Someone To Believe In, Someone To Trust
by SalientLane
The Tale of Meric Hollowfield and Tully Kingfisher
Meric Hollowfield stood in the orphanage's stone archway, watching the new boy who hunched alone on a bench in the courtyard. The boy's shoulders curved inward like a shield, his tousled black hair falling across his face as he stared at the ground beneath his feet. Meric knew that posture well – the careful folding of oneself into the smallest possible space, the hope of becoming invisible. He'd worn it himself once, back when he first arrived. Three years later, at twelve, Meric had outgrown the need to disappear, but something about this new arrival tugged at a memory he thought he'd buried.
The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the courtyard's worn cobblestones. Other children darted about in play, their voices rising and falling like waves against the orphanage walls, but the new boy remained apart, untouched by their energy. Meric watched as two older boys skirted around the bench, eyeing the newcomer with predatory interest. One whispered something that made the other snicker. Meric's jaw tightened. He knew what would come next – the testing, the taunts, the establishment of the pecking order that ruled their little world.
Before he realized it, Meric had crossed the courtyard. "They'll ring the bell for supper soon," he said, stopping beside the bench. "Best to be at the front of the line."
The boy looked up, and Meric was struck by the depth of blue in his eyes – a blue like the winter sky, clear but somehow distant. Tear tracks had dried on his cheeks.
"I'm not hungry," the boy said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"You will be," Meric replied, settling beside him on the bench. "I'm Meric."
"Tully. Tully Kingfisher." The name emerged reluctantly, like something precious he didn't want to share.
"How long have you been here?" Meric asked, though he already knew the answer. A day, maybe two at most. The rawness was still evident in every line of the boy's body.
"Since yesterday." Tully's fingers twisted in his lap, nails bitten to the quick. "My mother died. She was sick for a long time."
The words hung between them, simple and devastating. Meric nodded, allowing silence to acknowledge what platitudes couldn't touch. He'd heard variations of this story countless times within these walls, yet each one carried its own particular weight of grief.
"The rector says I'll sleep in the common room," Tully continued, staring at his hands. "With the little ones."
Meric frowned. The common room housed eight beds, typically assigned to the youngest boys or newest arrivals. It was cold, drafty, and ruled by the informal hierarchy that developed whenever boys were packed too tightly together. Tully, at ten and already showing signs of vulnerability, would be an easy target.
"Wait here," Meric said, rising from the bench with sudden purpose. He felt Tully's questioning gaze follow him as he crossed the courtyard toward the administrative wing.
The rector's office smelled of beeswax and parchment, with a hint of the tobacco the man favored in his pipe during evening hours. Rector Caldwell looked up from his ledger when Meric entered, his bushy eyebrows rising in mild surprise.
"Hollowfield? I don't recall summoning you."
"No, sir." Meric stood straight, shoulders back the way the rector had taught him. "I've come to make a request."
Rector Caldwell set down his pen, folding weathered hands atop the ledger. "Go on, then."
"The new boy, Tully Kingfisher. I'd like him to room with me instead of in the common quarters."
The rector's expression shifted from surprise to skepticism. "Your private room is a privilege earned through years of exemplary behavior, Meric. Why would you sacrifice your solitude for a boy you've hardly met?"
Meric had asked himself the same question on the walk to the rector's office and found no logical answer – only the certainty that he couldn't leave Tully to face the common room alone.
"His mother just died, sir. The common room will be hard on him."
"Life is hard, Hollowfield. You know that better than most." The rector's voice was not unkind, merely factual. "Besides, your room has but one narrow bed. You'd be cramped."
"We'll manage, sir." Meric held the older man's gaze without wavering. "Please."
Rector Caldwell studied him for a long moment, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "This is an unusual request from a boy who's always valued his privacy. You may come to regret this generosity."
"I won't, sir."
"Hmm." The rector tapped a finger against the ledger. "Very well. We do have limited beds, so this would be a help to us. I'll have the Kingfisher boy's things moved to your quarters. But remember, Meric – you'll be responsible for him. If he causes trouble, it reflects on you."
"I understand, sir. Thank you."
The bell rang for supper just as Meric returned to the courtyard. Tully remained on the bench, looking smaller somehow in the fading light.
"Come on," Meric said, offering his hand. "You're rooming with me now."
Tully's eyes widened. "What?"
"I spoke to the rector. You'll stay in my room instead of the common quarters."
"Why?" The suspicion in Tully's voice was palpable, the wariness of a child who'd learned that kindness often came with hidden costs.
Meric shrugged, hand still extended. "Because I want to help. And because I know what it's like to be new here."
After supper, as darkness settled over the orphanage like a heavy blanket, a soft knock came at Meric's door. Tully stood in the corridor, clutching a small bundle wrapped in faded cloth – all that remained of his former life.
"The matron said to come here," he said uncertainly.
Meric stepped aside. "Come in. It's your room too now."
The space was modest – a narrow bed against one wall, a small desk beneath the window, a trunk for clothing, and a shelf lined with books Meric had collected over the years. Nothing extravagant, but it was his, earned through years of good behavior and hard work.
"Where will I sleep?" Tully asked, eyeing the single bed.
"We'll share," Meric said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "I don't mind."
Tully set his bundle on the desk, unwrapping it carefully to reveal a carved wooden horse, a small book with a cracked spine, and a woman's silver hairpin. He arranged these treasures with deliberate precision, his fingers lingering on the hairpin.
"My mother's," he said softly, without looking up.
Meric busied himself with turning down the bed, giving Tully the privacy to compose himself. As the night deepened, they settled side by side on the narrow mattress, Meric pressed against the wall to give Tully more space.
The first sob came just as the bells tolled nine. Tully tried to stifle it, his entire body tensing with the effort to contain his grief. Meric felt each suppressed tremor through the thin mattress they shared.
With careful gentleness, Meric placed his hand on Tully's back, feeling the knobs of his spine through his nightshirt. He said nothing, simply let his hand rest there, a silent assurance: You are not alone.
Tully rolled over, his face wet with tears he was desperately trying to control. "I'm s-sorry," he whispered.
"It's all right to cry if you need to," Meric said, placing his hand upon the younger boy's shoulder. "I know how you feel. I lost my mom too, before I was sent here."
Something broke in Tully's expression then, as if permission had finally been granted. His grief poured out in earnest, tears spilling unchecked as his body shook with the force of it. Meric didn't hesitate; he pulled Tully closer, letting the younger boy bury his face against his chest.
"She was all I had," Tully whispered between sobs.
"I know," Meric murmured, his arm secure around Tully's trembling shoulders. "I know."
They stayed that way, Tully crying and Meric holding him steady, until the younger boy's breathing gradually slowed. Even as Tully drifted into exhausted sleep, Meric kept his arm protectively around him, a human shield against the darkness. He listened to Tully's breathing deepen and felt an unfamiliar warmth spread through his chest – not the discomfort of the cramped bed, but something lighter, like finding a missing piece of something he hadn't realized was incomplete.
That night, for the first time in years, Meric didn't feel alone.
The next morning, sunlight filtered through the small window of their shared room, falling across Tully's face. Meric, already awake, watched as the younger boy's eyes fluttered open, momentarily confused by unfamiliar surroundings. Then Tully's gaze settled on Meric, and something unexpected happened – he smiled. It was small and tentative, like a winter bud daring to bloom too early, but it transformed his tear-stained face. That smile hit Meric with the force of a physical thing, warming him from the inside out. He hadn't realized until that moment how desperately he'd wanted to see it.
"Morning," Tully said, his voice still rough from sleep and tears.
"Morning," Meric replied, already sliding from the bed. "We should hurry if we want hot porridge."
As they dressed, Meric noticed Tully struggling with the buttons of his shirt, fingers still clumsy with sleep. Without comment, he stepped over and fastened them, the way he imagined an older brother might. Tully ducked his head, but didn't pull away.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For last night, I mean."
Meric nodded, uncomfortable with gratitude. "Come on. I'll show you where to get the best seat in the dining hall."
The days fell into a pattern after that. During morning lessons, Meric found himself watching Tully from the corner of his eye. The younger boy was bright but hesitant, particularly when called upon to read aloud. His finger would trace beneath the words, lips moving silently before he spoke.
"Pal...palim...palimpsest?" Tully stumbled over the word, cheeks flushing as several boys sniggered behind their hands.
"Palimpsest," Meric corrected quietly from the desk beside him. "It's something written over something else that was erased."
Later, in the courtyard during their free hour, Meric pulled Tully aside with his primer. They sat beneath the gnarled apple tree, its branches still bare in the early spring air.
"Try it again," Meric encouraged. "Break it into pieces. Pal-imp-sest."
Tully's tongue worked around the syllables, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Palimpsest," he finally managed, looking up at Meric for approval.
"Perfect," Meric said, and was rewarded with another of those transformative smiles.
They moved through the orphanage's daily routines side by side – scrubbing floors in the east corridor, peeling potatoes in the sweltering kitchen, folding laundry still warm from the drying lines. Meric showed Tully how to navigate the subtle hierarchies of orphanage life: which chores to volunteer for (kitchen duty meant extra food), which to avoid (the washrooms were always coldest in winter), when to speak up and when to remain invisible.
"Why does that boy keep looking at us?" Tully whispered one afternoon as they carried firewood to the dining hall. He nodded toward a tall, broad-shouldered boy leaning against the wall, eyes narrowed in their direction.
"Edmund," Meric said, keeping his voice low. "He likes to test the new arrivals. See how much they can take."
"Oh." Tully's arms tightened around his bundle of wood.
Meric shifted his own load, positioning himself between Tully and Edmund's watchful gaze. "Don't worry about him. He won't bother you."
That evening, as Tully washed up for dinner, Meric found Edmund in the corridor outside the washroom.
"The new boy is off-limits," he said quietly, meeting the older boy's gaze without flinching.
Edmund's mouth twisted. "Gone soft, Hollowfield? Taking in strays now?"
"Just letting you know." Meric kept his voice even, but his hands curled into fists at his sides.
Something in his expression must have carried weight, because Edmund eventually looked away with a shrug. "Whatever. Plenty of other boys to keep things interesting."
After that, word spread quickly – the new boy was under Meric Hollowfield's protection. No one tested the boundaries of this arrangement, not even the older boys who might have challenged Meric on his own. His reputation for fairness, combined with the quiet intensity everyone sensed beneath his controlled exterior, was enough to shield Tully from the usual initiation that newcomers endured.
As weeks passed into months, Tully's shadow fell into perfect alignment with Meric's. Where one went, the other followed – in the corridors, the classroom, the dining hall. Some of the matrons exchanged knowing looks when the boys passed, whispering about "Hollowfield's little shadow," but Meric found he didn't mind.
Before Tully, Meric had worn his solitude like armor, keeping others at a careful distance. He'd told himself it was a choice – that he preferred his own company, his books, his quiet corner of the orphanage. Only now, with Tully's constant presence, did he recognize the loneliness that had hollowed him from the inside. He'd been hungry without knowing he was starving.
Tully brought laughter back into Meric's life. The younger boy had a talent for mimicry, capturing the rector's pompous stride or the cook's perpetual scowl with such accuracy that Meric had to bury his face in his pillow to muffle his laughter. Tully found humor in small things – a misshapen potato that resembled the mathematics teacher, a bird that seemed to follow them during yard work, the way their shadows stretched to giant proportions in the late afternoon sun.
"Do you think we'll ever get adopted?" Tully asked one night, voice small in the darkness of their room.
Meric stared at the ceiling, weighing honesty against comfort. "Probably not," he finally said. "Not many people want boys our age. They want babies or little ones."
"Good," Tully said with unexpected fierceness. "I don't want to be adopted unless they take both of us. And that won't happen."
"No," Meric agreed, something tight and warm unfurling in his chest. "It won't."
The admission should have been sad, but instead felt like a promise between them – a recognition that they had found in each other something that many never found at all. They were orphans still, but no longer alone.
Tully still had moments when grief overtook him like a sudden squall – his mother's birthday, the anniversary of her death, or sometimes for no reason Meric could identify. In those moments, Meric would sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder, offering silent companionship until the storm passed. He never told Tully not to cry or that things would get better. Instead, he remained steady, a fixed point around which Tully could navigate his grief.
"You're the best thing that ever happened to me," Tully confessed one evening as they watched the twin moons rise over the orphanage roof, their silvery light painting the courtyard in ghostly shadows. "Sometimes I feel bad about that. Like I'm forgetting her."
"You're not forgetting," Meric said, his hand finding Tully's shoulder. "You're just making room for more."
Autumn faded into winter, and winter gave way to spring. The boys' breath fogged in the cold morning air as they huddled closer beneath their shared blankets. They developed a language of their own – inside jokes, half-finished sentences the other would complete, meaningful glances that could convey entire conversations across a crowded room. The other children accepted their inseparability as a fact of orphanage life, like the creaking stairs or the bell that marked the hours.
"We're like brothers, aren't we?" Tully asked one night, his voice thick with sleep.
"Better than brothers," Meric replied, certain of this truth in his bones. "Brothers don't get to choose each other. We did."
In a very short space of time – a heartbeat, a season, the blink of an eye – Meric Hollowfield and Tully Kingfisher had become inseparable, their lives intertwined like roots of the same tree, drawing strength from the same soil, reaching for the same light.
Spring sunlight dappled the garden behind the orphanage as Meric wiped sweat from his brow. He watched Tully across the freshly turned earth, noticing how confidently the younger boy handled the tools now. Gone was the hesitant, tearful child who'd arrived at the orphanage months ago. In his place stood a boy who laughed more often, who met others' eyes without flinching. Tully caught him looking and smiled that smile – the one that made something in Meric's chest tighten pleasantly.
"I think we're finished," Meric said, resting his weight against the wooden handle of his hoe. Their section of the garden looked neat and orderly, rows of freshly planted seedlings stretching in even lines. "Rector Caldwell can't complain about this."
Tully nodded, setting his own tool aside. "Not that he won't try." He mimicked the rector's perpetually displeased expression, making Meric snort with laughter.
They settled on a low stone wall that bordered the garden, their shoulders touching comfortably. Meric felt the warmth of Tully through the thin fabric of his shirt, a now-familiar comfort. Above them, the first leaves of spring trembled on the branches, tiny and bright green against the clear blue sky.
"Can I ask you something?" Meric said after a comfortable silence had stretched between them. The question had been forming in his mind for weeks now.
"You know you can ask me anything," Tully replied, bumping Meric's shoulder with his own.
Meric hesitated, wondering if he was about to disturb the peaceful afternoon. "Would you tell me about your mother? What she was like?" He felt Tully tense slightly beside him. "Only if you want to."
Tully's eyes drifted to the distant treeline, but Meric could see he wasn't really looking at it. He was seeing something else entirely – a different time, a different life.
"She was..." Tully began, then paused, searching for words. "She was strong. Not like strong-armed or anything, but inside." His hand pressed against his chest. "She never complained, even when things got really bad. After my father left, it was just us, but she never made me feel like I was a burden."
Meric listened, watching Tully's face soften with memory. The younger boy's eyes had lost their haunted look months ago, but speaking of his mother still brought a certain vulnerability to his expression.
"She was honest. Sometimes too honest," Tully continued with a small laugh. "She'd tell me exactly what she thought, even when it wasn't what I wanted to hear. But she was gentle about it, you know? She'd say, 'Truth without kindness is just cruelty, Tully.'" His voice took on a different cadence as he quoted her, and Meric could almost hear the woman's voice beneath his friend's.
"She sounds wise," Meric said quietly.
Tully nodded. "She was. She taught me to read before I was five. Said no one could ever take knowledge away from you, even if they took everything else." His fingers traced patterns in the dust on the stone wall. "When she got sick, she made me read to her every day. Even when she was too weak to sit up, she'd listen to me stumble through stories."
A group of younger orphans ran past, their voices shrill with laughter. Meric noticed how Tully's eyes followed them, then darted back to the main building of the orphanage. He understood immediately.
"Want to go to the woods?" Meric suggested. "It's quieter there."
Relief flashed across Tully's face. "Yes."
They slipped away from the garden, crossing the low wall on the far side and making their way toward the small copse of trees that bordered the orphanage property. The woods weren't deep – just a thin belt of trees separating the orphanage from nearby farmland – but they offered the illusion of privacy, a rare commodity in their lives.
As they walked beneath the new spring canopy, Meric felt something inside him relax. Here, they weren't watched. Here, they could just be.
"You were telling me about your mother," Meric prompted, once they'd reached their favorite spot – a small clearing with a fallen log that made a perfect bench.
Tully settled beside him, close enough that their thighs pressed together. "She worked as a seamstress. Her fingers were always pricked and calloused, but she could make the most beautiful things." Pride filled his voice. "People from three villages over would bring her fabric to turn into wedding clothes. Even when she was sick, she kept working. Said idle hands made the days longer."
Meric studied Tully's profile as he spoke, noticing how his chin lifted slightly when he talked about his mother. He saw the resemblance now, not in physical features, but in something less tangible – a certain directness in his gaze, a steadiness that hadn't been there when they first met.
"You're like her," Meric said softly. "You have her strength."
Tully blinked in surprise. "Me? No." He shook his head. "I'm not strong. Not like she was."
"You are," Meric insisted. "Look how much you've changed since you came here. Remember that first night? You were so broken. But you put yourself back together."
A flush crept across Tully's cheeks. "That was because of you, not me." His voice dropped to just above a whisper. "I'm only strong because you're my friend."
The simple declaration hung in the air between them, weighted with something Meric couldn't quite name but felt in his bones. He looked at Tully – really looked at him – and saw the boy who had become the center of his world without him even realizing it was happening.
Without thinking, Meric closed the small distance between them, wrapping his arms around Tully in a tight embrace. It wasn't unusual for them to hold each other; they'd shared a bed for months, had comforted each other through nightmares and cold nights. But something was different now, a current running beneath the familiar gesture.
Tully's arms circled Meric's waist, holding him just as tightly. Then, in a movement so deliberate it couldn't be mistaken, Tully pulled back slightly, stretched his torso to reach the larger boy, and pressed his lips against Meric's.
Meric's eyes fluttered closed. The kiss was clumsy and unpracticed, just a gentle pressure of mouth against mouth, but it sent a wave of warmth spreading through his chest. Tully's lips were soft, slightly chapped, and entirely perfect.
After several heartbeats, Tully pulled away. His eyes were wide, uncertain, watching Meric's face for a reaction.
"I'm sorry," he began, words tumbling out in a nervous rush. "I shouldn't have – "
Meric pulled him back, silencing the apology with another embrace. "Don't," he murmured against Tully's hair. "Don't be sorry."
To prove his point, he tilted Tully's chin up with gentle fingers and lowered his mouth to his again. This second kiss was more certain, a question and an answer all at once. When they finally separated, both boys were breathless, their faces flushed.
"That was right," Meric said, his voice rough with emotion. "You did nothing wrong."
Tully's smile unfurled slowly, like a flower opening to the sun. "I've wanted to do that for a while," he admitted.
"Me too," Meric replied, surprised to discover it was true. "I just didn't know it."
They remained in the clearing until the dinner bell echoed faintly through the trees, calling them back to the orphanage. As they walked hand in hand through the dappled shadows, Meric felt as though something fundamental had shifted – not broken, but transformed into something new and unexplored.
And for the first time in a long time, he looked forward to what came next.
Moonlight filtered through the small window of their room, casting silver patterns across their narrow bed. Meric shifted restlessly, this spring night too warm for comfort. Beside him, Tully tossed and turned, their limbs occasionally brushing against each other in the confined space. Sleep seemed determined to elude them both.
"It gets hot in here in the summer, and it is already too hot," Meric mumbled, sitting up abruptly. He tugged his nightshirt over his head and tossed it onto the floor beside the bed, then stretched out again on his back. He laced his fingers behind his neck, letting the cooler air touch his bare chest. The heat had been building for days, turning their small room into something like an oven once the sun went down.
Tully watched him silently for a moment, then sat up and removed his own shirt with careful movements. Meric felt the mattress dip as Tully settled again, this time propped up on one elbow, facing him. Though they'd shared this bed for months, there was something different about tonight – a new awareness between them that had begun in the woods that afternoon.
"Better?" Meric asked, glancing sideways at his friend.
