He watches wistfully as the contingent trots into the corner of the quiet, cobbled street. Soon it will be bustling with people and engined coaches, but at this moment it is just him and the increasingly distant clip-clopping of hooves.
The boy is lost in thought as a smile forms in his face, uncontrolled. He had not smiled in the longest while, for in that time he had not had a smidgeon of joy.
Snapping out of his delirium, the he turns and begins his way to the smithy, where he would toil for the next hours to earn his keep.
But the taskmaster is waiting for him there, livid with vengeful rage. Upon sight, the brute swings the club in his hand. It had been fashioned hastily; a wooden piece yanked from a post, some nails intact.
The boy easily evades the first blow. Years of hard labour had quite a profound impact on his agility. But the monster was mighty and well-versed in abuse, and with a precisely timed harumph, the stablehand is struck down with a gut-wrenching kick.
Soon enough he is lying helplessly in the back alley, drenched in a pool his own blood. The air is foul - the combination of liquored vomit and piss and the metallic smoke from the refineries.
As he drifts in and out of consciousness, he recalls the encounter that he had had. It could very well have been a particularly lucid dream. He does not know for sure, but now it matters not.
What had she said? What had she said?
I must remember.
I remember!
The assailant stands there still, regaling his fine work of teaching the impertinent fool his deserved lesson. Pride restored, he spits at the gory mess and readies to leave, when suddenly he is grabbed by the ankles.
“Pay for your crimes! Pay… for… y…”
Nothing.
He hears a mocking guffaw, and then everything fades to black…
