Nothing will put you right again.
Breath loud in his ears, the boy—Boro; he bit down with a wince—threw daggers at his new master's back.
Tripping every other step, he forced himself to memorize every fraying thread of the man's striped cloak. Every fluff. Every snagged, silver-rooted hair. The world blurred at the edges, but he kept that back razor-sharp—with hate.
Because if he didn't, there was nothing else.
Everyone had left. He had nothing else.
Not even his own name.
But then again, who used it? Ever?
He was 'son', 'boy', 'welp', 'toy'. He was stupid and ugly and wrong all over. What was a name worth?
If he could really—really become strong.
Not just stronger.
But strong.
His breath drowned out every other thought. And the moonlit path blinked out beneath his feet.
A dry thud brought him back—dirt in his teeth and stones digging into his cheek. The cedars that lined the road now ate away the sky. So that's what the world looked like to an ant…
"…quitting, boy?" The man's voice rumbled between the ground and his ear. He didn't even sound surprised—and that… that stung worse than the fall.
Jaw tight to the brink of cracking, the boy dragged himself up. He tugged his hood straight, fixed his straw boots so his feet wouldn't wiggle as much inside. His white-blue toes nearly poked through the worn weave. He couldn't stop people from leaving. But maybe he could stop them from getting hurt—or hurting others. No, he thought. He would stop them. He would stop them all.
So, one step in front of the other… he followed.
The woods finally parted as the mountain path slithered down to a small, thatch-roofed village nestled between the hills. Past the ridge, the wind had eased to a lull, and below, the air hung thick and warm with woodsmoke—even if only a thin, white ribbon still curled above the rooftops. The moon was high, the gates shut, and two guards huddled by a crackling fire inside the watch post.
"Cold, isn't it?" his master greeted as he stepped into the firelight—startling one of the guards into dropping his pipe straight into the flames.
The chuckle slipped out before the boy could stop it. Red-faced, the man's glare killed it mid-breath. Stupid. He knew better than that.
He backed into the shadows, letting his grown-up do its thing. They'd talk. Show papers. The oxcart would creak through, and the men would head for the inn with the cheapest booze they could find. That's how it always went.
But this time, there was no caravan.
No papers.
No oxcart.
He hugged himself for whatever warmth was left in his robes.
"The stink's the whelp there?" one of the guards craned his neck towards him with a hand on the hilt of his sword. "Smells like death."
The boy froze.
Fingers digging into his elbows, he shrank deeper into himself—as if that could drown the stench of blood and mud and rot and piss. But before either guard could step forward, his master scoffed over his shoulder. "Ah. The stupid boy dumped a bucketful of fish guts on himself."
Liar! the redhead wanted to cry, but the man wouldn't shut up.
"Took me half the night to scrub it off. Know any inns that won't gag here 'round Nozoki?"
The guards exchanged a look—then snorted. The boy didn't even try to understand the joke. Something else had knocked him sideways.
Nozoki.
You can play with the whelp when we get to Nozoki.
His hand balled on Sakura's sleeve as he sought her gaze with wide, teary eyes. He didn't want to get to Nozoki.
The weight of his master's stare snapped him back.
Pale, cold, and sweating beneath his hood, the boy tried to hold the man's gaze as he glanced over his shoulder. But the world spun so fast, it smeared around him.
He wanted to puke.
His breath broke into shaky, shallow white puffs as he swallowed it all down again. The guards were there. His master was there. He couldn't—just couldn't let it show.
He ducked past the guards and followed when the gates creaked open.
The wooden lanterns flickered dimly along the road, like so many tiny houses. It was barely enough to cast the smallest bit of color on his hands—but enough to fight back the deep blue black of the walls and roofs that tightly flanked the road. He peered into the dark latticed windows, heart thumping hard against his ribs. It would be any moment now when a wicked pair of eyes would glint on the other side, when a greedy hand would spring from a rotted corner and grab and yank and strike until he couldn't even cry anymore.
But neither happened.
Nothing dared to move behind his master's cloak.
He wanted to let out the breath he was holding. But all the air left him instead.
Lucky for him, a bucket of ice-cold water slammed into his ribs hard enough to remind him how to breathe.
"Don't go dying on me now, boy," his master growled, holding him upright against the edge of a well.
Teeth clattering, the redhead twisted about, trying to flee—but where?
The man's hand wouldn't let go though, as the other started scrubbing vigorously at his robe. "I'll get you a good bowl of porridge and pickled plums after," the man continued, and the promise made the boy's stomach growl. "Just gotta get you past the door without raising a stink…"
Shivering and soaked through, the boy scowled. He stopped smelling himself a good while ago—but at his feet, thick blotches of black and gray bled off his clothes. Still...
"No stink!" he denied, and it came louder than intended in the silent street.
His master cocked an eyebrow in response.
He hated that man.
But as he stood up, unceremoniously tossing the wooden bucket aside with a curt 'Let's go', the boy followed anyway.
A/N
Ok, here we start diverging. Kind of. This is a slow, thorough look at the first hours since the boy is taken in. There will be f*-ups, yes; but this time I'm trying to take my time to explore these guys. From here on, the story will split from canon. Wildly. I hope it's good enough to be worth your time.
Speaking of f*-ups, let me know if I fudged anything (grammar-wise and whatnot). Really, I'll be really mad if you can't enjoy the ride because of my dumb-ass writing.