Plunk... plunk… plunk…

The only sound to be heard by a person walking the worn cobblestone path was the steady dripping of water from a gutter-pipe against the hard ground.

Plunk… plunk… plunk...

The full yellow moon stretched its arms and hovered warily over the rows of buildings lining the street, watching over the town with its otherworldly glow.

Plunk… plunk...

Not a living creature was in sight; the trees had long before laid up their branches and laid down to rest, and even the owls which usually perched on lampposts and sang their questioning song were tucked far, far away into the night, out of reach of all that might gaze upon the scene.

Plunk...

If anyone had dared to lay their eyes upon the outdoors, they might have seen, among the still tomb that was the town, a lone figure scurrying along the road, making their way to the large building looming over the street’s end.

Plunk…

They stopped short in front of the tall iron-clad door, warily gazing back and forth before procuring a bundle of rags from beneath their robes. Trembling in fear, their breath whispering into the chilled night’s air in a cloud of fear and regret, they gently laid the bundle down on the doorstep. The darkness was kept at bay by the moon and the streetlamps, but soon another light joined the mix. A green glow radiated softly from the bundle, casting an odd shadow on the weathered stone walls.

Plunk…

The figure turned to leave, but immediately regretted this decision and swiveled to face the doorstep again. They leaned over, slowly making the sign of the cross against their chest, and examined whatever lay there for a minute more.

Plunk…

They jumped back suddenly as the green glow grew in intensity and fled, their robes fluttering behind them with every step as they ran without looking back.

Plunk…

This is what some brave soul would have seen if they dared to look out the window, but for some odd reason, the townsfolk felt compelled to go to bed early that night. All slept soundly, except three.

Plunk…

One, the dark figure who loomed in the night.

Plunk…

Two, the pathetic infant wrapped inside the blankets, oblivious to how his life had just changed forever.

Plunk…

Three, the man inside the mysterious building, who felt a strange urge to rise from his bed and go to his door. He took the bundle into his arms and returned inside with a sense of calm settling over him, leaving nothing else outside the building but a rusty, weathered sign- Empyrium.

The green glow took over the dim room in which Abbott stood, his eyes filling with emerald light as he collapsed onto the floor. All of his limbs went rigid as a deep voice filled the room.

“The… the object…”

Abbott’s body shook as he struggled to force the words out, but they seemed to be stuck in his throat. He was wavering in and out of consciousness as images flooded vision… a tree which towered over the rest in its vicinity, its branches sprawling in the sky as if they could touch the clouds themselves.

“The object… you seek… lies beneath… the corpse… of the old oak…”

From the floor, Abbott took a deep, ragged breath, signaling to the man in the corner that the vision was over. The man sighed, stepping out of the shadows, and flipped his notepad shut with a ‘click’.

“Is that all?”

Abbott looked up miserably from the ground. Shaking, he inhaled again and rasped, “Y-yes. I’m sorry.”

The man snarled. “You better be. That family came in expecting you to tell them how to save their crops from blight, and you just rattled off some nonsense about something buried under a damn tree! If you keep mixing up visions like this, word is going to get around, and families are going to stop coming to the Empyrium to solve their problems. Without prophecies, there’s no business. Without business, I’m out of a job. Without my job, your sorry ass is going on the street where it belongs- where it should have been left sixteen years ago. So get your shit together, or you’re going to regret it!”

The man turned and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Abbott groaned and laid back down on the ground, massaging his aching temples. Lately, every vision had been taking more out of him, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could do this. But he had no choice. Alastair O’Leary had taken him in after he was left on the Empyrium’s doorstep. Even though O’Leary practically exploited Abbott’s abilities and used him for money, the Empyrium was as close to home as Abbott had ever had.

Without it, he was nothing.

He stretched his weak arms and sat up. Holding onto the corner of his bed, he hoisted himself onto wobbly legs and gazed around his small quarters, trying as he often did to make light of his situation. A lopsided blue chair sat in the corner of his room. Even though it had lost most of the stuffing long ago, it was comfortable, and it served as a good companion to him when he was recovering from the day’s visions. His bed stood next to the chair, chained to the wall for some convoluted reason of O’Leary’s. It was little more than a straw mattress on a poorly constructed wooden frame, but Abbott’s aching body greatly appreciated something to lie on every night. It wasn’t much, as he told himself daily, but it was home.