Tully nodded, his eyes never leaving Meric's face. The moonlight caught in his black hair, giving it a silvery sheen. "Meric?" he said softly.
"Hmm?"
"I'm not happy my mother died," Tully began, his voice steady despite the weight of his words, "but I am glad I came here. If the world were perfect, I'd have my mother still alive and you." He paused, fingers plucking absently at the thin blanket beneath them. "But I'm glad you're my brother."
Brother. The word settled strangely in Meric's chest. It was true, but also not enough – not after today, not after that kiss that had shifted something fundamental between them. He turned to face Tully fully.
"Tully. We aren't just brothers," he said, his voice low but firm. "I love you."
The words had been forming inside him for months, though he hadn't recognized them for what they were until Tully's lips had touched his own. Now, spoken aloud in the intimate darkness of their room, they felt both terrifying and absolutely right.
Tully's breath caught audibly. For a heartbeat, Meric feared he'd misunderstood, that he'd somehow broken the delicate thing growing between them. Then Tully moved closer, resting his cheek against Meric's bare chest. Meric felt the warmth of his skin, the tickle of his hair, the gentle rhythm of his breath.
"Meric..." Tully whispered, his lips moving against Meric's skin. "I love you, too. This is where I belong. With you. No matter what else."
Something tight inside Meric's chest unraveled at the words. He ran his hand up the smooth plane of Tully's back, feeling the subtle ridges of his spine, the slight rise and fall of his breathing. His fingers traced gentle patterns between Tully's shoulder blades, an instinctive caress that made the younger boy press closer.
The moonlight painted Tully's skin silver-white, making him look almost otherworldly. Meric marveled at how perfectly Tully fit against him, as if the space beside him had been waiting just for this boy. He slid his hands to Tully's ribs, beneath his chest, and pulled him even closer.
"I'm sorry you had to lose her," Meric said, the words barely disturbing the quiet night air. "I went through that too. I lost my mom, my only family, too." He remembered the hollow ache that had filled his first months at the orphanage, how he'd curled around that emptiness at night, trying to make himself small enough to disappear. "But now we have each other."
Tully lifted his head, his blue eyes catching the moonlight. Meric leaned down and kissed him again, still marveling at the newness of it, the rightness. This kiss was different from their first – more certain, less questioning. Tully's lips parted slightly beneath his, trusting and warm.
"My baby brother," Meric whispered when they separated, the words so quiet they were almost lost in the darkness. But Tully heard him; Meric could tell by the way his breath hitched, by the way his arms tightened around Meric's waist.
It was a contradiction – brother and something more – but it felt right to Meric. Tully was his to protect, to care for, but also his to love in this new, uncharted way they were discovering together. The lines blurred, but it didn't matter. What mattered was the warm solid weight of Tully against him, the trust between them, the knowledge that neither was alone anymore.
Their cuddling grew more passionate, hands exploring with innocent curiosity. Meric traced the curve of Tully's shoulder, the dip of his collarbone, the soft hair at the nape of his neck. Tully's fingers mapped the contours of Meric's chest, tentative at first, then more confident.
"I used to be so afraid," Tully confessed, his voice muffled against Meric's skin. "All the time. Even before my mother got sick. Afraid of being alone, of not being enough." He lifted his head to meet Meric's gaze. "I'm not afraid anymore. Not when I'm with you."
The simple declaration squeezed something in Meric's chest. He'd spent so much of his life feeling responsible for others, carrying burdens no one had explicitly placed on his shoulders. But with Tully, the weight felt balanced, shared. He wasn't just protecting; he was being protected in return, in ways he hadn't known he needed.
"I'll always be with you," Meric promised, the words feeling like a vow in the quiet darkness. "Whatever happens. Whatever comes next."
Tully settled against him again, his body relaxing in increments until his breathing grew deep and even. Meric stayed awake a while longer, one hand resting protectively on Tully's back, feeling the steady beat of the younger boy's heart against his own.
Outside their window, the twin moons continued their slow dance across the sky, casting their silver and blue light across the sleeping orphanage. Within their small room, wrapped in each other's arms, Meric and Tully had created something the orphanage's cold walls couldn't contain – a space that was entirely their own, built of whispered words and gentle touches, of shared grief transformed into something bright and new.
As sleep finally took him, Meric's last conscious thought was that for the first time since losing his mother, he felt completely, unreservedly whole.
Tully woke to the sound of Meric's heartbeat beneath his ear, a steady rhythm he'd come to know as well as his own. The summer air hung heavy in their small room, a blanket of warmth that had caused them to discard their nightshirts in the night. Tully kept still, savoring the feeling of Meric's bare chest rising and falling beneath him, the slight dampness where their skin pressed together. Outside, the sky darkened with approaching storm clouds, but in their narrow bed, tucked away in the furthest corner of the orphanage, Tully felt safe – if not entirely free.
He studied Meric's sleeping face and body, memorizing each detail as he'd done all the mornings before. Meric's shoulders were becoming broader, his voice a bit deeper. At thirteen, Meric was changing before Tully's eyes, growing taller and stronger with each passing season. Tully traced a finger lightly along Meric's collarbone, careful not to wake him.
In moments like these, when the orphanage still slept and they were truly alone, Tully allowed himself to imagine a different life. A small cottage perhaps, near the sea like the one he'd lived in with his mother. Just the two of them, without the rector's stern gaze or the matrons' constant supervision. Without the need to lower their voices or freeze at the sound of footsteps in the corridor. Without the fear that grew with each passing month that someone would decide two boys their age shouldn't share such a small space.
A distant rumble of thunder rolled across the sky, and Tully's thoughts drifted to the conversation they'd had last night, whispered in darkness after they were certain everyone else was asleep.
"When I'm fifteen," Meric had murmured against Tully's hair, "we can leave here. I can find work on the docks or with one of the builders in town. I'm strong enough."
"I could help too," Tully had replied, his fingers tracing idle patterns on Meric's ribs. "I'm good with numbers. Maybe a shopkeeper would hire me."
The plans were half-formed, dreamlike, but they sustained both boys through the monotony of orphanage life. Two years seemed an eternity to wait, but they had no choice. Meric wouldn't be considered old enough to live independently until fifteen, and even then, taking a thirteen-year-old Tully with him would raise eyebrows unless he claimed guardianship as an older brother.
Brother. The word no longer felt adequate for what they meant to each other.
Tully's hand drifted down Meric's side, feeling the subtle ridges of his ribs, the dip of his waist. His fingertips knew every contour of Meric's body now, mapped during stolen hours in the night when the orphanage slept around them. He remembered the first time they'd explored each other fully, trembling with nerves and excitement, breathless with the need to stay silent. How they'd discovered what made the other gasp and tense with pleasure – the sensitive skin along Meric's ribs that made him shiver when Tully's fingers brushed it lightly, the tender spot at the base of Tully's spine that sent warmth rushing through him when pressed just so.
They'd learned to make love in whispers and held breath, in touches that spoke volumes when their voices couldn't. Tully had memorized the exact pressure that made Meric bite his lip to keep from moaning, and Meric had learned how to make Tully bury his face in a pillow to muffle his pleasure. It was beautiful, and it was theirs, but it was always haunted by the fear of discovery.
Meric stirred beneath him, his breathing changing as he rose toward wakefulness. Tully felt the moment consciousness returned – the subtle tightening of muscles, the increased awareness in Meric's body. Then Meric's arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer.
"Morning," Meric murmured, voice rough with sleep. "How long have you been awake?"
"Not long," Tully replied, tilting his head up for a kiss. Meric obliged, his lips warm and soft against Tully's. "There's a storm coming."
As if to confirm his words, thunder growled again, closer now. Meric's hand traced lazy circles on Tully's back, a touch that was both comforting and stirring.
"Good," Meric said. "Maybe they'll cancel the outdoor chores."
Tully settled more comfortably against Meric's side, their legs tangled beneath the thin sheet. "I was thinking about what you said last night. About leaving when you're fifteen."
Meric's hand stilled on his back. "What about it?"
"I want that more than anything," Tully admitted. "To be somewhere we don't have to hide. Where we can..." He trailed off, suddenly shy despite their intimacy.
"Where we can what?" Meric prompted, his finger tracing the curve of Tully's ear.
"Where we can be ourselves," Tully finished. "Where I can touch you whenever I want. Where we don't have to worry about who might walk in or who might hear us."
Meric sighed, a sound that held both longing and frustration. "I want that too. I hate having to pretend that what we have is something less than it is."
The admission hung between them, weighted with shared understanding. What had begun as comfort between two orphaned boys had transformed into something neither had anticipated but both now treasured above all else.
"Do you think people would understand?" Tully asked, voicing a question that had troubled him for months. "If they knew the truth about us?"
Meric was quiet for a long moment, his fingers resuming their gentle path along Tully's spine. "Some might," he said finally. "But many wouldn't. That's why we have to be careful, especially here."
Tully nodded against Meric's chest. He'd seen how some of the older boys treated those who were different – a boy with a slight limp, another who spoke with a stutter. Cruelty found any excuse to flourish within the orphanage walls.
"I don't care what anyone thinks," Tully said with sudden fierceness. "As long as I have you."
Meric lifted Tully's chin with gentle fingers, meeting his gaze. "You have me. Always." He sealed the promise with another kiss, deeper than the first. Tully felt himself melting into it, the familiar warmth spreading through his body.
When they separated, Meric's eyes were dark with an intensity that made Tully's breath catch. "Sometimes I worry," Meric confessed, his voice low. "The older we get, the more they'll expect us to separate. They already think it's strange that we're so close."
"The rector asked me last week if I wouldn't prefer a bed in the common room now that I'm 'settled in,'" Tully said, the memory sending a chill through him despite the warm air. "I told him I was afraid of the dark."
Meric laughed softly. "Quick thinking. But he'll keep asking."
"Then we'll keep finding excuses," Tully insisted. "We're lucky to have this room. No one ever comes here unless they have to."
It was true. Their small chamber was tucked at the end of a seldom-used corridor in the oldest part of the orphanage. The ceiling sloped awkwardly, the window was drafty in winter, and the floor creaked with every step. But these imperfections had become their salvation, making the space undesirable to others while providing them with precious privacy.
Rain began to patter against the window, softly at first, then with increasing intensity. The room darkened as the storm clouds thickened overhead, creating an illusion of early evening though morning had barely begun.
"They can't separate us," Meric said, his arms tightening around Tully. "Not while we're here, and certainly not after we leave. I've been saving, you know. Every coin I can get from odd jobs in the village."
Tully raised himself on one elbow, looking down at Meric with surprise. "You have? Where do you keep it?"
Meric smiled, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from Tully's forehead. "There's a loose floorboard under the bed. I've got nearly thirty silvers now. Not enough yet, but it's a start."
Pride and love surged through Tully in equal measure. While he'd been dreaming of escape, Meric had been working toward it. "I'll help," he promised. "The baker's wife said I could help with deliveries on market days. She always gives me a few coppers."
"See? We'll make it happen." Meric's hand slid to the nape of Tully's neck, guiding him down for another kiss. This one lingered, deepening until Tully felt that familiar heat building between them. Meric's other hand moved down his back, fingers playing along the sensitive skin that never failed to make Tully shiver with pleasure.
The morning bell would ring soon, calling them to breakfast and chores. But for now, with rain drumming against the roof and thunder rolling in the distance, they created their own world beneath the thin sheet.
Tully's hands found their way to Meric's sides, his chest, his nipples, seeking out the places he knew would make the older boy's breath quicken. He loved the way Meric responded to his touch, the subtle tensing of muscles, the barely audible catch in his breath. No matter how many times they came together like this, the wonder of it never diminished.
"I love you," Tully whispered against Meric's neck, the words still new enough to send a thrill through him when spoken aloud.
"I love you too," Meric replied, his voice thick with emotion and desire. "More than anything."
Tully sat up astride Meric, as Meric stretched out on his back, fingers entwined behind his neck. Their bodies moved together with practiced ease, finding a rhythm that required no guidance. They'd learned to communicate through touch alone, a silent language of desire and restraint. Meric mirrored Tully's strategy, finding the younger boy's nipples and playing with them intensely, making Tully stifle a moan and grind his aching hardness against Meric's.
Outside, the storm intensified, rain lashing against the window and thunder cracking overhead. The weather provided a convenient cover for their quickened breathing and the soft, involuntary sounds that escaped despite their caution. As they rubbed their knobs against each other, neither boy could stand it any longer, and they erupted together, their soft moans lost under the sound of the rain.
Afterward, they lay tangled together, panting, hearts pounding together, skin damp with exertion and the summer heat. Tully rested his head on Meric's shoulder, feeling utterly content despite the constraints of their circumstances.
"Two more years," Meric murmured, his fingers combing gently through Tully's hair. "Two more years, and then we'll find our own place. Somewhere near the sea, like you want."
"With a garden," Tully added, eyes closed as he pictured it. "And a big bed that's just ours."
"And no morning bell," Meric added with a smile Tully could hear in his voice.
As if summoned by their conversation, the orphanage bell began to ring, its insistent clanging cutting through the sound of rain. Tully groaned, burying his face against Meric's neck.
"Just a little longer," he pleaded, though they both knew the consequences of being late to breakfast.
Meric pressed a kiss to Tully's forehead. "Tonight," he promised. "We'll have tonight, and every night after."
Reluctantly, they disentangled themselves from each other and the sheets. As they washed and dressed, Tully watched Meric from the corner of his eye, admiring the easy grace of his movements, the lean strength of his body. Sometimes it still amazed him that this boy – this wonderful, strong, gentle boy – loved him so completely.
"What are you thinking about?" Meric asked, catching Tully's gaze as he pulled his shirt over his head.
"Just that we're lucky," Tully replied. "Even with everything, we're lucky to have found each other."
Meric crossed the small room in two strides, pulling Tully into a fierce embrace. "The luckiest," he agreed, his voice rough with emotion. "And someday soon, we won't have to hide how lucky we are."
The second bell rang, a final warning. With a sigh, they separated, straightening their clothes and running fingers through sleep-tousled hair. They would spend the day like all others – working, studying, interacting with the other orphans and the staff. They would be careful about how they looked at each other, how close they stood, how often they sought each other out.
But underneath it all would be the knowledge that they shared something precious, something that was entirely their own. And the dream of a small cottage by the sea, where they could love each other openly, would sustain them through whatever trials the next two years might bring.
As they left their room, stepping into the corridor where they must once again pretend to be merely close friends, brothers by choice if not by blood, Tully felt Meric's hand brush against his – a brief, secret touch that said more than words ever could.
Two more years. They could endure anything for that long, as long as they had each other.
Meric counted the copper coins into his palm, adding them to the small leather pouch tucked inside his shirt. Three more for their future. The weight pressed against his chest, a constant reminder of the promise he and Tully had made to each other. Tully stood beside him, practically bouncing on his toes as Oswyn, a fisherman with a face weathered by years at sea, handed Meric a small scrap of paper.
"For the chandler," Oswyn said, his voice rough but kind. "And be sure the wax is pure. No tallow mixtures. Then straight back, lads. The mist is rolling in early."
"Yes, sir," Meric replied, carefully folding the list and tucking it into his pocket. The villagers had grown to trust them over the past months – two orphan boys who never shirked work, who arrived early and stayed late, who handled money with scrupulous honesty. Rector Caldwell had noted their diligence too, giving them more freedom to run errands in the village. What the rector didn't know was that every extra coin went into Meric's secret stash beneath the floorboard.
"Can we stop by the docks?" Tully asked, his blue eyes bright with excitement. "Just to see if any new ships have come in?"
Three days past his eleventh birthday, Tully still had the same endless curiosity that had first drawn Meric to him. The celebration had been modest – a small cake the cook had made, a wooden flute Meric had carved in secret during his spare hours – but Tully had beamed as if given the greatest treasures in Aethren.
Meric sighed, trying to look put-upon but failing. "We can look from the top of the lane. But only for a few minutes."
The docks were the one place Meric never felt fully at ease. Too many strangers, too many ways for things to go wrong. But Tully loved watching the ships, and Meric loved seeing Tully happy.
"Thank you!" Tully grinned, falling into step beside Meric as they headed toward the village center.
The chandler's shop sat near the harbor, a narrow building wedged between a cooper's workshop and a sail repair loft. Inside, the air hung heavy with the sweet scent of beeswax and the sharper tang of tallow. The proprietor nodded at them from behind his counter, used to seeing the orphan boys on village errands.
"Mr. Oswyn wants six blocks of pure beeswax," Meric said, placing their coins on the worn wooden counter. "No tallow mix."
The chandler selected several pale yellow blocks from his shelf. "Testing me, is he? Oswyn knows I don't cheat my customers."
Meric picked up one block, examining it closely. The wax had a faint honeyed scent, and when he pressed a thumbnail into it, it yielded without crumbling. Satisfied, he nodded. "Looks right to me, sir."
The chandler wrapped the blocks in brown paper, tying the package with twine. As Meric carefully stowed it in his satchel, he felt Tully tug at his sleeve.
"Meric, look!" Tully's voice dropped to an awed whisper. "A new one! It's from the south!"
Meric turned to look out the shop's small window. Through the wavy glass, he could see a merchant cog tied up at the far end of the wharf. Unlike the familiar fishing vessels and coastal traders that regularly visited their village, this ship had a deep, tar-black hull and sails patched with colorful, unfamiliar fabrics. It flew no recognizable house flag.
"Interesting," Meric said, noting how the ship seemed to sit lower in the water than most merchant vessels its size. "We should head back now. Oswyn said the mist was coming in early."
As if summoned by his words, tendrils of fog had begun to curl around the pilings of the wharf, creeping inland from the sea. The mist muffled sounds and turned the familiar harbor into something dreamlike and strange.
"Just a quick look," Tully pleaded. "We'll be so fast Oswyn won't even notice."
Meric hesitated. He'd never been able to refuse Tully anything, especially when he looked at him with those wide blue eyes. "Five minutes. No more."
They left the chandler's shop and made their way down the sloping street toward the harbor. The mist thickened with each step, wrapping around them in damp, clinging fingers. Sounds became distant – a dog's bark, a woman calling to her child, the creak of cart wheels – all of it softened by the grey blanket settling over the village.
They cut through a narrow alley that led directly to the wharf where the mysterious ship was moored. As they emerged onto the docks, Meric put a restraining hand on Tully's shoulder.
"Don't get too close," he warned. "Just look from here."
But Tully was already moving forward, drawn like a moth to flame. Meric followed close behind, his eyes taking in details that sent a prickle of unease down his spine.
The crew were hard-faced men with sun-leathered skin and gold rings in their ears. They moved with a quiet, predatory efficiency, loading what looked like empty crates onto the ship. There was something wrong about them – about the way their eyes darted constantly, about the weapons half-hidden beneath their clothes.
"Tully, I think we should go," Meric said, his voice low. "Now."
"Just a minute," Tully whispered, edging closer to examine a strange glyph carved into the ship's rail. "I've never seen markings like these before."
That's when Meric saw him – a large man moving soundlessly behind Tully, his shadow stretching across the dock planks. The man's eyes met Meric's, and in them, Meric saw nothing. No conscience. No mercy. Just calculation.
"Tully, wa – " he started to shout, but a calloused hand clamped over his mouth from behind, the smell of salt and dirt and cheap grog overwhelming him.
Meric was lifted clean off his feet. He kicked and thrashed, but it was like fighting a stone wall. Through his panic, he saw Tully turn, eyes widening in terror as another sailor grabbed him in the same efficient manner.
"Meric!" Tully's cry was cut short as a dirty hand covered his mouth.
Meric bit down hard on his captor's palm. The man grunted in pain but didn't release him. Instead, Meric's world went dark as a scratchy burlap sack was thrown over his head. He felt the brutal bite of rope against his wrists as they were bound behind his back.
Through the burlap, he heard Tully's muffled scream, then a sharp grunt and the sound of a blow. Tully fell silent.
"Tully!" Meric screamed through the sack, thrashing wildly against his bonds. "Tully!"
A fist drove into his stomach, forcing the air from his lungs. As he gasped for breath, he was hoisted over someone's shoulder like a sack of grain. He could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, louder than the creak of the ship and the hurried footsteps of their captors.
