I'm following Xaveon at what I've learned is the optimal distance over the past few weeks–close enough to keep her in sight, far enough to avoid her irritation, on the ground, while she is at roof-height. She isn't noticeable but I know where to look. Sometimes I manage to catch up to her and then I try to convince her, show her how I could be useful or try to make her feel sorry for me. So far I have not been successful and I fear that she will eventually snap, but I just can't give up.
We pass through the empty, quiet, wealthier section of the poor parts of the city. We are leaving the slums, which is unusual for Xaveon, as she usually stays in one district there, called "The Narrows", which is where she first found and saved me. Even in the early evening gloom, the shop windows glow with warm light, displaying treasures that might as well be on the moon for all the chance someone like me has of owning them.
Then i see a dress.
It hangs in the window of a seamstress's shop, pale blue silk that shimmers like water in the lamplight. The neckline is modest but elegant, and the skirt falls in graceful folds that would flutter beautifully in the wind. It's the kind of dress a princess might wear to a garden party, or a young lady might choose for her first formal dance.
It's beautiful. More beautiful than anything I've ever seen.
And suddenly, desperately, I need Xaveon to have it.
The thought comes from nowhere and everywhere at once. She spends her nights in those torn rags, fabric so stained and threadbare it's barely holding together. Just like she is the only beautiful thing I have seen in these slums, I want her to have something beautiful for herself too. Something to match her otherworldly grace. I had wanted to give her something in return since I first saw her, but I had and still have absolutely nothing. Maybe giving this as an offering will make her soften up to me.
I know it's foolish. I know she probably has no use for pretty dresses, no occasions to wear them, probably no desire for such human things. But the image of her in that blue silk, the way it would complement her pale skin and dark wings, fills my mind and won't let go.
The shop is closing. Through the window, I can see the seamstress banking the fire and gathering her tools. In a few minutes, the place will be empty and dark, protected only by a lock that looks substantial but probably isn't.
I wait in the shadows across the street, watching until the seamstress emerges and disappears into a busier street. Then I wait a little longer, making sure she's not coming back for anything forgotten.
The lock is easier than I expected. A few minutes with the bent wire that I carry around and the mechanism gives way with a soft click. The door swings open on silent hinges, revealing the dark interior of the shop.
The dress comes off its display hook easily. The silk is so delicate it practically glides against my fingers, soft and cool and perfect. I fold it carefully, trying not to wrinkle the delicate fabric, and tuck it inside my threadbare jacket.
I'm at the door when the patrol spots me.
"Hey! You there!" The shout comes from the street, followed immediately by the sound of heavy boots on cobblestones. "Stop right there!"
I run.
Through the merchant quarter and into the twisting maze of the slums, my feet finding familiar paths by instinct alone. Behind me, the guards give chase, their shouts echoing off the narrow walls and drawing more attention than I can afford.
As the patrols don't usually go far into the slums, I know these streets better than they do, know shortcuts and hiding places they'll never think to check. But the puffy dress is slowing me down, the bulk of it under my jacket making movement awkward, and I can hear them getting closer.
A crossbow bolt shatters on the brick wall next to my head, sending small stone and wood fragments stinging against my cheek. They're not planning to arrest me–they're planning to kill me. Dead thieves don't require paperwork or trials.
I dodge down an alley I know leads to a dead end, hoping to confuse them, then scramble up a rusting fire escape to the rooftops. My lungs burn and my legs shake with exhaustion, but I keep moving. I have to keep moving.
Another bolt, this one close enough to tear through the edge of my jacket. They've followed me up somehow, or maybe there were more of them than I thought. Either way, I'm running out of options.
That's when the darkness falls.
It drops over the rooftop suddenly and completely. The guards' shouts turn to screams, then to wet, choking sounds that make my stomach turn. When the darkness lifts a moment later, I'm alone except for Xaveon, who crouches over the twisted remains of what used to be three city guards.
"You incredible fool," she snarls, turning to face me with eyes that burn bright with fury. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"
I try to answer, but no words come. The adrenaline is leaving my system, leaving me shaky and sick and suddenly aware of how badly I've messed up.
"Guards will come looking for them," she continues, advancing on me. "They'll ask questions, investigate. You've made my hunting harder, more dangerous. All because you decided to play thief in the middle of the merchant quarter."
"I'm sorry," I manage, though I know that won't change anything. "I didn't think–"
"No, you didn't think. You just acted on whatever stupid impulse crossed your tiny brain." She takes another step closer, and I can smell the blood on her breath. "Do you understand what this means? Do you have any concept of what you've just cost me? Guards dying here will bring attention. Real attention. Not the lazy patrols who ignore slum deaths, but actual investigations."
