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Trevor

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It was promising to be a good day. One of precious few. Sun had tipped well past the middle and he was yet to reach for a drink. Hands grabbed buckets of slop instead. Troughs filled and pants muddied as the livingpork went about complimenting the cuisine. The lil', mean one, kept splashing mud over his boots whenever he made for a trough. Reminded Trevor of himself. Small fucker that kept getting underfoot, nose too close to other people's business, always splashing – each new one only made more of a mess. Only ever made it worse.

Life was meant to be like this. Thousand tiny toils, amounting to no more than the hoofturned mud. Turned over and misplaced, only to have it happen again tomorrow. And you never run out of those. Because where some people found boredom, Trevor found peace.

No one would ask him for horrible things here. And if he did accept a task, no one would die for it. There was freedom in those chains. Sometimes you needed constraints to understand your truer self. Wouldn't mind being imprisoned by the mundane.

Used to believe you needed to be heroic to be good. But that wasn't true. You only needed not to be harmful. And he was trying. Because a story told enough times became truth. Even as he was still stuck in the telling, he hoped it would amount to more than hope. Change, maybe.

But that was for another time.

Because now, his arms ached with effort. Despite the labor, Trevor had never gotten strong. Wondered what that was about. Perhaps if he ate more, or drank less, or slept better... But no. Wasn't him. It was a nice dream, though. Strength that wasn't borrowed. Life that made sense.

Pigs looked at him like a god whenever he brought food. Wondered what he'd see in their eyes when he returned with a knife. That was a world he understood better – because even when life was comfortable, it merely tried to fatten you up.

Hired hand had many meanings. He liked this one.

Hands dug into the freezing waters of a nearby stream. Washed the grime off until it became unclear whether he trembled with fatigue or chill. Forearm hairs betrayed him, so he bid them shush.

„Pass the rag, will you?“
 
A man with wrists scarred by rope burns eyed the copper haired man. Twist and grabbed up the rag from where it hung in the tree. Offered it over.

Went back to splashing water over himself. Cold against skin wrapped in swelter and too much heat. Had been clearing weeds from the garden beds all day.

Hands ached. Back hurt. But it sure as fuck beat staying bound and dragged. He would give Lihark that much. Bastard knew the score well enough.

"You from around these parts?" Zalan asked. Wiping the trails of cool water clung to his face up his brow, and across the dark mop of his hair.

Small talk had its power. Never knew where a few words might find you.
 
Took the rag and finally got a look up close. Ropes at arm, but none at the neck. Transport, not a full stop. Strange.

He'd seen the escort and the bondage. What did the fucker do to merit all of this? And if he truly was a prisoner, why let him pull the damn weeds? None of it made sense to Trevor. But that was the beauty of the world – no one had to explain shit to some random ginger cunt.

„Barrow. Further east... used to be, anyway.“ Eyed the guy. Too many scars to be a farmhand. Too big an escort to be a smalltime crook.

„First season workin'?“ Could've asked about the many visible scars, but chose not to. If someone mistook you for a candle and firefucked you... well you weren't likely to be real chatty about what'd happened.
 
"Used to be," he repeated, too much familiarity in the how it rolled off his tongue. "No, far from it," he smiled with teeth. "Pindhi boy myself," tilt his head back over his shoulder. "North and East, just as ashed as Barrow, I imagine,"

Put his hands in the stream. Cupped up a drink. Drank down the refreshment of the stream water.
 
Regarded the man with more interest now. Because he was familiar with one of his burns. Small world.

„Been to Pindhi...'bout a year back.“ Came out without thought. But if something was left of Barrow, Trevor would've liked to know. „Worked Jon's grain and Ethel's orchard... what was left of them, anyway.“ Matched teeth with his own.

Stuck a thumb to the top front, nailing out the clingiest piece of last meal's chard.

Didn't need to speak of all the things that didn't survive the fire. The other man knew. Had the look.

„I'm Trevor.“ Looked at the same water they polluted as it got repurposed as drink. That was the problem with dirty hands, they poisoned beyond your reach. No matter how much you washed your ass, it was everyone else that had to suffer the unwashed bits.
 
Grit and pig shit. Still beat ash and all the foul sweetness mixed there in. Funny how even that was piggy. Cracklings and roasts.

The water run clear down his chin though. Across a beard most unruly and twisted. Still kissed cool whatever it touched. Least here it did. Shaded by trees at it was. Running as it was.

A spark of a laugh. "Jon and Ethel's oranges still bearin blossoms?" click of teeth and a shake of head, still there by the water that ran in the stream by them. "Fine sight, I imagine," thought on a cistern, run green with moss. And leaves, dry and stubborn under the sun. "Well shit, thanks for that," he said idly.

I'm Trevor.

"Zalan," he gave back, and offered a hand, all open and wrist shown. Scars their too. But dogs knew the cut of each other.
 
Held Zalan's hand in greeting before pressing the wet rag to the back of his neck. Guy felt like fire to touch. Funny, that – cause his hands weren't all that warm.

„You could see them yourself.“ Looked back to the farm proper. None of those watching over Zalan were all that close. They allowed him freedom of movement because they somehow knew he wouldn't run. Unusual deal.