They were moving up – the sickening lurch told him they were being carried up a gangplank. Then he was falling, a short drop that ended with his shoulder slamming against hard, greasy wood. The deck. He rolled, trying to orient himself despite the darkness and the disorienting hood.
"Tully?" he called, voice cracking. "Tully, are you here?"
Something soft landed beside him – another body. Smaller. Tully. Meric tried to wriggle closer, desperate to make contact, to assure himself that Tully was still alive.
Above them, voices spoke in a language Meric didn't understand. Footsteps retreated, followed by the heart-stopping thud of a heavy hatch closing. A bolt scraped into place.
The gentle rock of the vessel told him they were still at the dock. But for how long? Meric pressed his shoulder against what he hoped was Tully's back, the only comfort he could offer with his hands bound.
The smell of fear-sweat and old vomit filled the tiny space. It was the stench of misery, of previous captives. They were not the first, and that knowledge settled in Meric's gut like ice.
He'd failed to protect Tully. The thought was unbearable.
Silence fell like a weight in the darkness. Meric strained to hear anything beyond the creak of timber and the gentle slosh of water against the hull. His shoulder pressed against something – someone. Tully. It had to be. The burlap sack still covered his head, and the rope around his wrists cut into his skin whenever he moved. But none of that mattered. All that mattered was making sure Tully was alive.
"Tully?" he whispered, afraid to speak louder lest their captors hear. "Tully, are you all right?"
A moment passed – a moment that stretched like years in Meric's mind – before he heard a soft sob.
"Meric?" Tully's voice was small, broken. "Meric, I'm sorry. I just wanted to see the ship."
The words sent a spike of pain through Meric's chest sharper than any physical blow. He wriggled in the darkness, ignoring the burning in his wrists as he tried to get closer to Tully's voice.
"It's not your fault," he said, keeping his voice low but firm. "Don't think that. Not for a second."
He felt movement beside him, then the pressure of Tully's body against his back. They were both lying on their sides, hands bound behind them, unable to see, unable to properly comfort each other. The helplessness of it made Meric want to scream, but he swallowed the urge. He needed to be strong now. For Tully.
The hold reeked of fear-sweat and old vomit, the unmistakable stench of human misery. The floor beneath them was damp and sticky. Meric didn't want to think about what might have caused that. The space felt small, enclosed, the ceiling so low that he doubted they could stand even if their legs weren't bound.
"Where are we?" Tully asked, his voice muffled by what Meric assumed was also a sack over his head.
"The ship's hold," Meric replied. He didn't add what he was thinking: that this part of the vessel had clearly been designed to transport people against their will. That the sailors who had taken them had done this before. That they were now cargo, not children.
A sudden lurch sent them sliding a few inches across the floor. Meric heard shouts above, the sound of running feet, the creak of rigging under strain. The ship was getting underway.
The realization sent a cold wave of fear through him. Once they left the harbor, who would know what had happened to them? Oswyn would wonder why they hadn't returned. The rector would send someone to search. But by then, the mysterious ship would be far out to sea, leaving no trail to follow.
The vessel began to rock with the motion of open water. They had left the harbor. Meric felt Tully trembling against him.
"I'm scared," Tully whispered, his voice breaking on the admission.
"I know," Meric said. "But we're together. That's what matters."
He squirmed around, ignoring the pain in his shoulders until he'd managed to position himself back-to-back with Tully. It wasn't the embrace he wanted to give, but it was all he could manage with their hands bound.
"Try to work your hood off," he suggested. "Rub it against the floor or against me. We need to see."
They twisted and struggled in the darkness, the rough burlap scratching their faces as they attempted to dislodge the hoods. Meric felt his slip slightly, exposing his neck to the clammy air of the hold, but it wouldn't come off completely. After several exhausting minutes, they gave up, panting from the effort.
"It's too tight," Tully said, his voice thick with tears. "Meric, what do they want with us?"
It was the question Meric had been avoiding in his own mind. The answer was too terrible to contemplate. But he couldn't lie to Tully.
"I don't know for certain," he said carefully. "But that ship... I think it takes children from coastal villages. Sells them, maybe."
The word hung unspoken between them: slavery. They'd heard stories, whispered tales of vessels that prowled the coastlines, stealing children who wandered too far from safety. But those had been just stories, meant to keep the younger orphans from straying too close to the harbor alone. Until now.
Tully's breath hitched in what might have been a sob.
"Save your strength," Meric told him, keeping his voice steady despite the fear churning in his gut. "Don't let them hear you cry. I'm here. I'm right here."
But silent tears streamed down his own face beneath the hood. Tears of rage, of fear, of helpless frustration. He'd promised to protect Tully. He'd made plans for their future – a cottage by the sea, a life of their own making. Now those dreams seemed as distant as the shore they were rapidly leaving behind.
The ship pitched suddenly, sending them sliding across the floor again. This time, they hit something – bodies. Other captives. The realization sent a fresh wave of horror through Meric. How many children had these men taken? How long had they been in this lightless hell?
"Is someone there?" a small voice whispered from nearby – not Tully, but another child, their voice cracked from thirst or crying or both.
Meric didn't answer. He couldn't bring himself to. Instead, he pressed himself back against Tully, trying to create a barrier between his friend and this new horror.
The gentle, nauseating rock of the vessel settled into a rhythm that told Meric they were now in open sea. The chill from the hull seeped into his bones, making him shiver despite the close air of the hold. He felt Tully lean against him, his smaller body seeking what little warmth and comfort Meric could provide.
"I'll get us out of this," Meric whispered, the words meant as much for himself as for Tully. "Somehow. I promise."
The promise felt hollow even as he made it. What could he do, bound and blinded in the belly of a ship bound for who knew where? But he had to believe it. Had to give Tully something to hold onto besides fear.
"I know you will," Tully replied, his trust so complete that it broke Meric's heart all over again.
Above them, footsteps moved across the deck. Orders were shouted. The world they'd known – the orphanage with its rigid routines, the village with its familiar faces – was falling away with every wave that slapped against the hull.
But they still had each other. Meric focused on that single thought, clinging to it like driftwood in a storm. As long as they were together, there was hope. As long as he could feel Tully's warmth against his back, he had a reason to fight, to survive, to find a way back to the future they'd planned.
Silent tears continued to stream down his face beneath the hood, but his voice remained steady as he murmured words of comfort to Tully in the darkness. He would be strong. He had to be. For both of them.
Time lost meaning in the darkness of the ship's hold. Meric couldn't tell if hours or days had passed since they'd been thrown into this fetid space. The hood had been ripped from his head sometime during that first night, but the pitch blackness of the hold offered little improvement. His wrists were raw from the ropes that bound them, and thirst scratched at his throat like sandpaper. Through it all, one certainty remained – Tully's warmth pressed against his side, the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. As long as Tully lived, Meric had something to fight for.
They learned to measure time by the meager rations provided – a single piece of hardtack and a few swallows of stale water, pushed through a small hatch twice daily. Meric always made sure Tully drank first, claiming he wasn't as thirsty. It was a small lie, but a necessary one.
"Eat," Meric whispered on what he guessed was their third day, pressing a portion of the rock-hard biscuit into Tully's hand. "You need your strength."
"I'm not hungry," Tully replied, his voice thin in the darkness.
"Eat anyway. For me."
He felt rather than saw Tully's reluctant nod. The soft sounds of chewing followed, punctuated by Tully's labored swallowing. The hardtack was nearly impossible to eat without water, but they'd learned to tuck it against their cheeks until it softened enough to swallow.
At night – or what they assumed was night, when the ship grew somewhat quieter – they pressed together on the damp wooden planks, sharing what little body heat they had. Meric would tuck Tully's head against his chest, his bound hands awkwardly cradling the younger boy's shoulders. They whispered to each other in these moments, promises and memories and plans for escape that grew more desperate with each passing hour.
"We'll get away," Meric murmured against Tully's hair. "First chance we get. I swear it."
Tully never questioned these promises, though they both knew how empty they were. His trust was absolute, even here, even now. It was a weight Meric both cherished and feared.
They weren't alone in their floating prison. Sometimes, when the ship rolled with a particularly large wave, their bodies would slide across the floor and bump against others – other children, other captives. Soft whimpers and whispered conversations in unfamiliar languages drifted through the darkness. Meric tried to count them once, by sound alone. At least six, perhaps more.
On the third day – or maybe it was the fourth; the edges of time had begun to blur – they learned the name of their prison. A boy nearby whispered it during one of the brief moments when the hatch opened to deliver their rations, allowing a thin shaft of light to penetrate the darkness.
"The Nar," the boy said in heavily accented Common. "The Ghost Ship. We go to the flesh markets in the south."
Meric felt Tully stiffen against him at the words, and he pressed his lips to the top of the younger boy's head, a silent reassurance.
Later that same day, they heard it for the first time – the unmistakable whistle of leather cutting through air, followed by the crack of it striking flesh. A boy's voice cried out in pain, the sound muffled but unmistakable. Another stroke fell, then another. The cries grew more desperate, more animal.
"What's happening?" Tully whispered, his voice shaking.
Meric knew exactly what was happening. He'd seen public punishments in the village square before. "They're whipping someone," he said, keeping his voice as steady as possible.
Tully pressed closer to him, trembling. "Why?"
"To break them." The words tasted like ash in his mouth.
The punishment continued, stroke after stroke falling with methodical precision. Meric counted ten before the screams became choked sobs, then silence. Another voice cried out – a different boy – and the terrible rhythm began again.
Tully was crying now, silent tears sliding down his face and dampening Meric's shirt. Meric wanted to wipe them away, to hold Tully properly, to shield him from these horrors. Instead, all he could do was press his cheek against Tully's hair and whisper useless comforts.
"Don't listen," he said. "Think of something else. Think of home, the sound of waves on the shore. Think of the garden and our place in the woods."
But the sounds from above were impossible to block out. They pierced through every memory, every attempted comfort.
Later – minutes or hours, Meric couldn't tell – the hatch scraped open. Light flooded in, blinding after so much darkness. Heavy footsteps thudded down the ladder, and something – no, someone – was thrown into the hold. A second body followed. The hatch slammed shut, plunging them back into darkness.
The new arrivals lay close enough that Meric could hear their labored breathing, the small, involuntary sounds of pain that escaped with each exhale.
"Hey," one boy whispered. His voice was slurred with pain or exhaustion or both. "Are you still alive?"
"Barely," the other replied. "How many did you get?"
"Ten. You?"
"Ten. The First Mate... he said I looked at him wrong." A bitter laugh that transformed into a hiss of pain. "My back feels on fire."
"Sleep if you can," the first boy said. "It will be worse tomorrow. They always come back for more the next day."
Their voices faded as exhaustion claimed them. Meric lay awake in the darkness, his mind racing. Ten lashes. For looking at someone wrong. The casual cruelty of it made his stomach turn.
Sleep, when it came, offered little respite. Meric's dreams were filled with the crack of whips and Tully's screams. Worse were the dreams of home – of the orphanage with its narrow bed and drafty windows, of the village with its familiar streets and faces. In these dreams, he and Tully were safe, together, planning their future. Waking from these was like being captured all over again.
Days blended together. Meric found himself drifting in and out of consciousness, roused only by Tully's presence or the arrival of food and water. His mouth was constantly dry, his lips cracked and bleeding. Tully grew quieter, conserving his energy. They spoke less, but remained pressed together, their bodies communicating what words couldn't.
The change came suddenly – a shout from above that cut through the haze of Meric's half-sleep.
"Land ho!"
The words were followed by a frenzy of activity overhead – running feet, shouted orders, the creak and groan of rigging being adjusted. Meric felt the ship's motion change, becoming less rolling and more deliberate. They were approaching shore.
"Tully," he whispered, shaking the younger boy gently. "Wake up. I think we're arriving somewhere."
Tully stirred against him, his movements sluggish. "Home?" he asked, his voice small and hopeful.
Meric's heart contracted painfully. "No. Not home."
The ship shuddered and lurched as it docked. Meric heard the heavy thud of the gangplank being lowered, the creak of weight upon it. Then, without warning, the hatch was thrown open.
Light poured in, not the dim glow of a lamp but harsh, direct sunlight that stabbed at their eyes like daggers. Meric cried out, turning his face away. Beside him, Tully whimpered, burying his face against Meric's shoulder.
Two men descended the ladder, their faces shadowed against the bright light above. They moved among the captives, cutting the ropes that bound their wrists and ankles, hauling them to their feet. When they reached Meric and Tully, one grasped Meric's arm and yanked him upright. His legs, weak from days of disuse, nearly buckled beneath him.
"Stay close to me," Meric managed to say to Tully as the younger boy was similarly dragged to his feet.
They were herded up the ladder, each step agony for their stiff muscles. Emerging onto the deck was like stepping into an alien world. The light was blinding, the air thick with unfamiliar smells – sweet flowers, ripe fruit, spices Meric couldn't name. Underneath it all was the familiar scent of fish and sea, but warmer, saltier than the waters of home.
Foreign voices surrounded them, a language with sharp consonants and flowing vowels that made no sense to Meric's ears. Somewhere nearby, birds called to each other in bright, piercing tones. The heat pressed down like a physical weight, making their woolen tunics – filthy from days in the hold – cling to their skin.
The cobblestones beneath their bare feet burned, forcing them to shift constantly. They were marched through narrow streets, past market stalls draped with colored fabrics, past vendors selling fruit Meric had never seen before. People stopped to stare, some with pity, others with cold assessment.
Their destination was an open square of hard-packed earth shaded by large, faded awnings. Other captives were already there – children and young teens, all with the same hollow-eyed look that Meric felt on his own face.
A man approached, different from the sailors who had brought them. He barked an order, and the sailors began stripping away their clothes. Meric fought, instinctively trying to protect Tully, but a sharp blow to his stomach doubled him over. When he could breathe again, his tunic and breeches were gone, replaced by a simple white loincloth. Tully stood beside him, similarly stripped, his chest rising and falling rapidly with barely suppressed panic.
They were placed on a low wooden platform alongside the other captives – a boy about Tully's age with copper-colored hair, and a teen of fifteen or so whose back was already crisscrossed with old scars. The slave merchant moved among them, pinching their muscles, forcing open their mouths to check their teeth. When Meric refused to open his mouth, the man's fingers dug painfully into the hinge of his jaw until he complied.
Potential buyers circled the platform, discussing them as if they were livestock. Tully trembled, a continuous, involuntary shiver that seemed to start in his very core. Meric wanted to reach for him, to offer comfort, but he forced himself to stay still, jaw clenched so tight it ached.
Instead, he looked at the faces of the men and women who appraised them. Not with defiance – he'd seen what happened to the boys who looked at the First Mate "wrong" – but with cold, recording eyes. He memorized each face, each expression.
Remember their faces, he thought. Someday, when this is over, remember who treated you like an animal.
The crowd parted for a new buyer. Meric tensed, expecting another leering face, another set of greedy hands. Instead, a different sort of man approached – not tall, but carrying himself with the quiet certainty of someone used to being heard. He was older, perhaps in his late forties, with a closely trimmed beard and skin tanned and lined from years under the sun. His robes were light linen, practical for the heat, but Meric noted their quality – this was a man of means, if not extravagance. What caught Meric's attention most were his eyes: dark, sharp, and coldly analytical.
Unlike the other potential buyers, who prowled around the platform with undisguised hunger, this man moved with deliberate calm. He didn't lick his lips or whisper to companions. He simply observed, hands clasped behind his back, taking in the scene with the dispassionate interest of someone selecting a tool for a specific purpose.
The slave merchant noticed him immediately, abandoning another customer mid-sentence to hurry over. He launched into what was clearly a well-rehearsed sales pitch, gesturing expansively toward the captive children. The newcomer – Kaeglen, Meric would later learn – listened politely but without enthusiasm. When the merchant finally paused for breath, Kaeglen raised a hand, silencing him mid-word. He approached the platform with the same measured pace, stopping directly in front of Meric and Tully.
Meric stared straight ahead, determined not to flinch beneath the man's scrutiny. Beside him, he could feel Tully trembling, a continuous vibration that seemed to travel through the wooden planks beneath their feet.
Without acknowledging the merchant's renewed chatter, Kaeglen reached for Meric's hands. His touch was neither rough nor gentle as he turned Meric's palms upward, examining the calluses there. He pressed a thumb against the thickened skin at the base of Meric's fingers, nodding slightly to himself.
"Good," he murmured in a language Meric didn't understand. "A worker."
Though Meric couldn't comprehend the words, their approving tone was clear enough. He remained rigid, fighting the urge to pull his hands away. To show resistance now would only bring punishment – he'd seen it happen to others on the platform already.
Then Kaeglen did something unexpected. He placed a finger beneath Meric's chin, tilting his face upward slightly. Instead of inspecting his teeth or checking his eyes for disease as the other buyers had done, Kaeglen simply looked at him – truly looked, as if searching for something beyond physical attributes. Meric met his gaze, careful to keep his expression neutral despite the fury churning in his gut.
Something flickered in the man's dark eyes – not quite approval, but perhaps recognition. Without releasing Meric, he turned to Tully, performing the same assessment. Tully's eyes were wide with fear, the blue of them startlingly bright against his dirt-smudged face. Kaeglen studied him for a long moment before turning back to Meric.
Meric shifted almost imperceptibly, placing himself a fraction of an inch more in front of Tully. It wasn't defiance, not exactly – just the barest hint of protection, all he could offer without risking punishment. Kaeglen noticed. His eyes narrowed slightly, and the corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile, but something adjacent to it – acknowledgment, perhaps.
He released Meric's chin and stepped back, saying something to the merchant in that same unfamiliar language. The merchant's face lit up, and he responded eagerly, gesturing toward the boys. Kaeglen shook his head, countering with what was clearly a lower offer. What followed was a rapid exchange that Meric couldn't understand, though the merchant's increasingly exaggerated expressions of dismay suggested Kaeglen was driving a hard bargain.
Throughout the negotiation, Kaeglen remained impassive, his voice cool and emotionless. Occasionally, his eyes flicked back to Meric and Tully, assessing them as if calculating their precise value. Meric kept his own gaze steady, memorizing every detail of this man who would determine their fate. If there was to be any chance of escape, he would need to understand their new master.
Finally, the merchant threw up his hands in a gesture of defeat that looked suspiciously rehearsed. Coins changed hands – more than a few, but not as many as the merchant had clearly hoped for. Kaeglen nodded once, satisfied with the transaction.
Two burly men approached the platform, hauling Meric and Tully down with rough efficiency. Meric stumbled as his feet hit the ground, his legs still weak from days in the ship's hold. He felt Tully grab his arm, steadying himself.
"Stay close," Meric whispered, so quietly he could barely hear his own voice.
The men produced shackles – cruel, efficient devices of iron that locked around their wrists and necks. A short chain linked Meric's left wrist to Tully's right, while another, longer chain connected their neck collars. The weight was immediate and oppressive, the metal hot from sitting in the sun. The collar chafed against Meric's throat when he swallowed.
Kaeglen watched the shackling with the same detached interest he'd shown throughout, neither approving nor disapproving of the process. When it was done, he nodded to the men, who handed him the end of the longer chain that connected to their collars.
"Come," he said in that foreign tongue, giving the chain a light tug.
Meric understood the gesture if not the word. He started forward, making sure to stay slightly ahead of Tully, shielding him as best he could. They followed Kaeglen through the market, their chains rattling with each step. People moved aside, barely sparing them a glance – in this place, chained children were evidently a common sight.
They reached a wooden cart – the raeda – parked at the edge of the market. It was well-made, with spoked wheels and a canvas cover to provide shade from the merciless sun. A bored-looking driver sat at the front, fanning himself with a broad leaf.
Kaeglen led them to the back of the raeda and gestured for them to climb in. Inside was a wooden bench running along each side. Meric went first, then helped Tully up, careful not to let their chains tangle. The interior was stifling, the canvas trapping the heat like an oven.
With practiced movements, Kaeglen secured their connecting chain to a metal ring bolted to the floor of the raeda. He checked the fastening twice, ensuring they couldn't simply slip free. Throughout, his face remained impassive – neither cruel nor kind, simply methodical.
"Sit," he said, pointing to the bench.
