly a sight for sore eyes if there ever was one.

When Omar dreamed, he used to be alone.

Alone, running through the sweltering desert or huddled in a cold, damp cellar—surrounded by others like him, yet still very much alone.

Now, when Omar dreamed, Babkak would make an appearance, or Kassim and Aladdin. And the dreams would be somewhat pleasant, letting him sleep through the night without jolting awake, gasping for breath.

He would never truly know what it felt like to have grown up with a family. At least, what society liked to call a "proper family." But he had one now just the same.

Maybe Agrabah was far enough.

Maybe he'd been running long enough.

Whatever the case, he found he didn't want to leave. He wouldn't run away any more.

Because when Omar dreamed, he was running free in a bright colorful city.

When he awoke each morning, his dreams turned into his reality.