It’s pouring. The dark causeway of Beggars Alley fills with mud and water, pattering down on clothing, on dirt, and on broken buildings. A mere hour ago perhaps many denizens and homeless Bree-Folk would be meandering here. The street lanterns illuminate the rain, but other than that the night is impossible to see through. Under one such light, hung from a nearby building, he is slumped against the wall, riddled with holes from which his life drains slowly. It’s cold, and he can feel himself shaking, even with his body entirely still. His legs, cut and bruised, outstretched towards the darkness. There are other figures around him, laying in the muck, still as stones. Whether sleeping, unconscious, simply lethargic, or deceased is unclear. The rain falls on them in the same way it falls on him, heavy and drearily. Make no mistake, there is no hope here. Somehow the pain has started to subside, now it’s just freezing. He tries to shudder, but his lips only slowly twitch, like the legs of a broken insect.
From the night of the Beggar's Alley, a figure finally shows itself. Small, scrawny, and ambiguously formed, the homeless child with frizzy black hair approaches Stitches, nothing on his feet. He had offered this kid a coin earlier that day, hoping to help. The child munches on what appears to be a now soggy pastry in his dirty, curled fingers as he linger towards the broken and defeated man. The child approaches him, staring with wide, and somehow uncaring eyes, chewing quietly for a moment, before breaking the silence as he asks Stitches, “You gonna die?”
Stitches tries to raise a hand to feel at his wounds, but cannot manage it entirely, his hand not even budging from its position down by his leg in the mud. He opens his mouth, barely able to croak, “Think so.”
The child just nods a few times, chewing the pastry a bit more, taking his time with the process of consumption, it would seem. He asks another question, rather bluntly and seeming not too broken up at all, “Can I have your stuff.”
Stitches looks at the child, understanding that this face would be the last he sees, and he nods, “Not gonna…” He pauses to take a deep breath, but can’t, as his chest and likely his lungs are too damaged, “Do me any good…”
The kid nods again, seeming to understand and be thankful in his own strange way. He swallows a lump of soggy breaded sweetness before pointing at Stitches’ chest, “What’d you die for?”
Stitches looks down as best he can at his irreparable body, thinking this one over with what time he has left. He thinks about the moments that lead up to where he is now. He recalls screaming, yelling, a battle, and a bitter victory that ends here, in defeat. He takes as deep a breath as he can and speaks as briefly as he can, aware that any word could be his last as he clings to life as much as he can for them. For all of them, the ominous them of his life, the people he loves and cares for. He speaks, “Heart.” Conceptually, of course.
The child gives another emotionless nod, taking the last bite of his pasty and chewing through it as he speaks, “Was it worth it?”
Stitches feels his vision begin to tunnel. He breathes shallow, and feels his whole body go entirely numb, and still, “I hope so.” He says quietly, thinking of it all in those last moments before his eyes go still, and darkness follows.
Stitches shoots up in bed with a gasp. In a frenzied panic he feels his chest and body for the wounds that took him in his fever dream. Within a moment he realizes the state he is in and with a hefty sigh he shakily calms himself down. Still, awakened by this dream, and uncomfortable, he leaps from his bed, not even stopping to dress. He approaches the writing table by his fire and begins to scribble on the parchment hastily. The memories of the dream, what happened and why escape from him all too quickly. What he will remember is the child, the death, the last of it, the most important part. This is, however, not the topic of his little piece of work here. The dream can fade, but the reality will not. No matter how hard he wants to protect people, no matter how much he may try, someday he will die, and when that happens is somewhat in his control. He writes his will here, who he leaves what to and why, muttering as he does so. It’s a hard thing to come to grips with, realizing you are afraid of dying, no matter how often you needlessly put yourself in dangerous situations. This is all he can do, it seems.
When finished he folds the parchment up and sticks it in a pocket of his cloak hanging on a nearby rack, and moves himself to his wash basin, drenching his face with a double handful of water to clear the cold sweat from him. He looks up into the mirror, observing with pity his haggard appearance. He swallows hard and nods, moving to open a drawer for his razor. Taking one last look at the sad look he has accumulated until now by neglecting self care and to some extent hygiene, he lifts the blade to sculpt himself a bit more dignified. Locks fall from his hair, and trimmings from his beard, enough to once more show the demeaning and strange tattoo stretching across his face.
