- 35 Spring 507
Caspian is hungry.
He is 14 years old.
Those items occurred in the above order, the first of which has been his omnipresent condition since being in Sunberth.
The second item –
It shouldn’t matter, maybe. That’s what everyone here tells him about most things he cares about, at least. Taaldros had asked when his birthday was, once, at the very beginning, but it was a perfunctory thing, a matter of collecting context upon the acquiring of a new asset. Also, he had been drunk at the time, and had thought it more than a little funny to make a crass joke about perhaps being Caspian’s father all along.
Birthdays are silly things, pointless to keep track of. This is his second one here, and in fact he’d missed the first, because that week Taaldros had happened to have thrown him against the wall a mite too hard and he’d spent the next few days disoriented with, in retrospect, what might have been diagnosed – had anyone bothered to call a doctor – with a concussion.
Hunger is his reason for slowly turning the knob on his bedroom door and pulling it open the barest distance needed for him to sidle through. Any more and the hinges will squeak; his birthday is –
Not so much a reason, but a fact of the matter that has hovered in his thoughts ever since he glanced at the clock and saw that it had just passed midnight.
No one will remember it’s his birthday except him. Maybe a curbing of the gnawing of his stomach, for just one day, is the best present he could receive – and if there’s anything he’s learned from his first two harrowing years in Sunberth, it’s that if you want something, it’s up to you to go and get it.
The upper floor is dark when he eases himself through. There are three more doors on this floor, and thankfully lantern light – a sign that perhaps someone is both here and awake – spills form beneath none of them. The closest door is a bathroom; the next two, bedrooms constantly occupied by any of Taaldros’ associates and their trysts for the week. All night he had kept an ear pressed to his door, waiting for any sounds that might help him determine exactly how many people he’ll have to sneak past. Around 10 pm, someone had lumbered up the stairs, and from the heavy plodding of their footsteps and how they had fallen against the bannister, they were likely blind drunk and making the unusually wise choice of calling it a night. The other bedroom –
He frowns. He’d heard some footsteps back and forth across this floor but it was hard to say whether that person had merely been up here to fetch something and then left, or had actually retired here for the night.
Assume the worst.
That’s what Taalviel would say.
Slowly, carefully, he takes one step down the hallway, then another, testing the floorboards with the lightest pressure from his toes before planting his entire foot down. There are worse houses in Sunberth but this one has seen more than its fair share of wear and tear and whatever had happened when – according to the stories Gavir had gruffly given him the bullets on – Taaldros had decided this was where he wanted to live, and had routed out the crew who had been occupying it at the time.
He is 14 years old.
Those items occurred in the above order, the first of which has been his omnipresent condition since being in Sunberth.
The second item –
It shouldn’t matter, maybe. That’s what everyone here tells him about most things he cares about, at least. Taaldros had asked when his birthday was, once, at the very beginning, but it was a perfunctory thing, a matter of collecting context upon the acquiring of a new asset. Also, he had been drunk at the time, and had thought it more than a little funny to make a crass joke about perhaps being Caspian’s father all along.
Birthdays are silly things, pointless to keep track of. This is his second one here, and in fact he’d missed the first, because that week Taaldros had happened to have thrown him against the wall a mite too hard and he’d spent the next few days disoriented with, in retrospect, what might have been diagnosed – had anyone bothered to call a doctor – with a concussion.
Hunger is his reason for slowly turning the knob on his bedroom door and pulling it open the barest distance needed for him to sidle through. Any more and the hinges will squeak; his birthday is –
Not so much a reason, but a fact of the matter that has hovered in his thoughts ever since he glanced at the clock and saw that it had just passed midnight.
No one will remember it’s his birthday except him. Maybe a curbing of the gnawing of his stomach, for just one day, is the best present he could receive – and if there’s anything he’s learned from his first two harrowing years in Sunberth, it’s that if you want something, it’s up to you to go and get it.
The upper floor is dark when he eases himself through. There are three more doors on this floor, and thankfully lantern light – a sign that perhaps someone is both here and awake – spills form beneath none of them. The closest door is a bathroom; the next two, bedrooms constantly occupied by any of Taaldros’ associates and their trysts for the week. All night he had kept an ear pressed to his door, waiting for any sounds that might help him determine exactly how many people he’ll have to sneak past. Around 10 pm, someone had lumbered up the stairs, and from the heavy plodding of their footsteps and how they had fallen against the bannister, they were likely blind drunk and making the unusually wise choice of calling it a night. The other bedroom –
He frowns. He’d heard some footsteps back and forth across this floor but it was hard to say whether that person had merely been up here to fetch something and then left, or had actually retired here for the night.
Assume the worst.
That’s what Taalviel would say.
Slowly, carefully, he takes one step down the hallway, then another, testing the floorboards with the lightest pressure from his toes before planting his entire foot down. There are worse houses in Sunberth but this one has seen more than its fair share of wear and tear and whatever had happened when – according to the stories Gavir had gruffly given him the bullets on – Taaldros had decided this was where he wanted to live, and had routed out the crew who had been occupying it at the time.
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