"A child is born. Ethereal given form. A soul shackled by mud. Its journey has come to an end. It is much too late."
Responded the iris of Fadela when asked about the path to attaining power.
The alley was silent save for the muffled steps of a boy stumbling forward at a sluggish pace.
"Damn them. Damn them all. Those ruthless bastards."
He muttered under his breath with a defeated tone as he clumsily corrected his gait. His Achilles tendon was now dog's meat, which forced him to keep raising his knee high in the air or else the top of his foot would scrape across the damp soil.
The child's head wobbled with each step he took, fault of a neck too weak and thin to balance it. This caused his brain to pummel against his skull something fierce, like a prisoner banging his cell for want of escape. He drove his fingers into his temple and felt a protruding nerve throb against his touch with every pulse, each time renewing the feeling of a rod being thrust into his skull. And not a smooth rod, but a rugged one with splinters on each end and a serrated surface between. The boy felt its hurt behind his eye, the pain was such that he wished his heart would stop beating.
Hunger was at the root of his troubles, like his shadow, it always lingered by his side. Doused from time to time by what his right begged for and what his left stole, but not once was it fully extinguished.
The boy once thought he had grown accustomed to it, that it could no longer faze him.
He was wrong.
Three weeks have passed since his last meal, a rat of the slums — much like him — he managed to trap with a moldy chunk of bread. The boy did not complain, not just for lack of ears but because he did not wish to insult the life he took to extend his own. He was beholden to that creature, and so he gulped it gladly — yet it hardly made a dent.
Already skin and bones from years of malnourishment, the lack of food did the boy no favor as it sapped what little strength he had.
As the days passed, the toll it took on his frail body started to show as he struggled to walk, stand, or even sit without becoming dizzy and lightheaded.
He mimicked others, those who take their poverty to zeal. Crazed men who believe their suffering to be a trial and their nearing end but a door to their salvation.
The boy did not share their views. How could he, when all the time he spent in prayer, with hands extended to the sky and nostrils pressed to the earth, were rewarded with nothing but silence.
If what they claim is true, if misery was worship, is he not the most devout of all? Why then do his pleadings fall on deaf ears?
Still, even their folly had its uses as he tried their methods. Like them, he tied a rope around his stomach, hoping to relieve the pangs of hunger.
The trick worked at first, and it dulled his cravings. But the more his stomach caved in as his insides shrank and his body consumed itself, the deeper the rope sank into his flesh. Before long, his insides irked with a gnawing pain that refused to subside.
The boy first looked to his right. Even though begging made him feel lesser it was not self-worth that would soothe what ails him. But his right failed him before he could even extend it, as he found the entrance to the city closed to him.
Herds of people were being kicked out of the walled settlement into the Vagren district that sprawled around the willow hills. He learned from the chatter of the expunged masses that a procession was to take place.
The corridor, a cobbled road that cuts through the slums and leads to the gates of the hill of timber, was now barred by pain of death to all but a select few. It was clear to him that the lord of the city does not wish to stain the eyes of his guests with the sight of the starved and homeless.
And so with his right withered and limp, the child turned to his left and strived to take from others what they had. However, Vagren was like a small bowl of fruit where only the lowliest of status and most deprived of fortune dwelled. Many left hands reached into the bowl, but there was too little for them to pilfer. So it was no wonder that when the boy reached with his short, shaky arms, he found it all but empty.
Now with both hands crippled, the boy was reduced to watching helplessly as his body withered with each passing day.
That was until yesterday.
The boy knew his time was fast running out. He was no fool, no, far from it. He possessed a wisdom beyond his young age and a somber sense of reality. He knew what was coming, he could feel it in his bones.
He had to do something, before it's too late. For no one else could save him but himself and no one would even try.
The boy knew of another way into the city, a hidden path used by smugglers to smuggle goods away from watchful eyes. He resolved to risk it all in one final sortie and try to sneak into the city. Once inside he would surely find an abundance of food ripe for the taking.
The boy recognized the risks involved. That if he went through with it, he might never see the light of day again. But reason could not hold sway as he longed to satiate the hunger that plagued him.
He would rather meet his end with a full stomach than spend another day living like this.
After all, even the rat was afforded a final meal.
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The boy tired of the pursuit that lasted through the night. He could still hear the shrieking sound of whistles and the barking of hounds that were frothing at the mouth.
His long trek was evident by the many drops of blood that trailed his path, and it was longer still. Yet he kept walking forward, seemingly asleep with his eyes sealed shut. It is true that the boy's eyelids weighed heavy on him, fatigued and bloodshot from the strain of the long night. But his comfort was not the only reason he closed them, for the thick darkness that engulfed the alley made him blind to his own palm if planted to his face.
The child had no recourse against the chilling wind that slammed against his bare, narrow chest, for he had the ragged shirt that used to cover it wrapped tightly around his neck.
It was not meant to shut down his lights, although he did ponder. But to support an arm ravaged to the bone by the armaments of men and the canines of beasts.
The boy trod the line between sleep and wakefulness as he swayed forward. He swung between the two and embraced neither as he relied on the pain to keep him from dozing off. But even his suffering failed him as he dozed off mid-step, and the drop in his heel went uncorrected. Now his left foot got stabbed against a treacherous rock, and it caused him to trip and fall face first into the dirt.
His wounded arm was first to hit the ground, absorbing much of the impact. And was now lodged beneath him with all his weight crushing down on it.
The child gritted his teeth hard to contain the pain and silence his voice. He denied himself the relief of a scream, fearful of what may be lurking in the shadows.
He felt a warm saliva filling his mouth and a swarm of vomit he did not know his body could still churn out followed, seeping through his clenched teeth and covering most of his face in his own gunk.
The boy had no time for disgust and instead rushed to wiggle his left arm underneath him to relieve some of the pressure off his right. Even through the tight wraps he could feel that his wounds had reopened and he was desperate to get off his wounded arm and flip to his back or side.
With it in place, the boy then laid his palm flat on the ground and tried to push himself up.
'Geuh!'
The child let out a grunt as he pushed as hard as he could, his face reddened and his brows furled; but his strength was lacking. Soon his arm gave out from exhaustion as his vision turned foggy, and again he collapsed onto the ground.
The boy felt the heat of the slimy fluid that escaped his stomach against his cheek as he took a moment to regulate his panted breath before trying again. This time he lifted not with his hand, but with his elbow. He pushed through the pain and dizziness and dug in with his knees against the dirt, exhaling the long breath he took all the while.
This time he was able to slowly push himself up, but again his arm started wobbling under pressure. So as soon as he got enough space, the boy tilted his body to the right with all the strength he had left in him.
However, the narrowness of the alley had slipped his mind. The sharpness of the turn caused the boy to slam against the wall. His arm, locked in place over his navel by the makeshift cast, was once again the first point of contact.
Unable to deal with the cumulative pain of his wounds, the boy's brain finally had enough. It decided to shut it all down, and the boy lost consciousness.