Again, the meaning was clear enough. Meric guided Tully to the bench and sat beside him. Their shoulders pressed together, the only comfort available in this new nightmare. Kaeglen watched them for a moment longer, then closed the back of the raeda, leaving them alone in the stifling heat.
The cart lurched into motion, wheels clattering against the cobblestones. Through the gaps in the canvas, Meric caught glimpses of the city passing by – stone buildings, bustling market stalls, people going about their lives as if nothing terrible were happening just a few feet away.
"We're going to be all right," Meric whispered to Tully, though he had no reason to believe it was true. "We're together. That's what matters."
Tully nodded, his eyes fixed on the floor of the raeda. He hadn't spoken since they'd been taken from the ship. Meric wondered if his voice had abandoned him entirely, dried up like water in this merciless heat.
"I'll find a way out," Meric continued, keeping his voice just loud enough for Tully to hear. "I promise. Just...stay strong for now. Watch everything. Learn what you can."
As the raeda rattled toward whatever fate awaited them, Meric studied the shackles at his wrists, testing their weight and resistance. Not to escape – not yet. But to understand. Knowledge was the beginning of any plan. And whatever else happened, Meric would make a plan. For Tully. For both of them.
Kaeglen's compound rose from the dusty outskirts of the port town, a single-story structure of pale stone enclosed by a high wall. As the raeda passed through the gates, Meric caught his first glimpse of what would be their prison – or their home – for who knew how long. A central courtyard contained neat rows of herbs and vegetables, their green leaves impossibly vivid against the tan stone. A covered well stood in the center, its wooden bucket hanging ready. The house itself was modest but well-maintained, with a covered veranda running along one side. In another life, under different circumstances, it might have seemed pleasant.
The raeda stopped in the courtyard's shade. Kaeglen descended first, then unfastened the chain securing Meric and Tully to the cart's floor. He gave a gentle tug, indicating they should follow. Meric climbed down carefully, hampered by the shackles, then helped Tully, whose legs trembled with exhaustion and fear.
Kaeglen led them across the sun-baked courtyard, past the well and the herb garden. Two other servants – a middle-aged woman and a boy perhaps a few years older than Meric – paused in their work to watch the newcomers. Their expressions revealed nothing, neither welcome nor pity.
At the far corner of the courtyard, attached to the main house but slightly separated from it, stood a small stone outbuilding. As they approached, Meric realized it had once been a storage room – a root cellar or tool shed perhaps. But the wooden door had been replaced with a wall of iron bars, transforming it into something between a room and a cage.
Kaeglen produced a key and unlocked the barred door. He gestured for them to enter. Meric went first, instinctively keeping Tully behind him as they stepped into their new quarters.
The space was small but clean, perhaps eight feet by six. A narrow window set high in the back wall allowed a strip of sunlight to illuminate the room. The floor was bare stone, swept clean but cool against their bare feet. In the corner lay the most telling detail of their new existence – a single, thin cotton mattress stuffed with straw, spread directly on the stone floor.
One mattress. For two boys. Just like the narrow bed they'd shared at the orphanage.
The parallel struck Meric with unexpected force. That shared bed had been their choice, their sanctuary. This mattress was something else entirely – a gesture of basic provision that simultaneously reinforced their status as property. They would sleep together not because they chose to, but because Kaeglen saw no reason to provide two beds for two pieces of property.
"Rest," Kaeglen said in his language, pointing to the mattress. The meaning was clear enough.
He closed the barred door, the lock clicking with a sound of terrible finality. Then he left them, crossing the courtyard and disappearing into the main house without a backward glance.
Meric turned to Tully, who stood motionless in the center of their cell, staring at the floor. The iron collar around his neck looked obscenely large against his slender throat, the chain between their wrists pulling his arm at an uncomfortable angle.
"Come on," Meric said softly, guiding him to the mattress. "Let's sit down."
They settled on the thin pallet, their shoulders pressed together. Through the barred door, they could see the courtyard and a slice of the main house – could hear the distant sounds of pots clattering, could smell something cooking. Normal household sounds that made their situation all the more surreal.
"It's not so bad," Meric said, trying to infuse his voice with confidence he didn't feel. "We're together. We're out of that ship. We have water, food probably. And we can see the sky."
Tully nodded, but his eyes remained distant. Meric wrapped an arm around his shoulders, awkward with the chain between them, and pulled him close.
"We'll figure this out," he whispered against Tully's hair. "I promise."
Morning came too quickly, sunlight streaming through the high window and the barred door. Kaeglen appeared as they were stretching their stiff limbs, unlocking the door and gesturing for them to come out. He removed the chain connecting their neck collars but left the one joining their wrists.
He handed them each a wooden cup of water and a piece of flat bread. They ate standing in the courtyard, Meric watching Kaeglen from the corner of his eye. The man moved with purposeful efficiency, giving orders to the other servants in his foreign tongue.
When they had finished eating, Kaeglen approached them again. He pointed to two brooms leaning against the wall and mimed sweeping.
"Sweep," he said in his language.
Meric nodded, understanding. He took the broom, hampered somewhat by his wrist being chained to Tully's. Together, they began to sweep the courtyard, working out a rhythm that accommodated their bound state.
The day proceeded in similar fashion. Kaeglen would approach, point to a task, and expect immediate compliance. "Carry this." "Clean here." "Pull those weeds." His commands were simple, communicated more through gesture than word, but his expectations were clear. Work was to be done quickly, thoroughly, and without complaint.
By midday, the sun had become punishing, beating down on the courtyard with relentless intensity. Sweat soaked through their loincloths, the only clothing they'd been given. Meric's throat burned with thirst, but he didn't dare ask for water. They would be given what Kaeglen deemed necessary, no more.
It was during the hottest part of the afternoon that it happened. They had been tasked with carrying water from the well to a series of large clay amphoras near the house. The vessels were heavy even when empty, awkward to maneuver with their wrists chained together. Tully, already weakened from days in the ship's hold, stumbled as he lifted one.
Meric saw it happening as if in slow motion – Tully's foot catching on an uneven stone, his body pitching forward, the amphora slipping from his grasp. The clay vessel shattered against the courtyard stones with a sound like the world ending.
Time seemed to stop. Tully froze, his face a mask of pure terror. Meric reached for him instinctively, but the chain between their wrists pulled taut, preventing him from pulling Tully away.
Kaeglen appeared from the house, drawn by the sound. His eyes took in the scene – the broken amphora, Tully's panicked expression, Meric's protective stance – in one comprehensive glance. Without a word, he walked to the wall where several switches hung. He selected one, testing its flexibility.
"No," Meric said, the word escaping before he could stop it. "Please. It was an accident."
Kaeglen ignored him, approaching Tully with the switch held loosely in his hand. In one fluid motion, he brought it down across Tully's bare shoulders.
The sound of the switch cutting through air was familiar from their time on the ship, but the reality of seeing it strike Tully's skin was a thousand times worse. A red welt rose immediately across his shoulders. Tully gasped, his body jerking with the shock of pain.
Kaeglen delivered two more strokes, methodical but not excessive, each raising another angry line on Tully's skin. Then he stepped back, returning the switch to its place on the wall. The entire punishment had taken less than thirty seconds, administered with the same detached efficiency Kaeglen brought to every task.
Meric's body vibrated with fury, his hands curled into useless fists at his sides. He wanted to lunge at Kaeglen, to make him pay for each mark on Tully's skin. But the cold calculation in Kaeglen's eyes stopped him. This wasn't cruelty for cruelty's sake. It was a lesson, delivered with the dispassionate clarity of someone training an animal.
Kaeglen pointed to the shattered amphora. "Clean that," he said, then turned and walked away.
Meric swallowed his rage, forcing it down like bile. He helped Tully kneel beside the broken pottery, whispering soft words of comfort as they gathered the shards. Tully moved stiffly, each motion causing the fresh welts to stretch and burn, but he didn't cry. Not here, not where Kaeglen might see.
That night, locked once more in their cell, Meric gently bathed Tully's shoulders with water from the cup they'd been given. The welts were angry red lines across his skin, but they hadn't broken the surface. Small mercies.
"It's all right," Tully whispered, his first words since they'd been taken from the ship. "It doesn't hurt that much anymore."
Meric knew it was a lie, but he nodded, grateful just to hear Tully's voice again. They settled on the thin mattress, Meric careful to position himself so Tully could lie on his uninjured side.
"We need to get away from here," Meric murmured in their native tongue, his lips close to Tully's ear. "There must be other northern ships that come to this port. If we could get back to the harbor – "
"The sea to the north is three weeks' journey away, boy," came a voice from the shadows beyond their cell. "And the jungle between here and the coast eats children who do not know its paths."
Meric jerked upright, pulling Tully with him. Kaeglen stood outside their cell, a lamp in his hand casting long shadows across the courtyard. He spoke their language perfectly, with only a slight, formal accent.
"You – you speak our tongue?" Meric stammered, cold fear replacing the blood in his veins.
"I speak seven languages," Kaeglen replied calmly. "It's why I travel. To learn. To understand."
The revelation was terrifying. Their one sanctuary – private speech – violated. Even their whispered plans, their small comforts in their native language, had been understood all along.
"Why didn't you say something before?" Meric asked, struggling to keep his voice steady.
Kaeglen set his lamp on a small table near their cell. "I find I learn more about people when they don't know I understand them." He studied them through the bars. "You two are interesting. A bond like yours is rare."
"We're brothers," Meric said automatically, the lie they'd told at the orphanage coming easily to his lips.
Something like amusement flickered in Kaeglen's eyes. "No, you're not. Not by blood. But what you are to each other is why I purchased you."
"What do you mean?"
"You were the best investment," Kaeglen said simply. "Two strong boys who care for each other will work harder, be less trouble. You'll protect him – " he nodded toward Tully " – and in doing so, you'll protect my property."
The cold practicality of it left Meric speechless. Kaeglen wasn't a monster like the First Mate of the Nar, taking pleasure in breaking children. But this calculated exploitation of their love for each other was, in its way, just as chilling.
"The punishment today was necessary," Kaeglen continued, as if explaining a simple concept to a child. "Broken items cost money. Lessons must be taught." He paused, his dark eyes moving from Meric to Tully and back again. "But I am not cruel without purpose. Serve well, and your life here will not be unpleasant."
With that, he picked up his lamp and walked away, leaving them alone with this new, complicated understanding of their captor.
Meric sat motionless, his mind racing. The pirates had been easy to hate – pure evil, delighting in suffering. Kaeglen was something else entirely. He provided food and shelter, spoke their language, had kept them together. Yet he also caged them and struck Tully without hesitation. Was he a lesser evil to be endured, or a more insidious threat?
Beside him, Tully leaned close, his warmth a reminder of what was at stake.
"What do we do now?" he whispered.
Meric pulled him closer, careful of his injured shoulders. "We watch. We learn. We wait for the right moment." He pressed his forehead against Tully's. "And we stay together. No matter what."
In the darkness of their cell, Tully's hand found his, fingers intertwining despite the chain between their wrists. It was a small defiance, this touch that transformed their bonds from a restriction into a connection. Whatever Kaeglen thought he had purchased – whatever he believed about their relationship – he didn't truly understand. The love between them wasn't a weakness to be exploited. It was strength. It was survival. It was magic.
And someday, somehow, it would be their way home.
The days at Kaeglen's compound melted together under the relentless sun, each one a near-perfect copy of the one before. Meric woke each morning to the same view of stone walls and iron bars, the same weight of Tully's head on his shoulder, the same hollow ache of hunger in his belly. After a week, he stopped feeling the shame of his near-nakedness, the loincloth their only covering as they worked through the blistering heat. What was modesty to a tool? And that was all they were to Kaeglen – tools that happened to breathe and bleed.
"Why doesn't he give us proper clothes?" Tully had whispered their third night in the cell, his body shivering despite the warmth.
"Because he doesn't see us as people," Meric had answered, pulling him closer. "You don't dress up your animals, do you? It would be ridiculous."
Now, as they moved through their tasks in the sweltering courtyard, the constant exposure had become just another fact of their existence, like the iron collar around his neck or the thin gruel that passed for breakfast. Meric found a strange, bitter comfort in this. If Kaeglen saw them as animals, then he expected nothing more from them than obedience and labor. He wouldn't be watching for escape plans or acts of rebellion. Animals didn't plot.
Their days fell into a harsh rhythm. At dawn, Kaeglen unlocked their cell and removed the chain connecting their neck collars, though the one joining their wrists remained. They were given water, bread, and sometimes a handful of dried fruit. Then came the day's tasks, delivered in Kaeglen's precise, emotionless voice.
"The cistern must be full before midday," he would say, or "The east wall needs repair," or "The goats require fresh bedding."
Each instruction was given with the absolute expectation of obedience, no different than a man speaking to a donkey pulling a cart. There was no anger, no threat – simply the clear communication of what must be done, and the unspoken understanding that failure would bring swift, dispassionate punishment.
Meric learned to draw water until his shoulders burned, to haul stones that left his hands raw, to muck out the goat pen in the stifling afternoon heat. But his primary task, the one that Kaeglen assigned with particular attention, was caring for the pigeons.
The birds lived in a cote of fragrant sandalwood, a structure that received more care than the cell where Meric and Tully slept. The pigeons were sleek, well-bred creatures with intelligent eyes and quick movements. Meric recognized them for what they were – not meat birds, but messengers. Kaeglen was a man who dealt in information.
Tending to the pigeons was the only task that didn't leave Meric's body aching. He found a strange peace in the rhythmic cooing of the birds, in the delicate work of cleaning their nest boxes and measuring their feed with exact precision. But even this small mercy was poisoned by his hatred for Kaeglen.
The hatred lived in Meric's belly like a cold, hard stone. Each morning, it grew heavier as he watched Kaeglen emerge from his house, well-fed and well-rested, to issue the day's commands. The man's "fairness" was the ultimate arrogance – he provided enough food to keep them working, enough water to prevent collapse, enough rest to ensure they could rise again the next day. He never raised his voice or made unreasonable demands. And somehow, this controlled, calculated treatment was worse than the sadistic cruelty of the First Mate on the Nar.
At least the First Mate had seen them as human enough to hate.
"More water for the northeast bed," Kaeglen would say, nodding toward the herb garden. "Those plants require extra care in this heat."
And Meric would go, guiding Tully with him, their wrists still bound together, feeling Kaeglen's eyes on them – not watching for defiance, but assessing their efficiency, their usefulness. The same way he might evaluate a well-made rake or a sturdy bucket.
The memory of Tully's punishment remained vivid in Meric's mind, a fresh brand on his soul. Those three swift strokes had fallen nearly a week ago, but Meric could still hear the sound of the switch cutting through air, could still see the red welts rising on Tully's skin. Tully had recovered quickly, the marks fading to faint lines within days, but the image haunted Meric's dreams.
Tully was his entire world, the center of his universe. To see him subjected to such treatment was a profanity that Meric could neither forgive nor forget.
As dusk approached each day, they were given their final meal and locked once more in their cell. These evening hours were the only time they truly belonged to themselves. The wrist chain gave them just enough slack to lie close on their thin mattress, whispering in the darkness as the compound settled around them.
"Tell me again about the cottage we'll have," Tully murmured one night, his breath warm against Meric's chest.
Meric closed his eyes, conjuring the vision that had sustained them through their time in the orphanage. "It's small but sturdy, right on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea. There's a garden out back where we grow herbs and vegetables, and a path down to a cove that only we know about. In the mornings, we fish or work in the village, and in the evenings, we sit on our porch and watch the twin moons rise over the water."
Tully's fingers traced idle patterns on Meric's arm. "And no one tells us what to do."
"No one," Meric agreed. "We answer only to each other."
These conversations were their secret rebellion, a way of reminding themselves that there was a world beyond Kaeglen's compound, beyond the iron bars and the endless work. Each whispered plan was a promise – someday, somehow, they would be free.
Meric had noticed a change in Tully over the past days. The younger boy, who had once needed Meric's strength and protection to survive, had developed a quiet resilience of his own. He never complained about the work, never cried out when his hands blistered or his skin burned in the sun. Instead, he moved through each task with a calm determination that sometimes left Meric in awe.
"How do you bear it?" Meric asked one night, after a particularly grueling day of hauling stones.
Tully was quiet for a moment, his fingers continuing their gentle exploration of Meric's arm. "It's a price," he finally said, his voice soft but certain. "The work, the cage, even the beatings – they're just the price I pay."
"For what?"
Tully lifted his head, his blue eyes catching the moonlight that filtered through their tiny window. "For you." He pressed closer. "As long as we're together, I can bear anything. You're all that matters."
The simple truth of it stole Meric's breath. Here, in this place where they had lost everything – their freedom, their dignity, their names – they still had what mattered most. Each other.
"We'll get away from here," Meric whispered, his lips brushing Tully's hair. "I don't know how yet, but we will. I promise."
"I know," Tully replied, and the certainty in his voice made it sound like a fact rather than a hope.
They fell asleep as they always did, tangled together on their thin mattress, the chain between their wrists a cold reminder of their captivity. But their dreams, at least, were free – filled with the sound of waves on a distant shore and the promise of a life that belonged only to them.
Kaeglen's true passion became clear to Meric over time. The man's face, usually an impassive mask, softened when he approached the sandalwood cote. His hands, those same hands that had dealt out Tully's punishment with such clinical efficiency, became gentle when handling his prized birds. Meric watched this transformation with cold calculation, filing away this knowledge like a prisoner noting a guard's weakness. The birds mattered to Kaeglen in a way that nothing else seemed to – especially the female with the silver ring on her leg, whom Kaeglen checked on twice daily without fail.
The special attention paid to this particular pigeon piqued Meric's curiosity. She was sleeker than the others, with sharp eyes that seemed to assess him whenever he approached her nest box. The silver ring gleamed against her pink leg, inscribed with markings Meric couldn't decipher.
"These birds are not for eating," Kaeglen had explained during Meric's first day tending the cote, speaking as one might to a particularly slow child. "They carry messages. Information. They return home no matter how far they fly. This makes them valuable."
Information. Meric had turned the word over in his mind many times since then. What information could be so important? Who was Kaeglen sending messages to, and what was he receiving in return? The compound was isolated, Kaeglen's business mysterious. Perhaps he was a spy, or involved in something illegal. Whatever the case, these birds were clearly his connection to a world beyond the island, a world that Meric and Tully had been torn from.
Two weeks into their captivity, the silver-ringed female began to nest. Kaeglen's demeanor shifted subtly. He checked the bird three times a day now, his movements around the cote becoming even more precise, his instructions to Meric more detailed.
"Clean the lower boxes today," he told Meric one morning, the sun already high and hot overhead. "The nesting female must not be disturbed."
Meric nodded, keeping his eyes properly lowered. "Yes, master." The word still tasted like poison on his tongue, but he'd learned to say it without flinching.
"And secure the hatch fully when you finish," Kaeglen continued, his finger tapping the wooden bar that locked across the cote's main access door. "The latch is old. It must be pushed past the click. Listen for the thunk."
"Yes, master."
Kaeglen watched him for a moment longer, then turned his attention to Tully, who was sweeping the courtyard nearby. "Boy," he called, his voice resuming its usual cool efficiency. "You're spreading the dust, not collecting it. Shorter strokes. Like this."
Meric moved toward the cote, but his eyes remained on Tully. The younger boy nodded quickly, adjusting his grip on the broom as Kaeglen demonstrated the proper technique. Tully's back was to Meric, but Meric could read the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he mimicked Kaeglen's movements.
A familiar surge of protective anger rose in Meric's chest. This had been happening more frequently – these moments when seeing Tully under Kaeglen's control made it difficult for him to focus on anything else. His hands moved automatically as he cleaned the lower nest boxes, removing soiled straw and replacing it with fresh bedding, but his attention remained divided.
When he finished, he closed the main hatch and slid the wooden bar across it. He heard a click as the latch caught, and his mind, still half-watching Tully bend to collect the pile of dust, registered this as sufficient. He moved away from the cote, joining Tully to help finish the sweeping.
The day progressed with its usual grueling routine. By late afternoon, Meric's shoulders ached from hauling water, and sweat ran in rivulets down his back. He was refilling the goats' trough, Tully by his side, when he heard Kaeglen's voice, sharper than usual.
