Consolation for a King
Summary: On a hot, windy afternoon, heavy burdens weigh upon the King of Brooklyn's shoulders…but when an unexpected visitor arrives bearing a simple gift, the weight becomes a bit easier to bear.
A/N: This chapter takes place in March of 1900. It is told from the perspective of a canon character and may be read as a standalone, but the narrative impact will be the strongest if you are reading this concurrent with SWW.
Spot leans forward, resting his hands on his knees as the afternoon sun beats down on his back. There's a breeze blowing in off the bay that dispels just enough of the heat to make it bearable, and the spongy carpet of grass beneath feels good to his aching feet, which have been doing more walking than usual lately.
This hill overlooking New York Bay has always felt like a haven to him, though it's technically out in the open, surrounded by footpaths on all sides. There's an ironic anonymity to be found in such a well-trafficked place, a peace that comes from dropping anchor amidst a sea of faces and knowing that you can disappear among them, at least for a moment or two.
Spot, of course, has no illusions that this temporary retreat is truly his own. Even now, it's likely that several eyes are on him, watching from the branches of the trees or hidden among the passers by who frequent Sunset Park to enjoy its greenery and picturesque views. The birds who keep Brooklyn are always listening and looking, and though Spot is their commander who sends them where he wills, he knows that they watch over him too, their sharp eyes and slingshots ever at the call of their king. It's been this way for as long as he can remember, and though the need for protection is wholly unnecessary, it's tradition, and since the birds are capable of forestalling any potential threats while simultaneously fulfilling their other surveillance duties and selling their papers besides, there's no reason why they shouldn't continue this practice if they see fit to do so.
Perhaps a king would prefer to be left alone on occasion…but that is not a luxury that his position affords.
The only place that'll stay completely private is your own mind, O'Dark had warned on the eve of Spot's installation. Everything else'll become Brooklyn's. It ain't easy at first, always bein' on call, always bein' watched, always havin' to carry yourself like that, but if you figure out a way to make space for yourself, you'll be fine. This kinda thing'll wear a fella out real fast if he ain't ready for it, but you's a tough one, and you's gonna find your own way to bear it.
The former Brooklyn leader's admonishment had proven true. It had taken Spot some time to adjust to the constant scrutiny and the never-ending queue of decisions, but over time it had become more natural, and now he carries his responsibilities as naturally as he carries his papes. Brooklyn's newsie contingent runs like a well-oiled machine, sharpened from years of carrying out the same efficient rituals and routines, and as such, Spot hadn't had to create the structures that supported his authority so much as enforce them and occasionally shore them up when necessary.
He'd been only thirteen when he'd assumed command, Brooklyn's youngest leader to date, but O'Dark had made sure to appoint experienced newsies as Spot's lieutenants, newsies who - while not cut out for captaincy themselves - had proved to be invaluable as advisors. Their insight and expertise had helped ease Spot's transition considerably, and though over half of them have since aged out of the lodging house, each one of them had helped to fit him for leadership in such a way that the mantle had felt weighty but not stifling.
As such, Spot knows that his success and standing is due in no small measure to the wisdom of his lieutenants, both past and present, and to O'Dark's judicious appointments. Every Brooklyn leader has stood on the shoulders of those who came before him and those who came alongside him, and as such, the borough's clout does not reside in an individual head, but rather in the history and collective effort that such a head embodies. Spot is well aware that the position he holds is merely a trust that has been given to him for a time until it becomes another's turn to watch over it. His job is not to build a kingdom for himself, but to maintain and protect, to ensure that his newsies are well-trained, well-managed, and well-kept, and that everything is in place for his successor.
If Brooklyn had been the type of contingent to weed out their leaders based on their age, Spot would, in fact, be nearing the end of his tenure, but Brooklyn has always been different. Leaders stayed in their positions until they were done. When it was time to go, they knew it and acted accordingly, not trying to skip out before it was time, but not hanging on longer than they should. Transfers of power had always been seamless and undisputed, and the rest of the lodging house had always rallied to send off their outgoing commander with honor and to step up to help their new head until he'd settled into his role. Spot expects that it will be the same for him when it comes time to relinquish the mantle…
…but he also knows that there are several pieces that will need to fall into place before that becomes a reality. As of now, he has no clear successor, for his seconds are on the verge of adulthood themselves, and apart from them, there are no others who show the initiative and acumen that would make them a good candidate for the job.
Even if there had been a promising younger recruit, there's far too much brewing behind the scenes at present for Spot to even entertain the thought of stepping down any time soon.
Thankfully, his appearance has always belied his age, and his strength and energy haven't waned (though a weariness has settled upon him over the last several weeks unlike any he has experienced before). If all goes according to plan, he'll remain the head of Brooklyn for several more years, and trust that within that time a successor will emerge.
