Eye of the Spiral, Red-reed City, Outer City, 1005th circuit about the twin stars

The twin stars were blasting their heat above the city markets.

The sound of men and women calling out prices, bargaining and bartering, the movement of coloured cloth, and the smell of fish and meat all mixed together in the humid air.

A brown-haired boy was carrying a small wooden bucket, sweat dripping from his brow. He was clothed in patched rags which barely reached his knees and he looked to be no more than eight or nine years old.

Thatch was careful not to cross paths with anyone, and remained nondescript and alert, glancing about every few seconds to avoid holding anyone's gaze in the crowded market.

Like this, he gradually made his way to the more remote backstreets. Older wares or unpopular goods were sold in these alleys.

"Shay, I've a bucket of pulp here to trade" Thatch called out to a particular stall.

A somewhat wizened man emerged from the stall and glanced at the boy's burden. The boy tilted the bucket slightly so the man could take a closer look.

"Eastwood? Flax from Haventhrall? Most inks would work. How much?" He evaluated, stroking his stubble.

"Nothing but some parchment I can ink a chapter with. Bound, if it isn't too much trouble" Thatch replied.

"A chapter you say? What kind, the long, drawn-out, insufferably wordy kind, or the short and pretentious kind?" Shay asked, calculating.

"The kind I'd write a week's journal with, throw some Ink in too please".

"Sure, but you'd have to bind it yourself, your pulp ain't worth the trouble".

"Leave me with strings to bind it then".

Shay stared at Thatch deeply, perhaps wondering if the boy was toeing the line a little too close.

The air mustered a little tension as the man reluctantly pulled out the items for the trade.

"Thanks Shay, by the way..." unfazed, Thatch collected the items and placed them carefully in his handmade sack.

He pondered carefully over his next words.

"What is it, boy? You have anything else for me?" He turned to look down at the small figure with slight impatience colouring his tone.

"I was just wondering if you had any need for an accountant" Thatch studied Shay's face for any changes in his attitude.

"Accountant?" Shay asked with a quirked brow.

"Well, you see, I couldn't help but notice that your wares have changed much over the few times I've come to trade here. Your prices are quite high but you've many customers. You must be making a lot of money." Thatch attempted stroking the man's ego.

He looked at Shay's face for any changes.

"Astute. That's right" Shay said with a half-smirk.

"But you don't seem any richer. Are you having trouble managing your funds?" Thatch continued and spoke in one breath.

Shay glared at Thatch when he finished, and the boy attempted his best confident smile in return.

Thatch knew that he couldn't falter a blink.

The die was cast.

"You think I can't handle my funds? A poor orphan boy looks down on me?" Thatch knew very well what displeasure and humiliation and anger sounded like.

And he recognised all of them at this moment.

He had already known how risky this gambit was, but he could only press forward.

This was all so that he could survive.

"With all due respect sir, I-" before Thatch could continue, he felt an immense force charge at him from the ether.

And faster than he could think, the force struck, throwing him back a far way.

Before the last of Thatch's consciousness faded, He heard Shay's voice in his ear, filled with a biting coldness.

"Know your place".

Thatch was sick of hearing those words.

---

Thatch's consciousness stirred and he awoke in the small alley he was blasted to.

Looking up at the sky, he determined the time. It hadn't been long.

He checked his belongings, and he was thankful he still maintained possession of his ink and paper.

Whatever money he had left though, was gone.

Thatch had expected this outcome, so he wasn't too disappointed. He was thankful that only money was taken.

He knew that there were far, far, worse outcomes than that for an orphan in the back alleys of the marketplace.

Thatch failed to get up a few times before he fumbled his way to his feet, body aching, maybe a bone broken.

It was getting rather dark, and it was time for him to return.

Return where?

He made his way, with much difficulty, along the streets of Red-reed's outer city, past the stables where he had stolen straw yesterday.

Past the houses of happy families feeding their children with hot meals.

And past the flower boutique where he got beaten a few days ago for smelling the roses.

Thatch limped for a few miles until the surroundings began to change; poorly constructed mud huts, the stink of waste and rotten food, and the decrepit residents sporting hollow eyes.

Some were grieving for a starved or dead child or two.

'If you can't afford to, don't have children in the first place' Thatch had always thought.

He passed by the last thing that could be called a house and even ventured much further beyond that.

Amid whatever death and desolation lived here, Thatch made his way through it all.

Sometimes a merciful wind would blow, adding some movement or sound to the stillness.

Thatch walked to his 'home'; some roughly tied sticks dug into the sands as a makeshift tent. It was covered by twigs and leaves, and just barely enough for him to lie down in.

Thatch tentatively peered into his small tent to ensure no beast or man had taken to his dwelling.

He placed his leather bag in one corner and excavated another from deep within the sands.

Within this one, he kept furs. He had come by these purely by happenstance, and Thatch knew he would be inconvenienced if someone else took a fancy to them.

He laid upon the furs, and now that the tension dissipated, a tear involuntarily slid down his face.

'No damnit. I will not cry.'

'I. Will. Not.'

'I am stronger than this.'

Thatch repeated these words until he calmed.

He then retrieved some parchments from the bag which contained the furs. The parchment was inked with an elegant script, and the top of every page was marked: 'Fre's Elements, Chapter 2 book 2'

Thatch's eyes followed the writings as he pored over the contents.

'Consider all possible triangles to be inscribed inside a circle of a given radius. Deduce the proportions of the triangle with the greatest span.'

Accompanying the writings were large diagrams which filled most of the page.

Thatch stared at the diagram and reasoned to himself.

'I see, if I assume firstly that one of the triangle's lengths is known, deducing isosceles can be achieved by employing Nix's principle. Ah, of course! Equilateral.'

Thatch felt pleased with what he felt was an elegant solution.

After solving a few more problems in the chapter, he placed the parchment back inside his shirt.

He had cleared his mind.

Then he simply laid beneath the branches of his tent, and what few leaves remained on them were swaying in the now calm breeze.

But that breeze only brought the horrific stench of this waste.

Thatch stayed like this for a while, before he enacted his nightly ritual.

He made out a few stars peering through the roof of his tent, and began moving his fingers in odd shapes.

'Orion, Cygnus, Lil' Ursa…'

Tracing his fingers about the constellations he recognised, and confirming the patterns he had discovered and named himself to still be present, Thatch's mind slowly drifted away amidst thousands of thoughts and feelings.

His eyes slowly drooped among incessant concerns, and his thoughts slowed down as he was washed ashore to the world of dreams.

Or perhaps this time too, it would be that horrific nightmare.