"Boy! The cote!"
Meric looked up. Kaeglen stood by the pigeon house, the hatch door swinging open in the breeze. The wooden bar hung loose, having slipped from its fully secured position.
Ice flooded Meric's veins. He dropped the water bucket and ran to the cote, Tully pulled along beside him by their shared chain. Inside, he could already see what Kaeglen had discovered. The nesting box that had held the silver-ringed female was empty.
"The door," Kaeglen said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Did you secure it as I instructed?"
Meric swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "Yes, master. I heard it click."
"Click," Kaeglen repeated, the word sharp as broken glass. "I told you to push it past the click. To listen for the thunk."
Meric's mind raced back to the morning, to the moment he'd secured the latch. He'd heard the click, yes, but had he pushed it further? Had he heard the deeper thunk that would have meant the bar was fully engaged? He knew the answer with sickening certainty.
"I..." Meric began, but Kaeglen cut him off with a raised hand.
For the first time since they'd arrived at the compound, Meric saw something crack in Kaeglen's calm facade. A flash of genuine anger darkened his eyes, tightened the corners of his mouth. This wasn't the controlled, corrective response he'd shown when Tully broke the amphora. This was personal.
"That bird," Kaeglen said, his voice vibrating with suppressed rage, "was worth more than both of you combined. Her lineage. Her training. Her reliable return from distances that would kill lesser birds." He stepped closer, and Meric fought the urge to back away. "She was carrying three eggs. Do you understand? Three. Years of careful breeding, wasted."
Meric's gaze dropped to the empty nest box, the carefully arranged straw now disturbed. The magnitude of his failure settled over him like a physical weight. This wasn't merely a broken tool or a spilled bucket of water. This was the loss of something Kaeglen genuinely valued.
"Stand against the wall," Kaeglen ordered, pointing to the smooth stone surface of the compound's outer wall. "Arms spread."
Meric moved automatically, pulling Tully with him. When they reached the wall, he turned to face it, raising his arms to either side as instructed. Behind him, he heard Kaeglen's footsteps retreating, then returning. He knew where the man had gone – to the row of switches that hung near the entrance to the main house.
"No," Tully whispered, his voice breaking. "Please, master, it was an accident. He didn't mean – "
"Silence," Kaeglen snapped. "You will watch. Learn the price of carelessness."
Meric heard the whistle of the switch cutting through air a moment before it landed across his back. The impact drove the breath from his lungs, pain blooming hot and sharp along his shoulder blades. This was not the slender switch Kaeglen had used on Tully. This was thicker, heavier.
The second stroke landed lower, and Meric felt something warm trickle down his back. Blood. He bit his lip, determined not to cry out. Not in front of Tully. Not even as the third stroke fell, then the fourth, each one laying open his skin in thin, burning lines.
But the fifth stroke broke him. It landed directly across the wounds from the earlier strokes, and an agonized howl tore from Meric's throat. The sound hung in the courtyard, raw and animal, bouncing off the stone walls. Meric's vision blurred, his legs threatening to give way beneath him.
Through his haze of pain, he heard Tully's sharp intake of breath. Not a cry or a scream, but something worse – the sound of someone witnessing a desecration. Meric wanted to turn, to reassure Tully that he was all right, but another stroke landed, stealing his ability to think beyond the red wave of agony.
Eight strokes in total. By the end, Meric's back was a map of fire, his hands pressed against the wall the only thing keeping him upright. Kaeglen stepped back, the switch hanging loosely from his hand. His anger had burned itself out, replaced by his usual cold efficiency.
"Clean yourselves up," he said, his voice steady once more. "There will be no food tonight."
He turned and walked away, leaving Meric slumped against the wall, Tully frozen beside him.
"Meric," Tully whispered, his voice strange and tight. "Lean on me."
Somehow they made it back to their cell, Meric's arm draped over Tully's shoulders, his feet barely cooperating. The pain came in waves, each movement sending fresh agony through his shredded skin. When Kaeglen locked the door behind them, Meric collapsed onto their mattress, a choked sob escaping him as his back touched the rough fabric.
"Not like that," Tully said quickly, helping him roll onto his stomach. "Let me see."
Meric buried his face in the mattress, shame burning hotter than the wounds on his back. He had failed. Failed at the simplest task. Failed to protect Tully from witnessing his punishment. Failed himself.
Silent tears soaked into the thin fabric beneath him, his body shaking with the effort to contain his sobs. It wasn't just the physical pain, though that was bad enough. It was the knowledge that he had been broken. That Tully had seen it happen.
"I'm sorry," he managed, the words muffled against the mattress. "I'm so sorry."
"Shh," Tully soothed, his voice steadier than Meric had ever heard it. "Don't talk now."
Tully moved away briefly, and after a pause, Meric heard the soft splash of water. Then Tully was beside him again, a cool, damp cloth gently touching the edges of his wounds. It was the cloth that Tully had been wearing.
"This might hurt," Tully warned, his voice soft but sure. "But I need to clean it."
The cloth dabbed carefully at the welts, Tully's touch impossibly gentle. Meric bit back another sob, this one having nothing to do with pain. This care, this tenderness – it was what he had always given Tully. Now their roles were reversed, and the realization broke something in him.
"You shouldn't have to do this," Meric whispered. "I'm supposed to protect you."
Tully's free hand came to rest lightly on Meric's arm, his fingers tracing soothing patterns on the uninjured skin. "And you have," he said. "Every day since we met. Now it's my turn."
He continued his careful ministrations, cleaning away the blood, offering what comfort he could. His touch was both familiar and strange – the same hands Meric knew so well, but moving with a new confidence, a steady purpose.
"I'm here, baby," Tully whispered, and Meric felt warm droplets fall on his shoulder – Tully's tears, though his voice remained strong. "I'm right here. You're all that matters. I love you."
The words washed over Meric like a balm. He had always been the strong one, the protector. He had never imagined he might need protecting himself. But here, in this moment of his greatest weakness, Tully's strength shone through like moonlight on water.
"I love you," Meric whispered back, turning his head just enough to meet Tully's eyes in the dim light. "More than anything."
Tully leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to Meric's temple. "Then rest," he said. "Let me be strong for you now. You've been strong for me long enough."
As night settled over the compound, Meric drifted into an exhausted sleep, lulled by Tully's soft voice and gentle touch. His last thought before consciousness faded was a strangely comforting one: they were not broken. Changed, perhaps, but not destroyed. And as long as they had each other, they could withstand whatever came next.
Meric noticed the visitor first – a middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper beard and shoulders almost as broad as Kaeglen's. The stranger walked through the compound gate with the easy confidence of someone who had been there many times before, and when Kaeglen emerged from the house to greet him, Meric saw something he'd never witnessed in their captor: a smile. Not the cold, satisfied expression Kaeglen sometimes wore when inspecting their work, but a genuine smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
"Who is that?" Tully whispered, pausing in his task of scrubbing the courtyard stones. The chain between their wrists pulled taut as Meric leaned forward to get a better look.
"I don't know," Meric murmured. "But Kaeglen seems happy to see him."
The two men clasped forearms in greeting, then exchanged words in Kaeglen's language – those flowing vowels and sharp consonants that remained impenetrable to Meric despite weeks of hearing them. The visitor glanced toward the boys, his expression unreadable at this distance, but something in his posture suggested concern.
Kaeglen led his guest into the main house, and for the next several hours, the boys worked under the watchful eye of the female servant who normally tended the kitchen garden. She was more lenient than Kaeglen, allowing them to pause for water more frequently, but her eyes never left them. When Meric's back began to ache – a now-familiar pain that flared when he bent too long over his tasks – she made no comment as he straightened to stretch.
Occasionally, the sound of conversation drifted from the house – sometimes animated, with voices rising and falling in what might have been debate; other times quieter, punctuated by long pauses that suggested deep discussion rather than argument. Meric strained to catch words, to make sense of the unfamiliar sounds, but it was useless. In their brief time at the compound, he'd learned only the simplest commands in Kaeglen's tongue – "come," "go," "work," "stop."
As the sun began to set, the front door opened, and the two men emerged. The visitor – Tinus, Meric would soon learn – was speaking earnestly, his hand on Kaeglen's shoulder. Kaeglen nodded, his expression thoughtful. Then, as if feeling Meric's gaze, he looked up and across the courtyard. The two boys immediately bent back to their work, but it was too late.
"Enough," Kaeglen called in their language. "Come."
Meric and Tully approached cautiously, their chained wrists hanging heavy between them. Up close, the visitor was less intimidating than Meric had initially thought. His eyes were kind, with laugh lines at the corners, and though his clothes were of similar quality to Kaeglen's, they were worn with less precision, as if their owner cared little for appearances.
The visitor spoke directly to them, his words incomprehensible but his tone gentle. When neither boy responded, he frowned and looked at Kaeglen.
"They don't understand our language," Kaeglen explained in the boys' tongue, surprising Meric. It was rare for Kaeglen to speak their language in front of others, as if he preferred to keep his linguistic abilities private. "They are from the northern coast."
The visitor – Tinus – nodded, saying something else to Kaeglen. His eyes lingered on Meric, or more specifically, on Meric's back where the marks from the whipping were still visible.
Kaeglen answered shortly, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. The conversation continued for another minute, growing more tense until Kaeglen finally raised a hand, cutting off whatever Tinus was saying. The gesture was polite but firm – the same one he used when giving orders to the boys.
"Go wash and wait in your quarters," Kaeglen told them, his voice neutral. "We will bring your meal shortly."
They did as instructed, using the small basin of water near their cell to rinse the worst of the day's grime from their hands and faces. Through the bars, they could see Tinus and Kaeglen continuing their conversation near the well, their voices too low to hear.
"What do you think they're talking about?" Tully asked, pressing close to Meric as they peered through the iron bars.
"Us, maybe," Meric replied. "Did you see how the visitor looked at my back?"
Tully nodded, his expression darkening. "He seemed angry about it. Not at you – at Kaeglen."
Before Meric could respond, the two men approached the cell. The servant woman followed, carrying a tray with their usual evening meal – a bowl of rice, strips of dried fish, and a cup of water. She placed it on the ground outside the bars.
Tinus said something else, his tone insistent, and Kaeglen sighed before responding with a brief nod. Then Tinus smiled at the boys, inclining his head in what might have been a gesture of respect or farewell, and walked toward the gate.
Kaeglen watched him go, then turned to the boys. "Tinus thinks I am too cruel to my servants," he said in their language, his eyes lingering on the fading welts on Meric's back. "But he is wrong."
For a moment, Meric thought punishment would follow – that was Kaeglen's way, to correct any perceived challenge to his authority. Instead, Kaeglen reached for the key hanging at his belt. With precise movements, he unlocked the shackles on their wrists and ankles. The iron fell away, leaving only the ghost-sensation of weight and the raw, red marks where metal had rubbed skin.
"You will sleep without chains tonight," Kaeglen said, his voice giving no hint of emotion. He stepped back, locking the cell door with particular care, testing it twice to ensure it was secure. "Eat. Rest. Tomorrow will be another long day."
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving the boys staring at their bare wrists in disbelief.
"Did that really just happen?" Tully whispered, rubbing the chafed skin where his shackles had been.
Meric flexed his hands, feeling the strange lightness. "I think his friend convinced him."
They ate quickly, both half-expecting Kaeglen to return and change his mind. When he didn't, they settled onto their thin mattress in the corner of the cell, the familiar ritual of preparing for sleep made strange by the absence of metal between them.
For a week, Meric had slept curled on his side, a tight, protective ball, each movement a reminder of his punishment. Tonight, tentatively, he stretched out on his back, wincing slightly as the healing wounds pressed against the rough fabric. The pain was still there, but duller now – bearable. Soon the welts would fade completely, though the deeper cuts would likely leave permanent marks. Scars to carry forever, reminders of their captivity.
Tully watched him settle, then, with a questioning look, edged closer. Meric smiled and opened his arm in invitation. Without hesitation, Tully curled against him, resting his head on Meric's chest the way they used to sleep back home at the orphanage. The familiar weight and warmth of him made Meric's throat tighten with emotion.
"I missed this," Tully murmured, his breath warm against Meric's skin.
"Me too," Meric whispered, his arm tightening around Tully's shoulders.
They lay in silence for a while, listening to the night sounds of the compound – the distant bleat of goats, the whisper of wind through the garden, the occasional creak of the wooden shutters on the main house. The air was pleasantly warm, a blessing given their near-nakedness. Their loincloths provided minimal coverage, and their mattress lacked even the most basic sheets or blankets.
"I'm sorry," Meric said suddenly, acutely aware of his unwashed body. "I must stink so bad."
Tully laughed softly, the sound vibrating against Meric's chest. "So do I. It's not like Kaeglen lets either of us wash properly." He nestled closer. "I don't care. You smell like you, and that's all that matters."
The simple acceptance in Tully's voice made something loosen in Meric's chest. Here, in this cell, stripped of everything – their freedom, their dignity, even the basic right to clean themselves – they still had this: the unshakable certainty of each other.
"I love you," Meric whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of Tully's head.
"I love you too," Tully replied, his voice drowsy with encroaching sleep. "We'll get through this."
As Tully's breathing deepened into sleep, Meric stared up at the small patch of star-filled sky visible through their window. One night without chains wasn't freedom. But it was a crack in their captivity, a small loosening of Kaeglen's control. Tully was warm and safe against him. He slept.
Morning light filtered through the bars of their cell, waking Meric from the deepest sleep he'd had since their capture. Tully was still nestled against his chest, his breathing soft and even. For one disorienting moment, Meric could almost believe they were back in their narrow bed at the orphanage. Then he heard the familiar jingle of keys, and reality crashed back. Kaeglen approached their cell, his face impassive as he unlocked the door. Meric gently shook Tully awake, bracing himself for the return of their chains.
"Stand," Kaeglen ordered, his voice betraying nothing of the unusual mercy he'd shown the night before.
The boys rose quickly, positioning themselves as they always did for shackling – side by side, wrists extended. Kaeglen approached with the familiar iron cuffs, but as he locked them around Meric's wrists, Meric noticed something different. The chain that usually connected his wrists to Tully's was missing.
Kaeglen moved to Tully, securing separate shackles on the younger boy's wrists. He repeated the process with their ankles – individual cuffs with short chains to limit their stride, but no connection between them. For the first time since their capture, they would move independently of each other.
"Keeping you tethered together impedes your efficiency. Starting today you work apart," Kaeglen said, as if this change were utterly unremarkable. "You – " he pointed to Meric " – will clear stones from the upper terrace. And you – " he turned to Tully " – will repair the fence in the lower yard."
Meric glanced at Tully, their eyes meeting in brief, stunned confusion. Was this another result of Tinus's visit? Some small concession to his friend's concerns about cruelty? Whatever the reason, Meric felt a flutter of something he hadn't dared feel in weeks – possibility.
The day unfolded under a punishing sun. From his position on the upper terrace, Meric could see the entire compound spread below him. He watched Tully hammering wooden stakes into the rocky soil near the fence line, his movements hampered by the chains at his ankles but still more fluid than they had been when tethered to Meric. Every few minutes, Meric's gaze drifted to Kaeglen, who moved between various tasks with his usual methodical efficiency.
The physical labor was grueling. Each stone Meric pried from the earth sent fresh pain through his healing back. But the discomfort was distant compared to the cold realization forming in his mind: they might never have a better chance than this. Separate chains. More freedom of movement. The ability to approach from different directions.
During their midday water break, Meric found himself beside Tully at the well. As Kaeglen turned to speak with the female servant, Meric leaned closer to Tully, his voice barely a breath.
"Tonight," he whispered. "We have to try."
Tully's eyes widened, but he gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. No further words were needed. Months of sharing a bed, of communicating in silence during their captivity, had given them a language beyond speech. In Tully's eyes, Meric saw the same desperate hope that burned in his own chest.
The afternoon crawled by, each moment stretching with unbearable tension. Meric's mind raced through possibilities, each more desperate than the last. There was no perfect plan, no safe option. Just the certainty that they would never get home if they didn't act.
As the light began to fade, Kaeglen directed them to the toolshed for final tasks. This was their chance – the shed was partially hidden from the main house, a blind spot where the other servants wouldn't see what happened. Meric's heart hammered so loudly he was certain Kaeglen must hear it.
The cold dread that had been building in Meric's gut all day intensified. Neither he nor Tully had a violent bone in their bodies. They were orphans, not killers. They had survived by keeping their heads down, by enduring. What they were about to attempt went against everything they were. But then Meric saw Tully stumble slightly, the iron around his ankles biting into skin already raw from weeks of chafing, and his resolve hardened. This was about survival now.
As they reached the toolshed, Meric deliberately lagged behind. He stooped, pretending to adjust his ankle chain, and his fingers closed around a heavy stone. With shaking hands, he wrapped it in a scrap of sacking cloth from the ground. When he straightened, Tully's eyes met his for one brief, terrified moment.
Everything happened with nightmarish speed after that. Tully, positioned near the shed door, let out a sudden, agonized cry, dropping to the ground and clutching his ankle. The sound was so convincing, so filled with genuine pain, that Meric himself nearly believed it.
Kaeglen turned sharply. "What is it, boy? A snake?" His voice held not anger but practical concern as he strode toward Tully. He knelt beside the younger boy, his back to Meric.
Meric moved. The chains at his ankles rattled, betraying his approach, but Kaeglen was focused on examining Tully's leg. Meric raised the stone, its weight suddenly enormous in his hand. He had one chance. He thought of the orphanage, of the sea, of freedom. He thought of the ship that had brought them here, of the marks on his back, of Tully's tears.
The first blow landed with a sickening thud. Not at the back of Kaeglen's head where Meric had aimed, but on his upper back. Kaeglen grunted in surprise and began to turn. Panic surged through Meric, and he struck again, harder, catching Kaeglen on the side of the head. The man swayed but didn't fall.
"Please," Meric sobbed, though he wasn't sure who he was begging – Kaeglen or himself. He brought the stone down again, and again, and again, with all the strength he had in him.
Eventually, Kaeglen stopped moving. Blood pooled on the hard-packed earth, looking black in the fading light. The only sounds were Meric's ragged breathing and Tully's quiet, hysterical weeping.
Meric dropped the bloodied stone, his hands shaking uncontrollably. The reality of what he'd done hit him with physical force, and he doubled over, certain he would be sick. But his stomach was empty. He spat and recovered. They had to move quickly.
With trembling fingers, Meric tore the leather pouch from Kaeglen's belt. Inside were the keys to their shackles. He fumbled with them, his hands slick with sweat and worse things, until he found the one that fit Tully's locks. The iron fell away, leaving angry red marks on Tully's skin.
"Your turn," Tully whispered, his face pale in the gathering dusk. He took the keys and unlocked Meric's restraints, his hands steadier than Meric's had been.
They worked quickly, dragging Kaeglen's body into the toolshed. The task was grim and difficult, the dead weight heavier than either had expected. Inside the shed, they stripped him of his clothing – a plain linen tunic, trousers, and sturdy boots. Meric's hands wouldn't stop shaking as he pulled the tunic over his head. It smelled of Kaeglen – sweat and earth and now, faintly, blood. Dressing in his clothes felt like a further violation, a grotesque masquerade. But in their loincloths, they were slaves. In these clothes, they were just any two boys.
"We have to hurry," Tully said, his voice small and strange. He was drowning in Kaeglen's trousers, the waist cinched tight with their former master's belt.
They didn't dare linger in the house, taking only what they could grab quickly – a waterskin, a pouch of dried meat from the kitchen, a small knife. As they slipped through the compound gate, the first stars were appearing in the darkening sky. They walked quickly but didn't run, aware that running boys would draw attention.
They made it to the edge of the settlement before either spoke again. In the shadow of a stone wall, hidden from the main road, Tully suddenly stopped. His face crumpled, and a sound escaped him that wasn't quite a sob.
"Meric," he gasped. "We killed him. We killed him."
Meric pulled Tully into his arms, holding him tightly as they both shook with the enormity of what they'd done. There were no words for this – for the horror and the relief, for the knowledge that they had crossed a line they could never uncross.
"It was the only way," Meric whispered, though the words felt hollow. "It was him or us."