She's right, and I know it. I've put her at risk for something stupid and pointless. But as I look at her fury-bright eyes and the way she holds herself ready to strike, I realize I might have done something worse than just attracting unwanted attention.
I might have given her a reason to kill me.
"What did you steal?" she demands. "What was so important that you risked both our lives for it?"
With trembling hands, I pull the dress from inside my jacket. The silk unfolds, catching what little light filters down from the cloudy, almost completely black now, sky. Even here, surrounded by blood and the smell of death, it's beautiful.
"A dress?" Xaveon stares at the garment in disbelief. "You brought death to my doorstep for a fucking dress?"
"It's for you," I whisper, slightly surprised she swore.
The words seem to enrage her further. She steps back, wings flaring, and for a moment her expression is pure fury.
"For me?"
"I thought... I thought you might like to have something pretty that wasn't torn or stained or falling apart. I wanted to give you something nice. Something that showed you matter to me." The explanation sounds pathetic even to my own ears. "I… I know it's stupid. But when I saw it, all I could think about was how you'd look wearing–"
"I don't want your gifts!" Her voice cracks like a whip. "I don't want your stupid human sentimentality! I want to survive, and you've just made that infinitely harder!"
"I just wanted–"
"I don't care what you wanted!" She's breathing hard now, her whole body trembling with rage. "You see me as what? Some charity case who needs pretty dresses? Some pet monster you can pamper and play house with?"
"No, I–"
"Every time I show you the smallest bit of tolerance, you take it as permission to endanger us both!" She gestures at the corpses. "This is what your kindness costs. This is what your good intentions buy. Well, congratulations. Your generosity could have gotten me killed!"
Without warning, she strikes me across the face.
It's not a killing blow. If it were, I'd be dead before I felt it. But it's hard enough to send me sprawling, hard enough to make my head spin and to split my lip.
"You stupid, selfish child," she hisses. "You think I need your gifts? And of all things you stole that? You think I care about human vanity?"
I push myself up on my elbows, spitting blood. "I'm sorry," I say again, knowing how inadequate it sounds. She gives me a look that makes it clear she also thinks it's inadequate, at the least. She seems conflicted whether to yell or hit me again. She grits her teeth as if it's supposed to help in keeping back her rage and the many things she seems to want to say. Finally she looks at the dress, still clutched in my bloody hands.
"That ridiculous thing is evidence now. Anyone who sees it will know you were the thief they were chasing. And If I wore it I would be much more noticeable from the rooftops."
Before I can react, she takes the dress, balls up the silk and tosses it over the edge of the roof, letting it fall into the alley below.
I just look dumbfounded at the precious object that we had just gone through so much to get, now on the dirty ground.
"Your gift was stupidity wrapped in silk," she says, turning to me with a cold but furious look. "This was the last straw. Stay away from me. Don't follow me anymore. Don't try to find me. You're nothing but trouble, and I won't die because you can't understand that the world doesn't care about your feelings."
She spreads her wings, preparing to take flight, and I know this is it. This is where she abandons me, leaves me to face whatever comes next on my own.
"Xaveon, please–"
"Don't." Her voice cuts through my plea. It's just one word, cold and final, but it feels like she just announced my death sentence. I guess she kind of did.
I've lost the only good thing in my worthless life. The tears come suddenly, hot and shameful, as everything I've been holding back finally breaks free.
"I'm sorry," I sob, the words pouring out in a rush of desperation. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I don't know what to do anymore. I'm always running, always scared, always making everything worse."
She pauses, one foot already on the roof's edge, wings half-spread.
"I have no one," I continue, the words torn from somewhere deep in my chest. "My father and my mother are gone, I am alone and cold and hungry and beaten all the time. I just... I just wanted to do something right for once. Something that would make you think I was worth keeping around."
My voice breaks on the admission, and I press my face into my hands, ashamed of the tears but unable to stop them. I have managed to not cry before her, but can't stop now.
"I'm pathetic," I whisper. "I'm useless and pathetic and everyone would be better off if I just disappeared. I'm sorry for being trouble. I'm sorry for being worthless. I'm sorry for everything. Maybe… I should just die."
Fresh sobs tear from my throat, and I curl into myself, trying to become small enough to disappear entirely. I just cry and cry for who knows how long and when I finally look up, she's gone. Disappeared into the night sky, leaving me alone with the bodies and the crushing certainty that I've just lost the only person who had shown me any kindness here, in this hell.