Occasionally, he wishes that he could still talk to O'Dark. There were questions that kept him awake at night, questions that could only be divulged to another who had carried the weight of such authority on his shoulders. But the former Brooklyn leader had signed as a deckhand shortly after he'd sold his last paper, sailing away on a ship bound for distant shores. Years have passed since then, and the birds still look for him, but he's never set foot on Brooklyn soil again, and Spot surmises that he is gone - if not from this earth by some fickle stroke of fate, then gone from these parts for good, answering the call of some far off endeavor that has need of his wisdom and steady hand.
Asking him for advice of any kind is, for this reason, out of the question.
There is no shortage of level-headed competence or insight amongst Spot's lieutenants, of course, but he is loath to burden them with the troubles that weigh on his mind. It is not the Brooklyn way to speak freely, and he has made it a point to only divulge what is necessary so that his seconds are free to focus on the tasks directly under their purview.
Among them, Eggy is closest to a confidant, the one with the keenest intuition and, perhaps, the clearest understanding of Spot's own proclivities and inner struggles. But even with Eggy, Spot is circumspect, not because he doesn't trust the other newsie, but because he knows that Eggy is the sort of boy who truly cares underneath his unflappable exterior. Outwardly, he is calm, collected, and by-the-book, rarely questioning anything that he is asked to do, but Spot knows that Eggy has his own opinion about things, and that he worries sometimes, and a desire not to burden him further has made concealment seem wise.
The time to forgo secrecy, however, may be near at hand.
Spot exhales, wiping the sweat from his brow and getting to his feet to stretch and roll his neck. The breeze gusting up the hill is both harsh and strangely soothing, and as he pulls his cap back down over his head, his eye is drawn to the docks in the distance.
If he decides to confide in Eggy, they should probably meet there, a place where they can speak freely without being overheard. Bo, used to stepping in whenever Spot is absent at the lodging house, can handle the evening routine for the rest of the boys, and Brick and Robby, normally late arrivals due to the distance of their ever-changing posts, have been staying close these last several weeks, helping a few of the younger newsies who had been struggling to sell their papers, so they'll be there to pitch in, too.
Spot makes a mental note to check in with the two of them once he's met with Eggy. The last time he'd spoken to the pair, their report had been less-than-encouraging: the younger newsies under their care had managed to up their sales, but their dissatisfaction had remained, and their unhappiness had begun to affect some of the other recruits' morale.
In years past, such things would have been simply left to run their course. Not every boy was cut out to be a newsie, and not every newsie was cut out to be a Brooklyn boy, and that was that. Spot had never seen O'Dark or any of his lieutenants fretting about attrition and, in fact, couldn't recall there being much drop off to speak of in the first place. It was considered a badge of honor to be a Brooklyn boy, and if the demands of the newsie profession and the practices of the Poplar Street lodging house proved too strenuous, you either stepped up and rose to the occasion (the typical response) or recognized your unfitness for the role and left, understanding that the structure and system were not the problem.
But times have changed, and Spot is shrewd enough to know that compromises sometimes need to be made. The disciplinarian in him is slow to immediately pledge support, preferring to let trials do their refining work (for adversity makes one stronger), but he's not opposed to offering eleventh hour help if it looks like total disaster is certain. In the case of his young recruits, he's been even more lenient, for he wants them to succeed. He knows the feeling of being in over his head, and while his own disposition is naturally inclined to self-mastery, he knows that not everyone is like that, and that in some cases, more hand holding is needed. Reassigning Brick and Robby from their places in an effort to help the struggling young ones had been a gamble that hasn't yet paid off, but Spot will not waste his time second-guessing his decisions, even if the fleeting thought crosses his mind that perhaps he ought to have chosen differently.
"Hey there, Spot!"
A piping voice breaks through the heaviness of his reflection, rising over the gusting wind, and Spot turns to see a familiar figure trudging up the hill with a bunch of dandelions clutched in his hand.
Here, at least, is a young recruit who's taken swimmingly to newsie life in Brooklyn.
"You've got a bully view from up here!" Zip exclaims as he draws near. "I think I can even see the Statue of Liberty!" He lifts a grubby hand to shade his eyes as he looks around, squinting in the sunlight, and a gust of wind blows some fluff from the dandelions bunched in his grasp.
"Whoops!" The nine-year-old quickly cups his hand around the remaining seed balls. "There they go." He slowly and carefully pulls the bare stems from the bunch, dropping them to the ground before holding out the rest of the bouquet to Spot. "You seemed a little down this week, so I brought'cha somethin'."
The declaration catches Spot completely off guard.