They stayed there for several minutes, clutching each other in the darkness, their tears mingling on each other's faces. They were alive. They were free. They had each other. But the cost of that freedom would haunt them forever.
"We need to keep moving," Meric finally said, pulling back enough to look at Tully's tear-streaked face. "The port is north. We might find a ship, someone who speaks our language."
Tully nodded, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "Where will we go?"
"Home," Meric said, the word both a promise and a prayer. "We'll find our way home."
They continued through the darkened streets, two small figures in oversized clothes, haunted by what they'd left behind but moving steadily forward – together, as they had always been.
Meric pressed his back against the rough wooden wall of the abandoned storage shed, straining to hear the voices passing outside. The language was still incomprehensible to him – all flowing vowels and sharp consonants that blended together like water over stones. But the tone was unmistakable. Urgent. Searching. He glanced at Tully huddled beside him, knees pulled to his chest, eyes wide with a fear that hadn't faded since they fled Kaeglen's compound two nights ago. Two nights since Meric had brought a stone down on a man's head until he stopped moving. Two nights of running, hiding, and waiting for the inevitable noose to find their necks.
"They're gone," Meric whispered when the voices faded, though he didn't move from his position. False security had nearly gotten them caught the previous afternoon, when a group of children had discovered their hiding place behind a market stall. They'd escaped only because the children had been more interested in chasing each other than reporting two ragged strangers.
Tully nodded, his unwashed hair falling across his face. The oversized clothes they'd taken from Kaeglen hung on them like sails without wind. Meric had cinched Kaeglen's belt as tightly as possible around Tully's waist, yet the trousers still threatened to slide down his hips when they ran. The stolen tunic Meric wore reeked of dried blood, no matter how many times he tried to rinse the stain away in puddles of rainwater.
"I'm so hungry," Tully murmured, his voice cracked from thirst.
The dried meat they'd taken from Kaeglen's kitchen had lasted only a day. The waterskin was empty now too, and Meric's tongue felt thick in his mouth. He reached for Tully's hand, feeling the bones too prominent beneath the skin.
"We'll find something tonight," he promised. "When it's darker."
In truth, he had no idea how they'd get food. Stealing felt impossible – they couldn't blend into the crowds, couldn't ask for help, couldn't read the signs on the shops and stalls. They were as foreign as the moons in this sun-baked city, marked by their northern coloring and inability to speak the language.
Meric closed his eyes, but the image that greeted him behind his eyelids was always the same: Kaeglen, turning to look at him as the stone came down. The surprise in the man's dark eyes. The way his body had gone slack, then heavy. The blood, so much blood, turning the dirt beneath them to mud.
"I can still see him," Meric whispered, not meaning to speak the thought aloud.
Tully's fingers tightened around his. "You had to do it. We couldn't stay there."
The worst part wasn't the memory of the act itself. It was how easily his hands had done it, again and again, when a single blow might have been enough. Something inside him had broken free that day, something dark and desperate that he hadn't known lived inside him.
"I keep thinking they'll find us," Meric said, opening his eyes to chase away the images. "They'll know it was us. They'll hang us in the square for everyone to see."
"They haven't caught us yet," Tully said with forced optimism, though his eyes darted nervously to the cracks in the shed's walls.
They'd spent the first night after their escape sleeping in turns beneath a bridge, listening to the water rush below them and the occasional footsteps above. Yesterday had been a blur of narrow streets and blind alleys, ducking into shadows whenever anyone approached. This shed, with its moldy straw and spider-infested corners, was the closest thing to sanctuary they'd found.
"We should try to find another ship," Tully suggested. "One going north. We could hide on it, maybe."
Meric had considered this too, but the memory of their journey south on the Nar made his stomach clench. "The harbor will be the first place they look for us."
A sudden commotion outside made them both freeze. People were gathering, their voices raised in that foreign tongue. Meric crawled to a gap in the wooden slats, peering out at the small crowd forming in the street.
A man was speaking loudly, gesturing with his hands in a way that suggested importance. The crowd murmured in response. Though Meric couldn't understand a word, one name stood out, repeated several times: "Kaeglen."
"They're talking about him," Meric breathed, barely audible.
Tully joined him at the wall, pressing his eye to another crack. "What are they saying?"
"I don't know. But they sound angry."
As they watched, one of the men drew a finger across his throat in a universal gesture. The crowd nodded, some spitting on the ground. Meric's blood turned to ice in his veins. They knew. They were looking for Kaeglen's killers. For them.
"We can't stay here," he whispered, backing away from the wall. "We have to move. Now."
They gathered their meager possessions – the empty waterskin, the small knife they'd taken from Kaeglen's kitchen – and waited for the crowd to disperse. When the street seemed empty again, Meric cautiously pushed open the shed door, wincing at its creak.
The alley beyond was narrow and dark, winding between the backs of buildings. They slipped out, moving as silently as their weakened bodies would allow. Meric kept Tully behind him, one hand reaching back to ensure the younger boy stayed close.
They'd made it halfway down the alley when a door opened directly in front of them. Light spilled out, and a woman stood silhouetted in the doorway. She stared at them, her mouth opening in surprise.
Meric froze, his mind blank with terror. The woman called out something in her language, her voice rising with each word. From inside the house, a man responded.
"Run!" Meric hissed, pushing Tully back the way they'd come.
They fled, feet pounding on the packed earth, the woman's shouts following them like hounds. Meric's lungs burned, his vision narrowing to the path ahead. Behind him, Tully's breathing came in ragged gasps.
They turned corner after corner, taking random paths, ducking under washing lines and squeezing through gaps between buildings. Only when the sounds of pursuit faded did they slow, collapsing against a stone wall in a deserted courtyard.
"I can't – " Tully gasped, sliding down to sit on the ground. "I can't keep running."
His face was pale beneath the grime, his lips cracked from dehydration. But it was his eyes that frightened Meric most – glazed with a desperate, animal fear that seemed to come from somewhere beyond conscious thought.
"Tully," Meric said, kneeling beside him. "Tully, look at me."
When Tully didn't respond, Meric gently took his face between his hands. "Look at me. We're going to be all right."
A single, broken sob escaped Tully's throat. "No, we're not. They'll find us. They'll hurt us. They'll separate us."
"I won't let that happen," Meric said fiercely. "Never. Do you hear me? Never."
Tully's entire body was shaking now, tears cutting clean trails through the dirt on his face. "I'm so scared, Meric. All the time. I can't breathe sometimes because I'm so scared."
Meric pulled him close, cradling Tully's head against his chest the way he used to back in their narrow bed at the orphanage. "I know. I am too. But we have each other. That's all that matters."
He pressed his lips to the top of Tully's head, tasting salt and dust. "Remember what we used to say? About being better than brothers?"
Tully nodded against his chest. "Brothers don't get to choose each other. We did."
"And I choose you. Every day. No matter what happens." Meric's voice broke on the last word. "We'll find a way home. I promise."
They stayed that way for several minutes, clinging to each other in the gathering darkness. The terror was still there, lurking at the edges of Meric's mind, but holding Tully somehow made it bearable. This was what they'd fought for, after all. The right to hold each other, to comfort each other, to love each other without chains or cruelty.
When Tully's breathing had steadied, Meric helped him to his feet. "There are hills outside the city," he said, pointing to the dark shapes visible beyond the rooftops. "Maybe caves, or abandoned huts. Somewhere we can hide until we figure out what to do next."
Tully nodded, wiping his face with his sleeve. "Okay."
They made their way through the darkened city, two shadows among many, bound by something stronger than the chains that had once held them. The fear followed them like a physical presence, but so did their determination to stay together – to survive, to find their way home, to someday look back on this nightmare from the safety of their dream cottage by the sea.
Sunlight streamed through the tall arched windows of the Royal Palace, catching the gold leaf on the ceiling and throwing patterns across the polished marble floor. Tinus walked the long corridor with measured steps, his formal robes rustling softly with each movement. Two days had passed since his friend Kaeglen had been found dead in his toolshed, his head crushed by repeated blows. Two days of questions without answers. Two days of suspicion falling on Tinus himself for his long association with the man. And now, a summons from King Sutalma that could not be ignored.
Guards flanked the entrance to the king's private study, their faces impassive beneath plumed helmets. They recognized Tinus immediately, stepping aside with respectful nods. He had served as royal advisor for fifteen years, longer than some of these men had been alive. Yet today, for the first time, he felt uncertain of his welcome.
The door swung open to reveal a circular room lined with books and maps. King Sutalma stood at a wide table strewn with papers, his crown set aside on a nearby cushion. Though barely forty, Sutalma had the gravity of a much older man, his dark beard neatly trimmed, his eyes reflecting both intelligence and compassion. Those eyes now fixed on Tinus with an unreadable expression.
"Your Majesty," Tinus said, bowing deeply. "You wished to see me?"
"Come in, old friend," Sutalma replied, gesturing to the empty chair across from him. "Close the door."
Tinus did as instructed, noting the absence of other advisors or servants. A private meeting, then. Either very good or very bad.
"We found something at Kaeglen's compound," Sutalma said without preamble, sliding a small metal object across the table. "Do you recognize this?"
Tinus picked up what appeared to be a silver ring sized for a bird's leg. Delicate markings were etched into its surface – not the elegant script of Draosaston, but the angular runes of their northern enemy, Vashkar.
"It looks like a carrier pigeon marker," Tinus said slowly, dread pooling in his stomach. "But these markings..."
"Are Vashkari," Sutalma finished. "Kaeglen's servants led us to a hidden compartment beneath his pigeon cote. It contained these." He pushed a stack of papers toward Tinus.
Tinus rifled through them with increasing horror. Troop movements. Harbor defenses. Names of diplomatic envoys and their secret instructions. All written in Kaeglen's precise hand. All information that would be devastating in enemy hands.
"This cannot be," Tinus whispered, though the evidence before him admitted no other interpretation. "Kaeglen was loyal to Draosaston. He was my friend."
"He was a traitor," Sutalma said, his voice firm but not unkind. "And if his death had not led us to investigate his compound so thoroughly, we might never have known."
The implications hit Tinus like a physical blow. "The attack on our embassy in Valentia last month – "
"Likely a direct result of information Kaeglen provided. Seven diplomats dead."
"And the ambush of our supply caravan in the eastern mountains – "
"Twelve soldiers killed. Information about the route could only have come from someone with access to military plans. Someone like a trusted citizen who provided lumber for our ships and supplied our army."
Tinus pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to reconcile the man he had known for twenty years with this monster selling his country's secrets. "I vouched for him," he said hoarsely. "I brought him into this very palace, introduced him to you. How did I not see?"
Sutalma's expression softened. "Betrayal is always hardest to see in those we trust. I do not blame you, Tinus. But I must ask – did you have any knowledge of his activities?"
"None, Your Majesty. I swear on my life." The words came easily because they were true, but the question still stung. "I would never betray Draosaston."
The king nodded, accepting the declaration. "I believe you. But others in the court may not be so easily convinced. Your friendship with Kaeglen is well-known."
"A friendship I now deeply regret," Tinus said bitterly.
"There is more," Sutalma continued, his tone grave. "The pigeon cote contained evidence of payments. Substantial payments from Vashkari agents. Kaeglen was wealthy not merely from his business ventures, but from selling Draosaston's secrets."
Tinus recalled Kaeglen's compound – modest on the surface, yet equipped with unexpected luxuries. The imported wines, the rare spices, the quality furnishings. All paid for with blood money.
"The slaves," Tinus said suddenly, remembering the two northern boys he'd seen during his visit. The marks on the older one's back, the haunted look in their eyes. "What of Kaeglen's slaves?"
"Fled," Sutalma replied. "The northern boys are the primary suspects in his death. Witnesses saw two young men matching their description leaving the compound the night Kaeglen was killed. They were wearing his clothes."
Tinus remembered how he had argued with Kaeglen about the treatment of those boys. How he had convinced his friend to remove their chains for one night, a small mercy that may have enabled their escape. A complex emotion rose in him – guilt for possibly facilitating Kaeglen's death, yet a strange relief that the boys had freed themselves.
"We are searching for them, of course," Sutalma continued. "Murder cannot go unpunished, regardless of who the victim was."
"Of course," Tinus agreed automatically, though something in him rebelled at the thought of those two frightened children facing execution for killing a man who had enslaved them. A man who, they now knew, had caused the deaths of many Draosaston citizens.
"And yet," Sutalma said, his voice taking on a thoughtful quality, "I find myself in an unusual position. These fugitives we seek have, without knowing it, performed a great service for our kingdom. Kaeglen's death has silenced a leak that cost Draosaston lives."
"A service indeed," Tinus murmured, remembering the quiet dignity in the older boy's eyes despite his chains, the protective way he had positioned himself near the younger one. "Though they could not have known it."
The king was silent for a long moment, his fingers tracing the edge of the incriminating documents. "What would you do, Tinus, if we found these boys? The law demands justice for murder. Yet my heart questions whether true justice would be served by executing slaves who struck out for freedom."
"They are children," Tinus said softly. "Barely into their youth. And they were free before they were taken – I would stake my reputation on it. No northern orphanage would sell children their age. They were kidnapped, brought here illegally, sold on our markets."
"Adding further complexity to an already complex situation," Sutalma sighed. "The people demand justice for Kaeglen's death. They do not yet know he was a traitor, and we cannot announce it without revealing the extent of the information that was compromised. It would cause panic, perhaps even weaken our position against Vashkar further."
"So we hunt children who killed a monster, while pretending the monster was a respected citizen," Tinus said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.
"For now," Sutalma agreed, his expression troubled. "Though perhaps we need not hunt with excessive enthusiasm."
The king stood, signaling the end of their meeting. "Continue the search for the fugitives. But when they are found – and they will be found, two northern boys cannot hide forever in Draosaston – they are to be brought directly to me. Unharmed. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," Tinus bowed, relief washing through him. Sutalma was a good man, a just king. He would find a way through this tangle of duty and morality.
As Tinus turned to leave, Sutalma spoke again. "And Tinus? This conversation remains between us. The full extent of Kaeglen's treachery is known only to a handful of people, and it must remain so for now."
"I understand."
Tinus walked back through the sunlit corridor, his mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. Betrayal by a man he had called friend. Relief that the betrayal had been discovered. Fear for two boys lost in a foreign land, hunted for an act that had inadvertently saved lives. They had no idea that in their desperate bid for freedom, they had performed a service worthy of the highest honor Draosaston could bestow.
The irony was almost unbearable. Somewhere in this city, two children were hiding in terror, believing the entire kingdom sought their blood. And they were right – the kingdom did seek them, but not for the reasons they imagined. The very act they believed condemned them might be their salvation, if only they could be found before fear or hunger or the harsh streets claimed them first.
Tully huddled deeper into the corner of the cellar, drawing his knees to his chest as another rat scurried past his feet. The damp walls glistened in the thin strip of light that filtered through the grate above, casting weird shadows on the earthen floor. Three days they'd been here, hidden beneath what seemed to be a tavern or inn, judging by the constant footsteps and murmured conversations overhead. Three days without proper food or clean water. Three days of jumping at every sound, certain that each new voice belonged to someone who had come to drag them to the gallows.
"Here," Meric whispered, pressing something into Tully's palm. "I found it in that barrel."
Tully squinted in the dim light. A moldy crust of bread, hard as stone but still recognizable as food. His stomach cramped painfully at the sight of it. They'd found nothing to eat since their last desperate foray outside, when Meric had snatched a few shriveled vegetables from a market stall before a shout sent them running.
"You should have half," Tully said, trying to break the crust.
"I already ate some," Meric lied. Even in the poor light, Tully could see the hollows beneath his cheekbones growing deeper each day, the way his stolen clothes hung looser on his frame.
Tully didn't argue, though he knew Meric was giving him the only food they had. He gnawed at the crust, trying to soften it with saliva he barely had. The mold tasted bitter, but the bread beneath was still bread.
A spider dangled from the low ceiling, its web glistening with moisture. The cellar had been a stroke of desperate luck – they'd discovered the external access door while fleeing from a group of children who'd spotted them near the hills. The rusted lock had broken easily under Meric's boot, revealing a forgotten storage space beneath some kind of establishment. Empty barrels lined the walls, and piles of rotting sacks filled the corners. The smell of mildew and decay permeated everything.
"My back itches," Tully murmured, shifting uncomfortably. The damp had aggravated the healing welts from Kaeglen's switch, making them burn and itch beneath his shirt. He couldn't imagine how much worse it must be for Meric, whose wounds had been deeper.
As if reading his thoughts, Meric reached over to brush a strand of hair from Tully's forehead. "At least it's just itching now. They're healing."
"If they catch us, they'll make fresh ones." Tully couldn't keep the fear from his voice. "I keep dreaming about it. About the switch. Except, in the dreams, it never stops."
The memory was visceral – the whistle of the switch, the explosion of pain across his shoulders, the burn that seemed to reach his very bones. And worse, the cold detachment in Kaeglen's eyes, as if he were pruning a plant rather than striking a child.
"They won't catch us," Meric said with a conviction Tully knew he couldn't really feel. "And if they do, I'll fight. I won't let them hurt you again."
Overhead, the floorboards creaked with heavy footsteps. Both boys froze, holding their breath as dust filtered down from the ceiling. The steps paused directly above them, and a man's voice called out something in that foreign language.
Tully's heart hammered against his ribs. He reached blindly for Meric's hand, finding it already reaching for his. Their fingers intertwined, gripping so tightly it would have hurt if fear hadn't numbed everything else.
The footsteps moved away, but Tully couldn't relax. Every sound from above was a threat now – the scrape of chair legs, the thump of a dropped object, the murmur of conversation that occasionally rose to audible levels. Each one sent his mind spiraling into visions of discovery, of being dragged into the sunlight, of the punishment that would surely follow.
"What do you think they do to murderers here?" he whispered, the question escaping before he could stop it.
Meric's hand tightened around his. "Don't think about that."
"I can't help it. I see the gallows every time I close my eyes." Tully's voice cracked. "Or worse. What if they do something else first? What if they – "
"Stop," Meric cut him off, his own voice strained with the same fears. "Just stop."
A sudden clatter of hooves on cobblestones outside made them both jerk. Horses, moving at speed. Perhaps carrying soldiers. Perhaps searching for them.
"I'm sorry," Tully whispered, leaning into Meric's side. "I'm just so scared all the time."
"I know." Meric's arm wrapped around him, pulling him closer despite the damp chill that clung to both their clothes. "I am too."
The weight of what they'd done pressed down on Tully like a physical thing. He'd never seen a man die before. Had never imagined he'd be complicit in death. The memory of Kaeglen's body, suddenly slack and still, visited him in fragments throughout his waking hours.
"Do you think he had a family?" Tully asked, the question that had been haunting him for days. "Children? Someone who loved him?"
Meric was quiet for a long moment. "I don't know. I never saw anyone but the servants at the compound."
"What if he did, though? What if someone is grieving for him like I grieved for my mother?"
The implications of this were almost too much to bear. Not just murderers, but makers of orphans. Bringers of the same pain that had hollowed out Tully's chest when his mother died.
"He was going to kill us eventually," Meric said, his voice hardening. "Maybe not quickly. Maybe not even on purpose. But the work, the heat, the punishments – we wouldn't have survived much longer there."
Tully knew this was true. Already, after just weeks in Kaeglen's service, they'd grown thinner, weaker. The sun had burned their exposed skin raw. The switch had opened Meric's back. It would have gotten worse, not better.
"Was it worth it?" he asked, not even sure what answer he wanted. "Freedom like this? Always running, always hiding? Maybe dying anyway, but with everyone thinking we're monsters?"
Meric turned to look at him, his face barely visible in the gloom. "We're together," he said simply. "That's all that matters to me."
The words settled over Tully like a balm. They were together. Despite everything – the kidnapping, the ship, the slave market, Kaeglen's cruelty, their desperate escape – they had managed to keep that one precious thing intact. Their bond. Their love for each other.
"I just want to go home," Tully whispered, resting his head on Meric's shoulder. "Back to the sea. Where we grew up. Where we understand the language."
"We will," Meric promised, though they both knew it was a promise he had no power to keep. "Somehow."