„Ethel will have a shirt your size.“ As she'd had for Trevor, despite Jon being fat as fuck and three heads taller. But it wasn't his place to question it.

„If you crossed the stream here and went for those woods.“ His finger pointed to the thicket to the near west. „They'd never find you.“ Wasn't sure if he was offering or asking. But perhaps hung by the arms was enough of a lesson for Zalan. Not everyone needed to get necktied and bouncy to learn.
 
Canines bit down on the tip of his tongue. Mulled over Trevor's words as he listened to the stream. Put his fingers in the wet earth. Played with some of the mud, in pokes and prods. Eyed the woods and all their green promise.

Sucked his tooth till it clicked.

"Could," he agreed. "If I only had me to worry about," he smiled a fool's smile at that. Looked over his shoulder, to the farm behind them. Where Lihark and his men rested for the long road still ahead of them.

Frontier being what it was. War torn and all up for grabs. Spaces like this were few and far between. Moments like this. Calm and quiet. Rarer and rarer.

"Worse things than death, I'm coming to learn," like seeing all your mates there in the ground. Right next to the hounds. But made the ones who lived matter all the more.

His time for theirs. Seemed a good deal.

"You stayin here long, Trevor?"
 
Aah – bound in people then. Those were tricky. Whoever this Lickmark..no no, it was Loanshark..no, didn't sound right... well, whatever his name – he knew his business well. Fashioned a proper chain.

„Hope so.“ But he knew better.

It rarely lasted.

„Well, if you're set on the noose might as well help me with the coop.“ Chickens were nasty fuckers. Especially when you came in as a childstealer. Stinky too. Hard to believe something so small could produce such a potent shit.
 
A nod. "Hope so too, then,"

Didn't need to say any more than that.

Rinsed his hands of the grit and the grime. Pushed down on his feet and stood up. "Now, don't know if set is the right word for it," he said with a dog's grin. "Don't know if there even is a right word for it," shook his head. "Coop sounds... like the right call,"

Would follow Trevor to the staggered structure. All slats and boards. Feathers all about. Smell of ammonia stung the nostrils.

"Nasty little fuckers," he said with a huff. Still smiled though, spying all the down and hearing all their sounds behind the slats of their door. Stepped to it. Slid it open. Found a rock colored hen, brooding and fluffed over her nest. "Ah," he made a sound, as she spide some shell through the feathers.

Twiddled his fingers to draw its eye. Slipped another hand under it to clutch up the egg. "Sorry momma," he said with a little nod. Slid the cell shut. Looked to Trevor for the basket. Laid it in. Moved on to the next door.

"Say I left you a note," he said to the coop. Voice hardly over the sounds of hens and their hoard.
 
„Say you did.“ The coop spoke back, or near enough.

„What would it say?“ Zalan didn't look like too bad a guy. But neither did Trevor – appearances were not to be trusted.

Could almost glimpse hands not his own, dirty nails and sharp things. But why trust him with this?

Why not turn and burn Lick and the posse?

Would be weeks before anyone knew you'd broken chains. Weeks spent figuring this shit out as a free man.

It was all to be fire, one way or another.
 
"Time and place," he said without much pause, save what it took to not get pecked. Put to basket the eggs. Shut the door. Slipped another one open. "Direction,"

Didn't know if they would act on it.

Didn't know if there would be anyone there to take it.

Hoped. But that was the damned thing, wasn't it. Hope never got you too far. And his rope was waiting.

"Would just need to find its way,"
 
„Everyone can be found.“ It was all just will and time.

When he looked at the other man, it was sad. Because all choices led to death.

„What did you do to earn yours, Zalan?“

And why not save your own life? Why depend on some strange pigboy who wore other people's shirts?
 
Sharp.

A suck through teeth. A flick of the fingers, and a suck of the digit where the beak had pecked down to the bone.

Moma hen all puffed up and noisy.

He laughed at that. Still sucked on the side of his finger some more. Shook it off.

"Turned tail and ran when it got too ugly," he said with a laugh. Squeezed the blood out of his cut with a press of his thumb. "Realized, I was dusting Pindhis, and Barrows, and I didn't even blink between the time they'd taken me to teach me how," shook his head. Looked to Trevor. "Put me in their Crucible, and I gave em a bit of their own medicine all these years later," eyes empty. Cold. Not even a ghost of a grin on his lips.

Just as easily crossed this guy out there on those fields. Only the Thief and the Pigeon knew.
 
Hahahahaahah

Took more than wind from him.

An imperial fucking officer. Wounded by a chicken. Wondered how much they'd dock his pay if he wrung the bird's neck. Probably more than he could afford. So he closed the coop before the temptation became too much.

„Running is smart.“ All tired and nod. „Running saves lives.“

But they were not smart men.

„Everyone can be found.“ Looked to the farm, remembering how Lick walked strangely. He was better taken from the left. „Just like I could find hands to slip under your noose.“ Felt at his own neck. Hanging sounded peaceful. No more balance to worry about. Just a slow sway of the rope and wind. Perhaps that was why she chose it.

„Same way I could find your chain and help them free...long before your neck kisses the rope.“

Swayed from one foot to another, like memory. A small dance of peace.
 
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