"These puff weeds are the best thing for when you's feelin' worried," Zip explains. "My sister taught me how to use 'em." He demonstrates, plucking a single dandelion from the bunch and taking a deep breath, then letting it out in a rush, sending the seeds spinning away on the wind.
Grinning, he turns to Spot. "It's easy, just like that - like you's blowin' some of the worry out. And then you feel better. It really works."
He extends the bouquet of dandelions again, and this time, Spot takes them.
Zip sticks his hands in his pockets, looking pleased that his remedy has been received.
"Well, I'm gonna get back to selling now," he announces, "but I'll see you back at the lodgin' house. It's beef stew tonight for supper - Cook told me so."
Spot expresses his thanks for the information, and Zip grins again, then turns to run down the hill, no longer encumbered with his offering and thus free to resume moving at his normal speed. He gains so much momentum that he takes a tumble and rolls to the bottom of the slope, but he gets up and brushes himself off, apparently no worse for wear, then steaks away, heading in the direction of the water.
Spot watches until he is lost from sight.
Zip has been at the lodging house for four months now and still comports himself like a kid fresh off the streets sometimes, but a bit of Brooklyn training is beginning to peek through, and if Spot is being completely honest, he'd rather not see Zip lose his boyish exuberance. It makes for an occasional breach of protocol and for some innocently impertinent questions, but these are nothing that a little patient but firm correction cannot curb, and Zip is enthusiastic and eager to please. It's unlikely that he'll ever have the disposition of a typical Brooklyn boy - focused, intense, and coolly methodical - but that's never been a precluding factor to a recruit's success. There have certainly been exceptions in years past (one Racetrack Higgins among them), boys of an unapologetically convivial bent who found a way to thrive at the Poplar Street lodging house despite not sharing their bunkmates' more serious demeanors, and Spot knows that Zip will be one of them, so long as he continues to listen and learn while keeping his affability intact (for this affability may be, in fact, his greatest contribution, especially in times like these).
Spot himself has a slightly-impish side and enjoys a quip or a practical joke as much as the next fellow, but he finds himself smiling infrequently as of late, and laughing even less. The cares weighing on his mind are the kind that even the most humorous of situations cannot dispel, and the looming questions that accompany these cares leave little room for lightheartedness. He cannot show dismay, of course, because that would invite questions and uneasiness from his own newsies (or worse, opportunistic aggression from those outside of their cadre), but he cannot bring himself to put up a front of blitheness, either, not when such weighty concerns have come to light.
The disjunction of this reality - of needing to remain outwardly calm but inwardly wary - has worn on Spot more than he is willing to admit. He's found himself waking early several nights a week, shaken out of his slumber in the wee hours of the morning, but unable to return to repose. A part of him wonders in hindsight if O'Dark - who'd been known for his habit of rising before dawn - had been plagued by the same distemper, and if it had only been a lack of understanding which had caused his newsies to assume that this was a preferential practice rather than an involuntary, stress-induced one.
Another thing he wishes he could ask his former leader about.
But O'Dark isn't here, and Spot must figure things out for himself.
Ona, if he's up there with you, tell him for me that he's missed, will ya?
He's fallen out of the habit of reaching for the key that no longer hangs around his neck, but he finds his fingers wandering in that direction, grasping at emptiness as they brush against fabric and skin.
He lets his hand fall, accidentally dislodging a few dandelion seeds in the process.
It's easy, Zip's cheerful voice echoes in his mind. Like you're blowing some of the worry out. And then you feel better. It really works.
Spot pulls the largest seed ball from the bunch, slowly turning it in his hand.
It's a ludicrous thought that something as simple as a weed could diffuse his worries, and Zip isn't even here to see whether his alleged remedy is actually applied or if it's simply tossed aside and left to wither...
But if there's one thing that Spot holds to, it's that Brooklyn takes care of her own, and the youngest member of Brooklyn's company has made an effort to apply this creed in his own way. That earnestness alone deserves respect, and Spot will honor Zip's proffered cure by giving it its due. If it doesn't work, he'll have lost nothing, and if it eases his burden even a little, he will have the younger boy to thank for a moment of levity amidst a growing uncertainty that often feels so heavy to bear alone.
So Spot raises the largest dandelion to his lips.
Then he takes a deep breath and blows, sending the fluffy white seeds scattering and soaring away on the wind.
A/N: If you know me and my writing proclivities, you know that these one shots are rarely ever as simple as they seem on the surface, and this one's no exception, though I'll leave it to you to conjecture as to the significance that this one plays in the larger narrative. ;) Extra props if you caught the "Brooklyn's Here" reference.
I hope you enjoyed this installment and a little peek at one of SWW!Spot's many layers (with a Zip cameo thrown). Please let me know what you thought of it - reviews are very, very much appreciated! :)