More hoofbeats passed outside, followed by shouts in that harsh, flowing language. Tully tensed again, pressing closer to Meric as if he could disappear into him completely.
"We need to find food," Meric said after the sounds had faded. "Real food. We're getting too weak."
It was true. Tully could feel the way his body had begun to consume itself, the constant gnawing pain in his belly, the lightheadedness that came when he stood too quickly. Meric, who had been giving him the larger share of what little they found, must be feeling it even more acutely.
"Tomorrow night," Tully agreed. "We'll try the market again."
He didn't say what they both knew: that each venture outside increased their chances of being caught. That they were slowly starving, and the choice was between possible capture and certain death from hunger. That their escape might have been nothing but a brief reprieve from an inevitable fate.
Instead, he closed his eyes and focused on the sound of Meric's heartbeat beneath his ear, the one constant in a world that had become a nightmare. Whatever came next – capture, freedom, even death – they would face it as they'd faced everything since that first night at the orphanage: together.
"I'd do it all again," Tully whispered, answering his own earlier question. "Even knowing what would happen. I'd choose freedom with you over safety with anyone else."
Meric's arm tightened around him, a silent understanding passing between them. The rats scurried in the shadows, spiders spun their glistening webs, and above them, the world continued its relentless search. But in this damp corner of a forgotten cellar, they had each other. It wasn't enough – not nearly enough – but it was something. It was everything.
King Sutalma stood at the tall windows of his council chamber, watching the sunset paint his city gold. Behind him, voices rose and fell as his advisors debated the appropriate response to Kaeglen's murder. Five days had passed since the merchant's body had been discovered, five days since the two northern slave boys had vanished. The kingdom's official stance remained clear – murder must be answered with justice. Yet as Sutalma gazed out at the sprawling city, his thoughts were not of justice, but of questions that gnawed at him like hungry wolves.
"Your Majesty," General Farlon's voice cut through the debate, drawing Sutalma's attention back to the room. "We must make an example of these slaves when they are caught. The merchant class is already restless, demanding assurances that their property is protected by crown law."
The general stood with his hand resting on his sword hilt, his weathered face set in grim lines. Around the ornate table sat the other advisors – Minister Doreah with her carefully neutral expression, Lord Bennis stroking his elaborate beard, young Master Tireth looking uncomfortable with the entire discussion.
"Property," Sutalma repeated, the word bitter on his tongue. "You speak of children, General."
"I speak of slaves who murdered their master," Farlon countered. "Their age is irrelevant. The precedent – "
"Thank you for your concern about precedent," Sutalma interrupted, his voice mild but carrying an edge that silenced the room. "I believe I understand the various perspectives on this matter. You are dismissed for the evening. All of you, except Tinus."
The advisors exchanged glances but rose obediently, bowing before filing out of the chamber. Only Tinus remained, seated at the far end of the table, his eyes thoughtful as he watched Sutalma return to the window.
"They fear weakness," Tinus said when the door had closed behind the others. "The appearance of it, at least."
"I know what they fear," Sutalma replied. "They fear change. They fear questioning the systems that have brought them comfort."
Silence settled between them, comfortable as an old cloak. Sutalma had known Tinus since childhood – the older man had been advisor to his father before him, had taught Sutalma history and politics long before he took the throne. If anyone would understand the unorthodox direction of his thoughts, it would be Tinus.
"I keep returning to a single question," Sutalma said finally. "What drives two children to kill? Not in the heat of battle, not in defense against immediate attack, but with deliberate intent?"
"Desperation," Tinus answered simply. "A conviction that there was no other way to escape."
"That is what troubles me most." Sutalma turned from the window, his face shadowed in the fading light. "What did Kaeglen do to make death seem the only escape? What conditions did he create that made murder preferable to endurance?"
The question hung in the air between them. Sutalma crossed to the table and poured wine into two silver goblets, offering one to Tinus.
"You saw them," he continued, settling into a chair. "During your visit to Kaeglen's compound. Tell me about these boys."
Tinus cradled the goblet in his hands, his expression distant with memory. "They were thin, unnaturally so for boys their age. Dressed in nothing but loincloths despite the sun that would burn northern skin. Chained at wrist and ankle." He paused, his jaw tightening. "The older one had marks on his back. Fresh welts. Kaeglen had beaten him recently."
"For what offense?"
"A pigeon escaped. The boy failed to secure a latch properly." Tinus took a long drink of wine. "Eight strokes with a heavy switch, Kaeglen told me. As if it were a perfectly reasonable punishment for a minor error."
Sutalma closed his eyes briefly, imagining the scene. A boy, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, chained and beaten for a momentary lapse of attention. Was it any wonder they had fled at the first opportunity?
"And the other boy? The younger one?"
"Smaller, but equally thin. He watched the older one constantly, as if seeking guidance or protection." Tinus set down his goblet. "They moved as one, even with the chains between them. There was a... connection between them. Something deeper than mere friendship or even brotherhood."
"Love," Sutalma suggested softly.
"Perhaps," Tinus agreed. "Whatever it was, it gave them strength. I could see it in their eyes. Exhausted, afraid, but not broken."
Sutalma rose, pacing the length of the chamber. The moral complexity of the situation weighed on him, pulling him in opposing directions. As king, he was bound to uphold the laws of Draosaston. As a man, he found those laws increasingly difficult to reconcile with his conscience.
"I have been considering," he said carefully, "the abolition of slavery within our borders."
Tinus's eyebrows rose, but he showed no other reaction to this radical statement. "The merchant guilds would oppose you. As would the plantation owners to the south."
"Yes. It would be politically difficult. Perhaps impossible at this moment." Sutalma's mouth twisted in a rueful smile. "Yet I find I cannot look at myself in the mirror each morning knowing that children are bought and sold in my kingdom. That they are worked until they collapse, beaten for trivial errors, treated as property rather than people."
"It would be a noble change," Tinus said. "And one that would define your reign in the histories."
"I care less for the histories than for the children living now." Sutalma returned to his seat, leaning forward intently. "These boys – they are a symbol of everything wrong with our current laws. Kidnapped from their homes, sold like cattle, abused until they saw no choice but violence."
"And in their desperate act, they inadvertently served the crown," Tinus added. "Had Kaeglen lived, how many more of our people would have died due to his treachery?"
The irony was not lost on Sutalma. Two slaves, striking out solely for their own freedom, had done more to protect Draosaston than his entire network of spies and informants.
"What would you have me do, Tinus?" he asked, genuinely seeking counsel. "The law demands their punishment. Public opinion – at least the opinion of those with wealth and influence – demands it as well."
"The law was not made for cases such as this," Tinus replied. "These are not monsters, Your Majesty. They are children who stumbled into a nest of vipers."
The phrase struck Sutalma with particular force. Children in a nest of vipers – first the orphanage that failed to protect them, then the slavers who stole them, then Kaeglen who abused them, and now the laws of Draosaston that would condemn them. Vipers at every turn.
"And we would add another viper to the nest," he murmured, "if we execute them for seeking freedom."
"Indeed."
Sutalma drummed his fingers on the table, his mind working through possibilities. "The search continues," he said finally. "It must, for appearance's sake. But I want them found quickly, before hunger or fear drives them to further desperate acts."
"And when they are found?" Tinus asked.
"They will be brought to me directly. Unharmed." Sutalma's voice hardened on the last word. "I want to speak with them, to hear their story in their own words before any judgment is passed."
"They will not understand our language," Tinus pointed out. "And with Kaeglen dead, there are few who speak the northern tongue."
"Find someone," Sutalma ordered. "A ship captain who trades with the north, a scholar, anyone who can translate. I need to know what drove them to kill. I need to understand."
Tinus nodded, a hint of approval in his eyes. "And the official position? What shall I tell the other advisors?"
"Tell them their king is determined to see justice done," Sutalma said, allowing a deliberate ambiguity in his words. "Justice in its truest sense, not merely punishment."
As Tinus rose to leave, Sutalma added, "And Tinus? Send word to the city guard. The boys are to be treated with care if found. No unnecessary force. They've experienced enough cruelty in our kingdom."
Left alone in the chamber, Sutalma returned to the window. Night had fallen while they spoke, the city now a sea of flickering lanterns. Somewhere out there, two frightened children were hiding, believing the entire kingdom sought their deaths. The thought sat heavy in his chest, a weight no crown could balance.
Justice, he thought. Not as the law defines it, but as conscience demands it. He would find a way to provide that, even if it meant challenging the very foundations of Draosaston's social order. For the boys, yes – but also for the kingdom he hoped to build, one worthy of the name civilization.
Hunger drove them from their hiding place as the seventh night of their freedom fell over the city. Meric's head spun with every movement, his body consuming itself after days with almost no food. Beside him, Tully moved like a sleepwalker, his eyes sunken, his steps unsteady. They couldn't stay in the cellar any longer – not if they wanted to survive another day.
"Stay close," Meric whispered, gripping Tully's thin wrist as they emerged into the quiet street. "We'll try the market again. There might be something left after it closes."
The moon hung low and heavy, casting deep shadows between buildings. Meric kept them in those shadows, moving cautiously, freezing at every sound. His stolen clothes hung from his frame, Kaeglen's belt cinched to its tightest notch and still too loose. Tully's condition was worse – his face gaunt, his eyes too large, his hands trembling constantly.
They moved slowly through the city, taking a winding path toward the market square they'd found days earlier. Twice they ducked into alleys to avoid late-night revelers. Once they pressed themselves flat against a wall as a patrol of armed men passed by, their weapons glinting in the moonlight. Each encounter left Meric's heart racing, sweat cooling on his skin despite the warm night.
When they finally reached the market, it was deserted but not barren. Vendors had packed away their best goods, but discarded vegetables lay scattered beneath tables, too bruised or rotted to sell but still edible for the desperate.
"Here," Meric whispered, dropping to his knees beside a pile of refuse. He sifted through it with shaking hands, finding a half-rotten apple, the end of a loaf of bread, a handful of wrinkled berries. "Eat quickly."
Tully fell on the food without hesitation, his usual fastidiousness long abandoned. Meric forced himself to eat slowly, knowing his empty stomach would rebel against sudden fullness. The bread was stale and the apple mealy, but it was the best meal they'd had in days.
For one brief moment, with food in his belly and Tully safe beside him, Meric felt a flicker of hope. They could survive this. They could keep hiding, keep scavenging, until they found a way to reach the harbor and somehow secure passage home. They could –
A sound behind him – a soft scuff of leather on stone – sent that hope shattering like glass.
Meric whirled, pulling Tully behind him in the same motion. A man stood at the edge of the market square, watching them. In the moonlight, Meric could make out a uniform of some kind, though not the same as the city guards they'd been avoiding.
"Run," Meric hissed, shoving Tully toward the nearest alley.
They ran, their weakened bodies protesting with every step. Behind them, a shout went up, followed by the pounding of multiple sets of boots. Not just one man then, but several. A coordinated effort. A trap.
Meric's lungs burned, spots dancing at the edges of his vision. Beside him, Tully stumbled, nearly falling. Meric caught him, dragging him forward with strength he didn't know he still possessed.
"This way," he gasped, pulling Tully down a narrow passage between two buildings.
But the passage ended in a blank wall, too high to climb in their weakened state. Meric spun around, looking for another escape route, but it was too late. Shadows appeared at the entrance to the alley – two, then three, then more. Men with torches, their faces grim in the flickering light.
"No," Tully whispered, pressing against Meric's side. "Please, no."
Meric backed them against the wall, placing himself between Tully and the approaching men. His mind raced, searching desperately for options that didn't exist. They were cornered, outnumbered, too weak from hunger to fight effectively. This was the end.
"Stay behind me," he ordered Tully, his voice steadier than he felt.
The men advanced slowly, saying something in their flowing language. One, who seemed to be the leader, held up his hand in what might have been a gesture meant to calm. Meric didn't care. He knew what happened to captured slaves who had killed their master. He'd heard the stories in the orphanage – public executions, bodies left hanging as warnings.
When the men were just a few paces away, Meric lunged forward with a wild cry. It was hopeless, suicidal even, but he couldn't simply stand there and wait for them to take Tully. His fist connected with someone's jaw, sending a shock of pain up his arm. He lashed out again, catching another man in the stomach.
Hands grabbed at him from all sides. Meric twisted and fought, his movements fueled by pure desperation rather than strength. Someone caught his tunic, the fabric ripping as Meric pulled away. The sudden sound of tearing cloth was followed by murmurs from the soldiers, their eyes fixed on his exposed back.
Meric knew what they were seeing – the crisscrossed scars from Kaeglen's beating, still pink and raised against his pale skin. For a moment, the soldiers hesitated, something like surprise or even discomfort passing over their faces.
Then the leader said something sharp, and they moved forward again. Meric prepared for the brutal takedown, for clubs or fists to subdue him. Instead, two men simply gripped his arms, firmly but without the violence he expected. They didn't strike him, didn't throw him to the ground. They just held him, immobilized but essentially unhurt.
Behind him, Tully cried out. Meric jerked his head around to see two more soldiers restraining the younger boy, who was putting up less of a fight, his weakened body already giving out.
"Don't hurt him!" Meric shouted, knowing they couldn't understand the words but hoping his tone would convey the meaning. "Please, he's just a boy!"
The leader approached, studying Meric's face in the torchlight. He said something to his men, his voice level and controlled. One of them produced leather restraints – not chains like Kaeglen had used, but simple cords that they wrapped around Meric's wrists.
They were being arrested, not beaten. Not killed on the spot. The realization was so unexpected that Meric's resistance faltered, confusion temporarily replacing fear.
The soldiers bound Tully's wrists as well, then guided both boys out of the alley. A small crowd had gathered, watching with curious eyes as the fugitives were led into the street. Meric kept his head high, though shame burned through him at his failure to protect Tully, at the exposure of his scarred back to all these staring eyes.
A covered wagon waited nearby. The soldiers helped the boys into it, not roughly but with firm hands that allowed no resistance. Inside, clean straw covered the floor – more comfort than they'd had in the cellar, a bitter irony that wasn't lost on Meric. The door closed behind them, plunging them into shadow.
"Meric?" Tully's voice shook with exhaustion and fear. "What's happening? Why aren't they beating us?"
"I don't know," Meric admitted, scooting closer until their shoulders touched. "Maybe they're taking us somewhere else for the execution."
The thought settled between them, heavy as stone. Meric's mind filled with images of gallows, of Tully's slender neck in a noose, of watching him die before facing his own death. He swallowed hard against the bile that rose in his throat.
"At least we're together," Tully whispered, leaning into Meric's side. "I was afraid they'd separate us."
"They still might," Meric warned, unwilling to offer false hope. "But I'll find a way back to you if they do. I promise."
The wagon lurched into motion, carrying them through streets they could no longer see. Meric's bare back pressed against the wooden wall, the pain of his healing scars a familiar companion. He felt strangely calm now that capture had happened – the fear of it had been almost worse than the reality. At least the constant running was over. At least they had a moment to breathe, to be together, before whatever came next.
"I'm sorry," he murmured against Tully's hair. "I should have found a better hiding place. Should have fought harder."
Tully's bound hands found his in the darkness. "You did everything you could. You always do."
The simple faith in those words broke something in Meric's chest. Tears pressed behind his eyes, but he blinked them back. He wouldn't cry, not now. He needed to be strong for Tully, to face whatever awaited them with dignity.
The wagon continued through the night, carrying them toward what they both believed was their execution. Yet even in this moment of deepest despair, Meric found himself grateful for one thing – Tully's warmth beside him, the tangible reminder that whatever happened, they would face it together, as they had faced everything since that first night at the orphanage when two lonely boys found each other.
His only prayer, as the wagon rumbled toward their uncertain fate, was that whoever held power over them would grant them one final mercy: to die in each other's arms, their last sight in this world each other's faces, their last comfort each other's love.
The palace loomed before them like something from a dream – all soaring towers and gleaming marble, impossibly grand against the morning sky. Tully's legs trembled beneath him as guards led them up the wide steps, his body still weak from days of near starvation, his mind numb with the certainty of coming death. Beside him, Meric walked with his head high despite his shirtless state, the scars on his back visible to all. They had been given water and bread in the night, a kindness Tully found more confusing than comforting. Why feed men you planned to hang? Perhaps, he thought with a shudder, they simply didn't want them to die before they could be properly executed.
The palace interior stole what little breath remained in Tully's lungs. Sunlight streamed through colored glass, casting rainbow patterns across polished floors. Tapestries taller than three men hung from walls adorned with gold leaf. Guards in crimson uniforms stood at attention, their faces impassive as the two ragged boys were led past.
Tully stayed close to Meric, their shoulders brushing with each step. The contact was his only anchor in this bewildering place, so far removed from their damp cellar hideout that it might have been another world entirely.
They were brought to a vast circular chamber. At its center sat a man on a raised throne – not elderly as Tully had imagined a king would be, but in his middle years, with dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard. A simple gold crown rested on his brow, gleaming in the light that poured through high windows. His robes were rich but understated, his posture straight yet somehow not rigid.
Flanking the throne stood several men and one woman, all watching the boys with varying expressions of curiosity, distaste, or – in the case of an older man with a salt-and-pepper beard – what almost looked like concern.
The guards stopped them at the foot of the dais, a respectful distance from the throne. One of them spoke, his words unintelligible to Tully but clearly a formal announcement of some kind. When he finished, silence fell over the chamber.
Tully's heart pounded so loudly he was certain everyone could hear it. His mouth had gone dry despite the water they'd been given earlier. Beside him, Meric stood tense and alert, his bare chest rising and falling with carefully controlled breaths.
The king spoke, his voice deeper than Tully had expected, the foreign words flowing like water. He was looking directly at them, his gaze moving from Meric's face to Tully's, lingering briefly on the scars visible on Meric's back.
When neither boy responded – how could they? – the king turned to the older man with the salt-and-pepper beard. This man stepped forward and, to Tully's shock, addressed them in heavily accented but recognizable words from their own language.
"Boys... should not fear," he said haltingly, gesturing with his hands to supplement his limited vocabulary. "King... wishes talk. You... will be safe here."
Tully glanced at Meric, seeing his own confusion mirrored there. Was this some cruel trick before their execution? A way to extract a confession?
"We don't understand," Meric replied slowly, clearly unsure whether the man would comprehend him.
The older man frowned in concentration, then turned to the king and spoke rapidly in their language. The king nodded and replied, his expression thoughtful.
"I... Tinus," the man said, pointing to himself. "Friend of... Kaeglen." His face darkened slightly at the name. "King wants... interpreter. Coming soon."
As if summoned by his words, the chamber doors opened to admit a round-faced man with weather-beaten skin and the rolling gait of a sailor. He bowed to the king and spoke briefly, then turned to face the boys.
"I am Captain Joreth of the merchant vessel Northern Star," he said in their language, his accent rough but his grammar perfect. "I trade with your lands twice yearly. His Majesty King Sutalma has asked me to translate for you."
Relief washed through Tully at hearing fluent speech in his native tongue. The captain continued, "The king wishes to know what Kaeglen did to you. He asks that you tell your story in your own words."
Tully looked at Meric, uncertain who should speak first. Meric gave him a slight nod of encouragement.
"We were orphans," Tully began, his voice small in the vast chamber. "From a coastal village in the north. We were running an errand in the village when we saw a ship – a strange one with black sails."
"We got too close," Meric continued when Tully faltered. "They grabbed us, put sacks over our heads. Tied us up and threw us in the hold."
The captain translated as they spoke, his voice steady and neutral. The king listened intently, his expression grave.
Piece by piece, they told their story – the hellish journey south in the ship's hold, the slave market where they stood naked before buyers, Kaeglen's purchase of them, the compound where they lived in chains.
"He made us work from sunrise to sunset," Tully said, gaining confidence as he spoke. "We had no proper clothes, just loincloths. The sun burned our skin raw."
"When we made mistakes, he beat us," Meric added. "Tully dropped a water vessel once. Kaeglen gave him three lashes for it."
Tully pulled up his shirt, turning to show the faint marks that remained on his back. They were nothing compared to Meric's scars, but they confirmed their account.
"And you?" the king asked through the captain, looking directly at Meric. "Your back bears more severe marks."
