2 Frost 120
The dawn had broken on a cold winter morning. His eyes cracked open despite only having a few hours of sleep between his duties in the cabaret and the now, but old habits died hard. He supposed he could have trained himself out of the old habit, killed it, hard or easy, but it was good to be able to rely upon his body. There were things that could be done on a morning more easily than any other time of day or night.
The room was dark, but he could see the faint, thin light limning the simple curtains on the window. His jaw hurt, and his shoulder, and his hip. He wasn't old, per se, but he had lived a rough life before coming to Kalzasi. If the bed was softer here, it wasn't much. And last night, he had thrown a fight to save face for a patron and a colleague, one face red with drink and anger, the other painted and frightened. So it was. He sat up and swung his legs out of bed, feet pressing against the cold, hard stone floor. Life was pain, he remembered hearing. You just get used to it. The pain wasn't bad, though. It was mere discomfort as was the chill invading his feet. He threw off the linens and stood, stretching carefully, running through each bone and muscle in turn, aware of his body, its pains and its discomforts.
With a sleepy huff, he quickly made the bed. Habit.
Instead of lighting a candle, he threw back the curtain, one less barrier to the cold, hard world outside. Habit.
He ate something without eating it, then reined in his mind when it wandered toward the Cabaret's kitchens where he could have something hot and perhaps some freshly brewed coffee or tea to make the passage from dreaming to daylight easier. Habit.
His gaze slid along the razor edge of one weapon mounted on the wall, not winking back at the sharp points of others. They were all peasant weapons, easily passed off as mere tools. Dress for the part you must play, he remembered hearing. Equip yourself for the work you must do. So he dressed, slinging the kukri in a sheath at the small of his back because he wasn't an idiot, then pulled his cloak over his shoulders. He could have gone back to sleep or packed himself a hookah and relaxed for the day in the Cabaret, largely unoccupied at this hour, but he remembered hearing things, and so he went outside and locked the door.
⁜
Run, boy, run! This world is not made for you
Run, boy, run! They're trying to catch you
Run, boy, run! Running is a victory
Run boy run! Beauty lays behind the hills
⁜
Barefoot, he pelted down the street, the flagstones warm and solid and smelling of sunlight under the various and sundry smells of the City. His heart raced and soared. In one hand, he held what he had stolen. The other hand caught a pole, curving his momentum until he was careening down a side street. He didn't so much climb as he just ran up the detritus at the end of the alley, bouncing from crate to box to ledge like they were stairs and jumping over the wall with what might have seemed like suicidal confidence. Only a skinny tom cat paid him much heed, though, watching him with predatory eyes to be sure his velocity was no threat.Run, boy, run! This world is not made for you
Run, boy, run! They're trying to catch you
Run, boy, run! Running is a victory
Run boy run! Beauty lays behind the hills
⁜
The boy knew these streets like he knew his own veins, the ebb and flow of traffic as familiar as the blood rushing to and from the engine of his pounding heart. He knew there were sacks full of things to break his fall, and he pulled his feet up so they wouldn't catch, tucking and rolling, and bouncing back to his feet as he began to decelerate such that the only evidence of his flight when he came out the other side and onto a quayside street was the flush of his cheeks and the breath he was pulling back into control.
⁜
Run, boy, run! The sun will be guiding you
Run, boy, run! They're dying to stop you
Run, boy, run! This race is a prophecy
Run, boy, run! Break out from society
⁜
Kalzasi controlled the land beyond its walls. Houses great and minor had their lands and towns and defensible fortresses to stretch that control, make it visible, though control was ultimately more of an idea than anything else. Perhaps they did control things up to a point, but there were always weaknesses, feints to be made, events to be twisted around, and people molded. Control could disappear in an instant. Perhaps it was different for powerful mages, for Dragon Gods, and Mistlords. Aurin didn't know about that, but he assumed the things that he knew to be true would be true in other situations too, even if they looked different.Run, boy, run! The sun will be guiding you
Run, boy, run! They're dying to stop you
Run, boy, run! This race is a prophecy
Run, boy, run! Break out from society
⁜
He considered the mountains for a moment, gauging his own body and what he was capable of today. He considered the lake, and made his choice. He was far enough along the road that nobody was around to glance askance as he pulled off his cloak and then his shirt, quickly bundling it such that he could sling it over his shoulder tightly enough that it wouldn't bounce and throw off his stride, loosely enough that it wouldn't restrict his movement.
The cold caressed him like a lover, sharpening his nipples and turning his fair skin so pale and bluish that his freckles, his hair, and his eyes were stark and dark against it. Despite the prickle of gooseflesh on his skin, he was warm from the walk out of the city, and he quickly stretched again, leaning into the aches and pains earned on the job the night previous, loosening up just enough and then he was off, his boots light on the ground as he ran along Lake Udori.
⁜
Tomorrow is another day
And you won't have to hide away
You'll be a man, boy!
But for now, it's time to run, it's time to run!
