LJ Idol Week 4: Shadow Children
Jun. 10th, 2013 09:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
i_love_freddieThey were the children that no one ever really saw. The children who were passed by in the streets without a second glance. Some of them had no home to return to, some had no parents. Some lived in poverty, with families unable to provide clothes or food. Some lived in daily fear of violence or abuse. Some lived without the dignity given to animals. Some lived without love, some without hope.
Yet they endured. They survived. And generally they accepted their life for what it was, for they knew no other way.
-----
Winter was coming and the night was cold. Icy winds blew in from the sea, bringing with it the strong smell of fish from the docks. Those who could be were indoors, leaving the streets to those who had to be there; the homeless, the prostitutes, the city guard, and the thieves from the local guilds.
None of them noticed the small boy moving around the back alleys in a cat-like way. But he certainly saw them. His dark, brooding eyes watched their every move. He was waiting for a suitable target, someone from whom he could steal a few coins to ensure that he and his baby sister had some food. All there had been that day was a few crusts of stale bread, and he had given most of his to his sister. In desperation, he had even rummaged through the rubbish, but the rats had beaten him to anything that might have been edible. It was so frustrating that he could have cried; except that he never cried. Only ten summers of age, small, skinny and badly bruised from the last beating his father had inflicted on him just that morning – all he wanted was to stop his sister from starving or getting sick.
-----
“Your mother is dead.”
On the other side of the city, the small half-elven boy clutched at his pink toy rabbit and stared at his mentor out of bright blue eyes. “M-mother?”
“She's not coming back, kid.” The older man's voice was gentle, but he was obviously uncomfortable, unsure of how to explain or comfort a child in such circumstances. The assassin's guild did not believe in kindness or sympathy – they believed in raising children to be tough. But the boy was so small and so young, and now both of his parents were dead... it was hard to feel no sympathy. “Don't worry, your home is with us. We will look after you now.”
At just three years old, the little boy could barely understand. He had no concept of what death meant, yet his mentor's distraught expression told him it was serious. He buried his head under his blanket and cried quietly for the rest of the night.
-----
In another part of the guild, the vast library, the sandy-haired student sat up until well passed his bedtime. No one bothered him. No one cared. At just eight years old, he had received the shock of his life when he had one day managed to cause flames to shoot from his fingertips. No one had comforted him or reassured him, most had regarded him with suspicion or outright fear. He knew enough to know that in most people's eyes he was unnatural, an abomination. Even he knew that it was not natural to be able to cast magic with no studying, no memorising spells. No longer could he rely on others to keep him safe, for there were too many who would see him dead or enslaved. He would need to look after only himself, and accept that he would never have a normal life.
But there, alone amongst the ancient tomes, by the light of a single candle, he allowed a few tears to flow.
----
They were the shadow children.
Yet they endured. They survived. And generally they accepted their life for what it was, for they knew no other way.
-----
Winter was coming and the night was cold. Icy winds blew in from the sea, bringing with it the strong smell of fish from the docks. Those who could be were indoors, leaving the streets to those who had to be there; the homeless, the prostitutes, the city guard, and the thieves from the local guilds.
None of them noticed the small boy moving around the back alleys in a cat-like way. But he certainly saw them. His dark, brooding eyes watched their every move. He was waiting for a suitable target, someone from whom he could steal a few coins to ensure that he and his baby sister had some food. All there had been that day was a few crusts of stale bread, and he had given most of his to his sister. In desperation, he had even rummaged through the rubbish, but the rats had beaten him to anything that might have been edible. It was so frustrating that he could have cried; except that he never cried. Only ten summers of age, small, skinny and badly bruised from the last beating his father had inflicted on him just that morning – all he wanted was to stop his sister from starving or getting sick.
-----
“Your mother is dead.”
On the other side of the city, the small half-elven boy clutched at his pink toy rabbit and stared at his mentor out of bright blue eyes. “M-mother?”
“She's not coming back, kid.” The older man's voice was gentle, but he was obviously uncomfortable, unsure of how to explain or comfort a child in such circumstances. The assassin's guild did not believe in kindness or sympathy – they believed in raising children to be tough. But the boy was so small and so young, and now both of his parents were dead... it was hard to feel no sympathy. “Don't worry, your home is with us. We will look after you now.”
At just three years old, the little boy could barely understand. He had no concept of what death meant, yet his mentor's distraught expression told him it was serious. He buried his head under his blanket and cried quietly for the rest of the night.
-----
In another part of the guild, the vast library, the sandy-haired student sat up until well passed his bedtime. No one bothered him. No one cared. At just eight years old, he had received the shock of his life when he had one day managed to cause flames to shoot from his fingertips. No one had comforted him or reassured him, most had regarded him with suspicion or outright fear. He knew enough to know that in most people's eyes he was unnatural, an abomination. Even he knew that it was not natural to be able to cast magic with no studying, no memorising spells. No longer could he rely on others to keep him safe, for there were too many who would see him dead or enslaved. He would need to look after only himself, and accept that he would never have a normal life.
But there, alone amongst the ancient tomes, by the light of a single candle, he allowed a few tears to flow.
----
They were the shadow children.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-06-10 08:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-12 12:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-10 10:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-12 01:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-11 07:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-12 01:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-12 05:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-21 01:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-13 03:38 pm (UTC)poor kids.
no subject
Date: 2013-06-21 01:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-13 10:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-21 01:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-13 11:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-21 01:24 pm (UTC)