Meric explained about the pigeon, about the eight strokes that had laid open his skin, about the blood that had soaked into the compound's dusty ground. As he spoke, Tully saw several of the court officials shifting uncomfortably, though whether from disgust at the treatment or impatience with the proceedings, he couldn't tell.
"We didn't plan to kill him," Tully said when they reached that part of the story. "We just wanted to get away."
"But we knew he would hunt us if we simply ran," Meric finished. "And we'd seen what happened to slaves who tried to escape and were caught."
When they had finished, silence filled the chamber. The king spoke at length, his expression thoughtful as the captain listened carefully.
"His Majesty thanks you for your honesty," Captain Joreth finally translated. "He wishes you to know something about the man you killed."
Tully braced himself, certain that whatever followed would seal their fate. Perhaps Kaeglen had been the king's favorite, or related to him somehow. He inched closer to Meric, drawing strength from his presence.
"Kaeglen was a traitor to this realm," the captain continued, his voice taking on a harder edge. "He sold secrets to our enemies – information that led to the deaths of many Draosaston citizens, including royal diplomats and soldiers."
Tully's mind spun, unable to process this unexpected turn. Beside him, Meric stood rigid with shock.
"Had his treachery been discovered while he lived, he would have faced execution for high treason," the captain translated as the king continued speaking. "In killing him, you unwittingly stopped the flow of information to our enemies. You have, in fact, done this nation a service."
Tully stared at the captain, certain he had misunderstood or that the man had mistranslated. A service? They had done this foreign kingdom a service by killing Kaeglen?
The king was speaking again, leaning forward slightly on his throne, his eyes intent on the boys.
"His Majesty wishes to know how he might reward you for this service to his realm," the captain translated.
Reward. The word echoed in Tully's mind, disconnected from any meaning he could grasp. Just moments ago, he had been preparing himself for the announcement of their execution. Now the king spoke of rewards.
"You're not going to hang us?" Meric asked, his voice hoarse with disbelief.
The captain translated the question, and something like surprise crossed the king's face. He replied at length, his tone softening.
"His Majesty says: 'You bravely eliminated a traitorous spy, whose actions threatened the well-being of the people of this land. You have done this nation a service. How may we reward you?'"
Tears welled in Tully's eyes, spilling over before he could stop them. The relief was so intense it left him lightheaded, his legs threatening to give out beneath him. Meric's arm came around his shoulders, steadying him, and Tully felt his own tears mirrored in the trembling of Meric's body against his.
"We just want..." Tully began, his voice breaking.
"...to go home," Meric finished for him, tightening his arm around Tully as his own eyes glistened with unshed tears.
Home. The word carried everything they'd been fighting for since that moment on the docks when their lives had been stolen – the sea, the village, the orphanage that, despite its hardships, had been the place where they found each other.
The captain translated, and the king nodded, his expression softening further. He spoke again, at greater length.
"His Majesty says you shall have your wish," the captain translated. "You will be given passage on a royal vessel bound for the northern shores. Additionally, he wishes to provide you with compensation for your suffering and service – gold enough to establish yourselves upon your return home."
Tully couldn't believe what he was hearing. Not only would they not be executed, not only would they be sent home, but they would be given gold? It was too much to comprehend, too sharp a reversal of fortune.
"Thank you," he managed, the words inadequate for the enormity of his gratitude. "Thank you, Your Majesty."
Meric echoed the sentiment, his voice steadier than Tully's but thick with emotion.
The king rose from his throne, descending the few steps to stand before them. He was taller up close, his presence commanding yet not threatening. He spoke directly to them, looking from one to the other, and though they couldn't understand his words, the sincerity in his expression was clear.
"His Majesty apologizes that such cruelty was visited upon you within his borders," the captain translated. "He wishes you to know that he is working to improve the conditions of those who serve in his realm, and that your story has strengthened his resolve in this matter."
The king extended his hand, palm up, toward the boys. After a moment's hesitation, Meric placed his hand in the king's, and Tully did the same. The king clasped their hands briefly, then stepped back, saying something in a more formal tone.
"You will be given quarters in the palace until arrangements for your journey can be completed," the captain explained. "Proper clothing, food, and any medical attention you require will be provided."
As the guards led them from the chamber – gently now, more escorts than captors – Tully felt as though he were floating. The nightmare that had begun on the docks of their village was ending in a way he could never have imagined. They would go home. They would be together. They would be free.
Meric's hand found his as they walked through the sunlit corridors, their fingers intertwining in a gesture that had become as natural as breathing. In that touch was everything – relief, hope, love, and the unspoken promise that had sustained them through the darkest days: whatever came next, they would face it together.
The royal vessel cut through the waves with graceful precision, its blue and gold sails billowing in the steady northern wind. Meric stood at the railing, the salt spray cool against his face after two weeks at sea. Behind him, sailors called to each other in that flowing language he still couldn't understand, but no longer feared. He wore clean clothes that actually fit – fine linen shirts and woolen trousers provided by King Sutalma, along with the small chest of gold coins now secured in their cabin. The scars on his back still pulled when he stretched, but even they seemed less angry now, as if the distance from Draosaston was healing his body as well as his spirit.
"Captain says we'll see the Twin Islands by tomorrow morning," Tully said, appearing at Meric's side. His cheeks had regained their color, no longer hollow from starvation. The dark circles beneath his eyes had faded, and his hair, washed and trimmed by the palace barbers before their departure, shone in the afternoon sun. "That means we're only three days from home."
Home. The word still carried an edge of disbelief. Just weeks ago, they had been hiding in a rat-infested cellar, certain they would never see their homeland again. Now they traveled in comfort on a royal vessel, with enough gold to build the life they had only dreamed of at the orphanage.
"Do you think the rector is still there?" Meric asked, watching a seabird wheel overhead. "At the orphanage?"
Tully leaned against the railing, his shoulder pressed comfortably against Meric's. "Probably. I don't think he'll ever leave. But we don't have to go back there, not even to visit."
"No," Meric agreed, "we don't."
The orphanage felt like something from another lifetime now – the narrow bed they'd shared, the cold stone corridors, the rigid routines. It had been better than Kaeglen's compound, certainly, but it had never been home. Home was something they would build for themselves now.
"I've been thinking about the cottage," Tully said, his eyes on the horizon where the sea met the sky in a clean, sharp line. "The one we always talked about. We could actually build it now."
"On the cliff overlooking the cove," Meric added, the vision as clear in his mind as it had been during those whispered conversations in Kaeglen's cell. "With a garden in the back."
"And a big bed," Tully said, a flush creeping up his neck. "Just for us."
Meric smiled, slipping his arm around Tully's waist. The easy affection between them had raised eyebrows among some of the crew during the first days of their voyage, but Captain Harrond had quickly made it clear that the king's special guests were to be treated with respect. Since then, the sailors had been polite if distant, going about their duties with the efficient precision of men who had spent their lives at sea.
"What will we do there?" Meric asked, though they had discussed this a hundred times already. "Besides fish and tend the garden?"
Tully's face lit up with the familiar game. "I'll learn to make nets – the really fine ones that sell for good prices in the village. And you could work with the boat builders. You're good with your hands."
"We won't need to work right away," Meric pointed out. "Probably not for a few years. Not with the gold."
The chest in their cabin contained more wealth than either of them had seen in their lives – payment for a service they had performed without knowing, a death that had saved lives. The irony of it still struck Meric at odd moments. They had killed a man and been rewarded for it, not because the act itself was righteous, but because its consequences had served a greater good.
"I want to work anyway," Tully said. "Not for the money, but to be part of the village. To build something."
Meric understood. After being treated as property, the ability to create, to contribute, to choose one's path was its own kind of treasure. Freedom wasn't just the absence of chains; it was the presence of possibilities.
"We could take in other orphans someday," Meric suggested quietly. "When we're older. When the cottage is bigger."
Tully turned to him, eyes bright with emotion. "You'd want th a t?"
"I think about the younger ones sometimes," Meric admitted. "How scared they were. How lonely. We could give them something better."
Tully's hand found his, their fingers intertwining with the ease of long practice. "We could," he agreed. "A real home. A family."
They stood in comfortable silence as the ship continued its northward journey. The afternoon was turning golden, the sun beginning its slow descent toward the western horizon. A few sailors were singing a work song as they adjusted the rigging, the melody carried on the wind.
"Look!" Tully suddenly exclaimed, pointing toward a bank of clouds to the east. "What is that?"
Meric followed his gaze, squinting against the light. At first, he saw nothing but the billowing white clouds. Then a movement caught his eye – something large and sinuous, emerging briefly from the cloud cover before disappearing again.
"I don't know," he said, leaning forward. "A bird maybe? It looked too big, though."
They watched, straining to see into the distance. For several minutes, nothing happened. Then the clouds parted, and they both gasped.
Two enormous creatures soared through the gap, their long bodies undulating with the grace of serpents in water. Vast wings stretched from their sides, catching the sunlight and turning it to gold along their membranous edges. Even at this distance, Meric could make out the horned crests on their heads, the spines running down their sinuous backs, the powerful tails that swept behind them like rudders.
"Dragons," Tully breathed, his voice hushed with awe. "They're real."
The dragons circled each other in what almost looked like a dance, their movements perfectly coordinated despite their massive size. One was slightly larger, its scales gleaming copper in the sunlight, while the other had a greenish tint that flashed like emeralds when it banked.
Around them, the sailors had stopped their work, all eyes fixed on the distant spectacle. Someone made a sign with their hands – fingers splayed, then crossed at the wrist. A ward against evil, or perhaps a blessing. Another sailor called out something that sounded like a prayer.
"Are they dangerous?" Tully asked, not taking his eyes from the dragons.
Captain Harrond had approached, his weathered face lifted to the sky. "Sometimes. Usually not, unless they have a reason to be," he said in his heavily accented Northern speech. "They hunt in the deep waters and high mountains. To see them is rare fortune. Very rare."
"Good fortune?" Meric asked, remembering old tales from the orphanage about dragons bringing either great blessing or terrible destruction.
The captain nodded solemnly. "The old ones say dragons appear only at great turning points – the beginning of a new age, the birth of a hero, the forging of a fate that will change many lives." He smiled slightly. "Or perhaps they simply enjoy the sunshine and clear skies, like all creatures."
The dragons continued their aerial dance, occasionally dipping into or rising above the clouds. Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, they wheeled in perfect unison and flew eastward, their forms growing smaller until they vanished into the distance.
"Do you think it means something?" Tully asked quietly when the crew had returned to their duties, the moment of wonder broken. "That we saw them on our way home?"
Meric considered the question, watching the place where the dragons had disappeared. "I don't know if it means anything to the world," he said finally. "But it means something to us."
Tully looked at him curiously. "What?"
"That we witnessed something rare and beautiful together," Meric said, turning to face him fully. "And that's what I want our life to be – finding the wonder in the world, side by side."
Tully's smile bloomed slowly, lighting his face from within. "I'd like that."
As the sun began to set, casting long golden paths across the water, they remained at the railing, shoulders touching, faces turned toward the north. Toward home, toward freedom, toward a future they would build together from the ruins of their past.
The scars on Meric's back would never completely fade. The memories of chains and hunger and fear would revisit them both in dreams for years to come. But those things no longer defined them. They were more than survivors now; they were builders, dreamers, lovers with a lifetime ahead.
And somewhere in the distance, beyond the horizon they sailed toward, a cliff waited by the sea – a perfect place for a cottage with a garden, a broad bed, and windows that would catch the morning light. A place where two orphaned boys who had found each other in darkness could finally step into the sun, hand in hand, and begin again.
Tully woke to the gentle patter of rain on the cottage roof, a soothing rhythm that made their bed feel even warmer. Beside him, Meric's breathing was deep and even now, his bare chest rising and falling in the peaceful pattern of untroubled sleep. Tully watched him for a moment, relieved. Just hours before, Meric had woken trembling, his eyes wide with the familiar panic of nightmares that still visited occasionally. But now, with morning light filtering soft and grey through the window, those shadows had retreated once again.
The rain grew heavier, drumming against the wooden shingles they had laid together last autumn. Tully smiled at the sound. Rain had once meant misery – wet clothes that never dried, chilled bones, and the fear of illness that could prove fatal for children without proper care. Now it meant this: warmth, safety, and the luxury of simply staying in bed if they chose.
He sat up slowly, careful not to disturb Meric, and stretched his arms toward the ceiling, feeling the pop and stretch of muscle down his arms and back. His shoulders had broadened in the past year, his body steadily changing in ways that still sometimes surprised him when he caught his reflection in water or glass. At thirteen, he was no longer quite a child, though not yet a man either. Something in between, like the half-finished boats in the village shipyard – recognizable for what they would become, but still needing time.
His gaze fell on the wooden flute resting on the small table beside their bed. Meric had given it to him just two days ago for his birthday, presenting the beautifully carved instrument with shy pride. "I commissioned it from Master Thern," Meric had explained as Tully turned the flute in his hands, admiring the smooth polish of the wood and the delicate designs etched along its length. "He says it's good cedar that will last forever if you care for it properly."
Tully had been practicing since then, producing more squawks than music so far, but improving with each attempt. He'd always loved music, had always been drawn to the village musicians who played at festivals and gatherings. Now he had an instrument of his own – not a borrowed one, not something second-hand or makeshift, but a proper flute made just for him.
The thought still filled him with wonder. These small luxuries – a special gift, a comfortable bed, food whenever they were hungry – had once seemed as distant as the twin moons.
Meric shifted beside him, turning his face into the pillow with a soft exhale. Tully's heart swelled with tenderness. At fifteen, Meric had grown taller and stronger, his shoulders broadening from the carpentry work he'd taken up with one of the village craftsmen. His features had begun to sharpen, losing some of the roundness of childhood, but his eyes remained the same – that clear blue that had been Tully's anchor through the darkest times.
The memory of the previous night returned, vivid and sharp. He'd woken to Meric's sudden movement, the choked sound that always accompanied his worst dreams. Without hesitation, Tully had gathered him close, one hand moving to stroke Meric's back in slow, gentle circles.
"I'm here," he'd whispered, his lips against Meric's temple. "We're home. We're safe."
Meric had trembled against him, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. These nightmares came less frequently now – perhaps once a month instead of several times a week – but they hadn't changed in their intensity. When they gripped Meric, he was transported back to that place of chains and fear, his body remembering what his mind fought to forget.
"Breathe with me," Tully had murmured, the way he always did. "In... and out. That's it. In... and out."
Slowly, Meric's breathing had steadied, his rigid muscles relaxing by degrees. Tully had continued the gentle motion of his hand across Meric's back, tracing the familiar paths of scars that had faded to thin silver lines. Once angry and red, they had diminished over time until they were barely visible except in certain light. But Tully knew exactly where each one lay. His fingers had memorized the map of Meric's pain.
"Sorry," Meric had whispered when he could speak again.
"Don't," Tully had answered, drawing him closer. "Nothing to be sorry for."
They had lain together in the darkness, the sound of their breathing gradually synchronizing, until Meric had drifted back to sleep. Tully had stayed awake a while longer, a protective vigil he still kept without conscious thought.
Now, in the gentle morning light, Tully watched as Meric's eyes fluttered open, focusing slowly as sleep released its hold.
"Morning," Meric murmured, his voice still rough with sleep.
"Morning," Tully replied, smiling. "The rain's really coming down."
Meric listened for a moment, then returned the smile. "Good day to stay in."
"Do you remember what you dreamed about?" Tully asked, the question gentle, free of pressure.
Meric's smile faded slightly. He pushed himself up to sit beside Tully, their shoulders touching. "I was back in the cage," he said quietly. "But you weren't with me. I was in there alone."
Tully's heart constricted at the simple words. In some ways, this recurring nightmare was the most telling – not the ones of beatings or hunger or fear, but of separation. Of facing those horrors without each other.
He leaned closer, his lips brushing Meric's ear. "I got you," he whispered tenderly.
Meric turned toward him, their foreheads touching for a moment before Tully pressed a soft kiss to his lips. Without words, Meric shifted, stretching out on his stomach across Tully's lap, his arms extended above his head in a posture of complete trust.
This, too, was ritual – comfort after the shadow of old fears. Tully rested his hands lightly on Meric's back, feeling the subtle rise of scars beneath his fingertips. He began to rub in slow, gentle circles, knowing exactly how much pressure to apply, which areas still held tension even years later.
"They're almost gone," he said, tracing one particularly faint scar that curved across Meric's left shoulder blade. "I can barely see this one anymore."
Meric made a soft, contented sound. "Good. I want them to disappear completely someday."
"They might," Tully said, though they both knew some marks would never vanish entirely. "But even if they don't, they're just maps showing how far you've traveled. How strong you are."
Outside, the rain intensified, a steady drumming punctuated by the occasional rumble of distant thunder. Inside their cottage, the sound created a cocoon of privacy, as if they were the only two people in the world.
Tully's gaze wandered around the room they'd furnished piece by piece over the past year – the sturdy bed frame Meric had built, the colorful woven rug they'd bought with their first earnings, the shelf of books they were slowly collecting. Simple treasures that meant everything because they had chosen them, because they belonged to no one else.
His hands continued their gentle work on Meric's back, feeling the healthy muscle that had developed there. They were both stronger now, their bodies filled out from regular meals and honest work. The hollow-cheeked, frightened boys who had stood trembling in the court of King Sutalma were gone. In their place were young men who stood straight and met the world with clear eyes.
"We should get up eventually," Meric murmured, though he made no move to leave Tully's lap.
"Eventually," Tully agreed. "But not yet."
He looked toward the window, watching raindrops race down the glass. Their cottage sat on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea, just as they had always dreamed. The view on clear days stretched to the horizon, an endless expanse of blue meeting blue. Today, the rain obscured the distance, but Tully didn't mind. There was something special about being contained like this, wrapped in the sound of falling water while remaining perfectly dry.
Dry. Such a simple word for such a profound luxury. After months of dampness that had seeped into their bones on the ship and during their desperate escape, after sleeping on wet ground and in mildewed cellars, being dry felt like a miracle that never quite lost its shine.
Meric shifted, rolling onto his back to look up at Tully, his blue eyes soft with contentment. "What are you thinking about?"
Tully smiled, reaching to brush a strand of hair from Meric's forehead. "How different everything is now. Remember how we used to talk about having a cottage like this? It seemed so impossible then."
"Not to you," Meric said, catching Tully's hand and pressing a kiss to his palm. "You always believed we'd make it here somehow."
It was true, in a way. Even in their darkest moments, Tully had clung to the vision of this future – not because he truly believed it would happen, but because he needed something to hold onto. Something beyond chains and fear and hunger.
He pulled the soft woolen blanket up around them, creating a warm nest that shut out the chill of the rainy morning. Meric sat up to help, adjusting the blanket around their shoulders until they were cocooned together, bare chests touching, heads bent close.
"We're dry," Tully said simply, a smile spreading across his face.
"I know," Meric replied, returning the smile with equal parts understanding and joy.
Such simple words, but they contained multitudes – all they had suffered, all they had overcome, all they had built together. In those two small sentences lay a shared language created from pain and hope and love, comprehensible only to them.
Tully leaned against the wall behind their bed, drawing Meric with him until they were nestled together, Meric's head resting on his shoulder. Outside, the rain continued its steady drumming, a sound that now meant safety rather than danger.
They had plans for the day – bread to bake, a new shelf to install, perhaps some practice with Tully's flute if the weather cleared. Simple tasks that made up a life chosen rather than imposed. But for now, they were content to simply be together in the warmth of their bed, listening to the rain.
"Happy?" Meric asked, his voice quiet against Tully's skin.
Tully tightened his arm around Meric's shoulders, feeling the steady beat of his heart. "Completely," he answered. And it was true. Here, in this small cottage on the edge of a cliff, with the boy he loved beside him, Tully had found a happiness so deep and sure that even the memory of past suffering couldn't dim it.
They had escaped chains of iron only to forge bonds of a different kind – bonds of love and choice that held them together more securely than any metal ever could. In finding each other, they had found themselves. In saving each other, they had created a life worth living.
Outside, the rain began to slacken, sunlight breaking through the clouds to cast dappled patterns on the wooden floor. But Tully and Meric remained in their blanket cocoon, savoring the quiet morning and each other's presence – two boys who had walked through darkness together and emerged, against all odds, into the light.
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