⁜
"She's back," they said. He was running before the rest even registered; then it did, and he ran harder.Tomorrow is another day
And you won't have to hide away
You'll be a man, boy!
But for now, it's time to run, it's time to run!
⁜
"It doesn't look good."
In no time, his shirt was clinging to his skin. The humidity was no joke at any time of year, but that night, the air was so thick and muggy, one could practically drink it. The weather made tourists easier to beggar and beguile, made it more difficult to exert oneself, but he was born and bred to it, raised and trained to be exceptional in difficult circumstances.
The air he sucked in carried the scents of the city, redolent with spice here, river fish there, human scent in crowded spots where people were still shuffling home from a long day of work, honest or dishonest, only some of them anointed with scented oils that could either help mitigate scent or just add more information to the dizzying kaleidoscope for the senses that was this city. His mind took note of these things because he had been trained to take note of these things. Details mattered. Knowledge helped weave a convincing illusion of control. And, at the very least, when something was off, he knew something was wrong.
Something was wrong.
She didn't wear wisteria, but he could smell it as soon as he entered the room, as sure as he could smell her blood.
"Ava," the man was saying, but he stopped, turning to follow as her eyes cut to the door, to him. "Aurin."
"Get him out of here," she grated, coughing up blood. Her deadly body looked to be in deadly straits on the table, looking like a sacrifice to some bloodthirsty god.
"Aurin," the man said again, sounding terribly sure and capable even with her blood on his shirtfront, on his hands. Hands came from behind him, hands more expert than his own, pinioning him in such a way that he couldn't lash out if he wanted to. They pulled him back toward the door.
"You hit like a bitch!" he spat at what little he could see of her on the other side of his father's form, turning away from Aurin. He heard her laughing.
The door closed.
⁜
Run, boy, run! This ride is a journey to
Run, boy, run! The secret inside of you
Run, boy, run! This race is a prophecy
Run, boy, run! And disappear in the trees
⁜
He was a strange sight to merchants and other travelers on the road. He noted their curious or incredulous glances because he was trained to notice things. Nothing flagged danger. Nothing clicked like a lock, opening a door and letting out his violence, his trained reactions, his feelings.Run, boy, run! This ride is a journey to
Run, boy, run! The secret inside of you
Run, boy, run! This race is a prophecy
Run, boy, run! And disappear in the trees
⁜
He was just a man running. In his mind, perhaps, he was chased by pickpocketed marks. He was running from ghosts. But he needed something to run toward or he didn't know how to pace himself, how to dole out his energy, his self, to complete a goal, to survive to run another day. The sun had shifted. He had been running. He knew how long because he was trained to remember these things, to know what he had to work with. He marked a boulder. It wasn't a red-haired woman; it was just a boulder along the lakeside.
Aurin picked up his pace, sprinting now.
⁜
Tomorrow is another day
And you won't have to hide away
You'll be a man, boy!
But for now, it's time to run, it's time to run!
⁜
"How do you do it?" he asked when he could breathe enough to speak. He was taller now, his legs as long as hers though he wasn't fully grown. She was as hard as any slaver. She called him her adversary. His birth had cost her body, or so she claimed. She was more deadly now than she had been ever before to hear people speak who had been there. His life cost her something, apparently, because love was a vulnerability. But here she was training him. Here she was, still married to his father.Tomorrow is another day
And you won't have to hide away
You'll be a man, boy!
But for now, it's time to run, it's time to run!
⁜
It was fucked. He knew that. He just didn't know what he would change that could make things better and not make everything fall apart like a house of cards.
In some things, he was growing old enough, strong enough, that he had an edge on her — one edge that hardly matched her training and determination, but it was enough to infuriate her, inasmuch as she had feelings that one could read.
"I never plan to come back," she said. Short sentences allowed her to speak clearly, exuding strength, as she gathered herself after the endurance training. Seeming was important. Illusion was control. Or control was an illusion. Or both. "I know I will. I'm good at what I do. But at some point, you make a decision. You don't hold back. You don't save anything. You don't save anything to get back."
⁜
Tomorrow is another day
And when the night fades away
You'll be a man, boy!
But for now, it's time to run, it's time to run!
⁜
He doubled over, one hand braced against the boulder. Dry heaving, it seemed enough time had passed that his meager breakfast had digested enough that his body wasn't giving it up. The cold air burned his skin. He commanded his body to comply. Crouching by the lake, he scooped handfuls of water up to his mouth. One mouthful at a time so his body wouldn't rebel. He took a moment to gauge himself, took one more handful to become a mouthful, and then he was standing.Tomorrow is another day
And when the night fades away
You'll be a man, boy!
But for now, it's time to run, it's time to run!
⁜
Then he was walking.
He pulled a bite to eat out of his bundle and ate on the move. He might not be running now, but he was moving. To stop moving in the cold would invite danger. The cold would get him or, worse, inertia. He wasn't sure if he had made the decision. There was enough in him to get back to the city, to get back to his little house, to wash himself, eat, drink, nap, and put his mask on for work at the Cabaret that evening.
He couldn't stop moving. Habit.
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