#I've been a complete loon for the past couple days but now that it's 4 am after christmas I have centered myself

[way-to-the-future]

Crooked from the prompt list owo

The aqueduct cut an erratic path over the pitiable adobe hovels that tumbled over one another like boulders on a great hillside in Drybrush, collapsing into the murky valley of Pearl Lane below. Water seldom flowed through its courses – only after the monsoons, when the cisterns filled almost to bursting and the city streets, usually parched, were slacked with the dust-choked overflow. Built by a publicly-minded – or at least public-facing – cousin of the house of Ul some decades hence, the staggering, slanted work of Ul’dahn engineering mediocrity was left to decay almost immediately. Even for a flash in the pan of royal generosity, though, it had a distinctly poor reputation among the lower orders. Invariably the porous limestone used in its construction sucked up more of the water than it carried, which it proceeded to sweat over the course of days onto the sagging roofs below. Yet even more concerning for the local homeowner was the haven it provided for the street rats, for the scamps nimble and unwise enough to attempt to scale its clumsy, idiosyncratic edifice and run hollering their japes and curses over the heads of so many beleaguered residents.

               Of course, to a guttersnipe like Castor, one man’s tragedy of public spending was another man’s own personal trans-urban hideaway. Personal, except for the gang of dirty, bedraggled children that regularly draped across the sunbaked stone like so many Hannish macaques, challenging one another to feats of acrobatics and derring-do that, they assured one another, would put hair on their chests. These children, hair slick to their heads with sweat or sticking out at odd angles, were nominally some of Castor’s closest friends, though the thorny politics normally associated with having eleven summers and not much else tended to corrupt that notion. Any given day, one of them could become the subject of the afternoon’s ridicule, a position whose duties would be relieved only after the sun went down. Whether they served as the object of the hitting game or merely the meanest ribbing the group was capable of varied depending on the mood and the particular predilections of tormenters and tormentee.

               For Castor, the daily informal drawing of lots – a process decided by whoever managed to say the first dull thing after lunch – was a complicated dance. In point of fact, it was not merely enough to not say anything; the less he said, the more likely someone was to point out how funny he looked, compared with the rest of the gaggle of urchin kids. Even when days of ceaseless sun put a muddy, freckled tan on his back, his shock of snow white hair marked him. How often had Athulf called him snowdrop, or Imelda poked fun at his odd name and his short stature? It was a mercy that none of them had said what their parents whispered to one another as they hung laundry, what made his mother tense her shoulders and turn her face as she hurried home in the evenings. “Don’t be out after dark,” she chided him. “Folk aren’t as kind as you think.” It was a familiar warning, but it had somehow grown more grave in the time since father passed.

               Castor was under no illusions that Athulf was kind. But he was bigger, and funnier, and – in many ways – more normal. In a borough full of Ala Mhigan whelps who’d never seen the homeland, it made him a crucial ally. It was in light of this that Castor broke the key convention – not to comfort the tormented – and found himself sitting a respectful distance from the ruddy haired bully, watching him bawl his eyes out. It had been a rare day. Mighty Athulf, whose steps shook their earth of their small world, had tipped his hand; he was fond of Imelda, and despite her unheard protests, the court of public opinion had turned against the match. The other boys pushed Athulf around, calling him a softie among other, crueler things, while the girls consoled Imelda that she didn’t have to like big, dumb, Athulf too. Now he and Castor were perched on the lip of the aqueduct as the stars hung above. Athulf, so cruel in victory, clutched the bruises on his arms and nursed others that would not heal as quickly, choking desperate, uneven sobs from his sore throat.

               “Hominī ēvictō, clēmentiam praebētō.” It was the sort of thing father was often fond of saying, in the evening when he would gather Castor into his lap and sit observing the hearth, his meerschaum pinned between his teeth. It meant that, as Castor was older, he had to be nice to Athulf when he was feeling sad. Dead fool as father was, it hadn’t seemed right to just up and leave Athulf alone when all the others left, never mind that Athulf would’ve – and had – certainly done the same to him.

               “Oi,” Castor called, after what seemed an appropriate amount of whimpering. “… D’ya really fancy Imelda?” The big Ala Mhigan boy shot him a look equal parts enraged and hurt, stifling another cry between his bared teeth. “What’s it to do with ye, snowdrop?”

               “Gar, Thulf, ain’t askin’ fer jollies. D’ya fancy ‘er, or not?” Castor cocked his head, hugging his knees to his chest. He prepared himself to spring – if Athulf came after him, he had to be ready to run, even along the whole length of the aqueduct.

               To Castor’s surprise, however, Athulf didn’t yet move to strike him. Instead, he merely hugged his broadening shoulders, sniffling pathetically. “Aye.”

               Restraining himself from the amused surprise of his compatriots, Castor nodded slowly. “S’posin’ as she’s pretty.” She was not, particularly, thought Castor. Though to say as much did not seem to be much help at this time.

               “None of your business what she is.” Athulf’s rebuke was swift. Eyes narrowed, he turned to Castor, leaning on one hand and pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Ye don’t fancy ‘er, do ye?”

               “Thal, I ain’t said that. I were just sayin’.”

               “Right.” Athulf turned back to watch the dark streets below.

               The silence hung thick.

               “Folk didn’t like that me Da liked me Ma.”

               Athulf wheeled on Castor, suddenly blistering fury. “What’d ye say?!”

               “Gar, I just said as –“

               “Don’t ya make me out like ye, or yer bloody pa!”

               “But –“ Castor scrambled to his feet as Athulf drew closer.

               “It ain’t the bloody same! My pa says so!” Athulf advanced, making to seize Castor. “Everybody knows yer just a damned mutt!”

               Red. Redder than the color of his mother’s hair, of the few turning locks that drooped from his brow that proved Athulf’s point. Redder than the scarlet silks of the street dancers’ gowns, than filched strawberries, than a splatter of gore on dry, hard earth three years past. Castor’s hands turned to claws, and went forward of their own accord, supported by thin, wiry arms. The perfunctory sound of skin against skin, and a clipped cry of alarm. Seconds later, a dull thud, far below. Castor opened his eyes – or maybe just regained his sight as anger turned to surprise.

               In the dark below, Athulf cried, a heartbreaking, heartbroken sound. Through sudden tears, Castor saw him laid out on the roof below the aqueduct. Something was wrong about his shape; ah. There it was. His back was crooked.

#I 100% went overboard with this #And it's nowhere near as interesting as I think it is #hey look baby castor before his my fair lady transformation #yes castor's dad smoked with his kid in his lap it's called /paternalism/ #asks and answers #narrative #thanks ranka #I've been a complete loon for the past couple days but now that it's 4 am after christmas I have centered myself #mens sana