churbooseanon

Wherein the boy who will be Locus suffers a fate he does not desire.

A Life Unasked For

None of this is what the boy wants his life to be. For one thing, he doesn’t find that he much likes the sea. It’s always been a thing that he’s felt, and it made living in a port city with his family far from happy. The smell of salt in the air makes his skin itch, the unrelenting sun on the waters and no hope for shade, and, well…

It’s not like he’s ever had a choice.

That, Kostas thinks, is what really gets to him as he rushes carefully from the chef and toward the Captain’s cabin. There was never a choice for him, though. Not once. This was something his family had decided years ago, and even though Kostas had protested time and time again, well… Things like this are arranged. Things like this are designed to benefit the family. It wasn’t like his mother’s cousin much cared about their poorer part of the family, living off of mother’s work as a seamstress or father’s work at the docks. Nor did mother’s cousin have a relative suited to the role of cabin boy, and wanting the ‘best’ for him, she had given Kostas over to the better off part of the family so they could make a life for him. Make him a sailor fit for a merchant vessel so he will always have a place.

A place, he notes, which means trying to carry a tray of extravagant breakfast up to his Captain while the sea around them is choppy and he hasn’t even had a heel of bread yet this morning. His food comes later, a small thing that is supplemented by the scraps of his Captain’s table.

If, of course, he makes it there without sloshing the tea out of the mug or dropping fruit to the planks. Stupid Captain doesn’t even understand how stupidly impossible this task is with the weather they’ve got. But Kostas tries his best, holding the tray carefully as he scurries up the steps from the galley, which are taller, more spread out than his little legs are really suited to. Stupid Captain that expects him to rush around on a boat that isn’t even remotely made for a kid like him.

“Sail on the horizon!” a voice calls down from high in the sails as Kostas makes the deck and the open air.

Kostas doesn’t care to react. Even if he hasn’t been with the merchant ship for long, he knows that seeing other ships isn’t exactly rare. So he ignores the call. If the Captain hasn’t heard the fuss then he’ll be sure to pass it on with the meal. As it is, though, he doubts the Captain could miss the commotion.

After all, in these waters, it’s important to be wary.

Carefully the boy shifts his grip on the tray so he can reach up to knock on the Captain’s door.

“Yes?” a voice calls from beyond it.

“Sir, I’ve got your breakfast, sir,” Kostas answers, and with that the door swings open. The man on the other side looks a lot like him, to be honest. It’s in his dark hair and the hazel of his eyes and the shape of his face. They’re all ‘family traits’ his mother has explained, things people he’s related to share. Kostas just finds it’s more frustrating than anything, because the way his mother’s cousin seems to use him as little more than free labor.

Which, apparently, is the point. He spends years as a basic servant to his cousin while the men of the ship spend any of his ‘free’ time teaching him the responsibilities and skills of a sailor. It’s supposed to employ him for life. Keep him happy and provided for. Kostas just longs for land again.

The Captain stands aside and Kostas moves to set up his breakfast for him. Which means putting the tray down by the door and then rushing over to the table that folds up out of the wall, and setting the support leg up. Then it’s his task to set the tray in position and make sure the meal is laid out just so before he goes to sit in the corner of the cabin.

“Any word on deck?” the Captain asks.

“Someone saw a sail,” Kostas provides, which earns him a momentary glimpse from the Captain.

“Good to know. Might be a naval vessel. Always makes me feel safer when there is a navy officer in the nearby waters. Dissuades those brigands from attempting to come between a man and his trade.”

Kostas doesn’t roll his eyes. It would be rude, and his cousin takes a heavy hand with him when he doesn’t perform to par. Asshole. Besides, he doesn’t think pirates are that likely to give up if they can avoid it.

* * * * * *’

None of this is what the boy signed up for. But in the end, he didn’t sign up. Which matters so much now, what with him curled up in the small room used to store all the extra lines and gear. It’s the best place for a kid to hide, truth be told.

The air smells like blood. The tang of it fills the air and if Kostas moves just a bit to the side he knows he could see the fallen body of the bosun taking up the better bit of the floorspace in here. There’s a small hatchet buried in his back. Just looking at him makes Kostas gag violently, but he refuses to look. If he looks they might see him and if they see him, he’s as good as dead, just like the other people who had fought back.

There are footfalls on the steps. Kostas holds his breath.

“Thought I heard something down here,” a man’s voice slurs, and Kostas does his best not to shiver.

“Ain’t hear nothin’ myself,” another voice counters, and Kostas holds his breath. It’s not right. He’s so scared. They’re going to get him and he doesn’t want to think about what will happen then. He doesn’t want to die.

The ship hits a patch of rough water, no where near the worst luck they had today. For Kostas it was pretty bad, because the roughness of the sea knocks Kostas’s head against the back of a wooden locker. The sound not only is the sound strange, something you wouldn’t expect to hear, Kostas groans in pain.

“Hear that?” the first voice demands, clearly gloating.

Kostas’s hand comes up to cover his own mouth, to hide his sob of fear.

There’s no response. Just footsteps. Someone walking forward, and then there is a hand on his shoulder.

Kostas screams and screams and screams.

“Lookit,” the man who grabs him says to his companion, “seems I caught meself a likkle bitty bug. A little locus.”

“The word is locust,” his companion sighs and Kostas tries to kick the man holding him.

“Ain’t care,” the man answers, holding Kostas at arm’s length. “Still a bug, one caught in a trap. Thing sumone will ransom his little head?”

“Time will only tell,” the other man says.

The answer, Kostas finds out in time, is no.