He didn’t often leave his room, except to use the toilet, which Alastair had so graciously provided in a closet in the hall. Occasionally, the older man would barge into Abbott’s room and demand assistance in the store. Abbott would put on his mask of happiness and saunter out to help, but he was never allowed to directly interact with the customers.

Sometimes he would get stuck cleaning up displays after customers messed them up. It pained him to think of the time one bratty child smashed all of the transforming potions on the ground and turned into about seventeen different animals simultaneously. Abbott had been stuck scrubbing the sticky combination of potions and animal shit off the ground for hours while Alastair perched on his stool, watching him work with a wary eye and calling out criticizing comments. When it was finally over, the man had thrown Abbott back in his room with nothing more than a sideways glance.

Abbott knew O’Leary meant well; at least, that was what he told himself. Deep down, though, he questioned the man’s true motives every time O’Leary would beat him with a broom for not speaking prophecies clearly enough or simply being a waste of space. But no matter how much Abbott argued with himself, he always circled back to the same thought: Alastair O’Leary was a troubled man, and nothing Abbott could do would help him. Abbott had decided long ago to simply keep his head down and behave, waiting for the day the old man finally kicked the bucket.

He didn’t think that would be happening anytime soon, however. While the man was old, likely in his sixties or so, he was stubborn beyond belief and still going strong, despite his raging alcoholism. He had surely gone straight back to his workspace for a drink or two after delivering the failure of a prophecy to the family that came in. Perhaps, Abbott thought, now was a safe time to stretch his legs.

He nudged the door open a crack and peered out with one solemn eye, staring down the hall. Barely visible at the end of the dark corridor was the door to his master’s quarters. O’Leary had explicitly stated long ago that his room was not to be messed with, and if he caught Abbott going anywhere near it, there would be hell to pay. Abbott had never paid any attention to the room before then, but since then, he had become increasingly curious about just what lay behind the door. He knew better than to invoke the wrath of O’Leary, though, and instead kept as far away from it as possible.

Seeing a small stream of light trickling in from behind the door at the end of the hall, Abbott decided O’Leary was busy. He slowly opened the door, taking care not to let it squeak. He slipped out on light feet and made his way towards the door to the shoppe.

He pushed it open, relishing in the natural daylight that flooded in from the building’s many windows. On the off chance he was allowed in the shoppe when customers were around, he was forbidden from going within five paces of them, resigned to lurking in the shadows and straightening the displays. Alastair had some irrational fear that the customers would make the connection between where the prophecies came from and this dirty, scrawny boy. If the customers found out I’m using a child for profit, O’Leary often said, then they would not come back. It would be bad for business, wouldn’t it? Whenever Abbott heard this spiel, he would nod and whisper, Yes, Master, returning to his work. Alastair would smirk, seemingly satisfied, until he would go off on this rant again if Abbott so much as breathed in a customer’s direction.

Looking around the shoppe, Abbott noticed many items that had not been out for sale the last time. Small animals in cages sat in the window, squeaking pitifully and scratching to be let out. The southern wall was covered in pastel emissions of light from small orbs floating in jars. A new display labeled “Love Potions” caught Abbott’s eye and he moved in to take a closer look at the floor-to-ceiling shelves stocked with bottles of all shapes and sizes. Each was filled with a thick liquid, contributing to a mosaic of potions in varying shades of red and pink. Abbott took a step around a large table that had partially obscured his view, recoiling in shock when something that did not belong came into sight.

Standing in front of the bottles, immersed in examining each and every one of them, was a customer.

He hadn’t noticed Abbott yet, but just the sight of him filled Abbott with a strange, morbid curiosity. He couldn’t remember a single time where Alastair had allowed him to directly interact with another person, except when he had been extremely sick as a child. Alastair had reluctantly called a doctor in after Abbott’s fever spiked beyond his control, but the doctor had taken one look at the nearly-feral child and left Abbott to suffer through it on his own.

But now Abbott had a chance to change his own life. Every part of him was screaming to turn back, his body aching in preparation of the bruises he would surely receive when O’Leary found out what he had done, but the idea of talking to another person drove him beyond reason. He moved to take a step towards the customer, but the logical part of his brain screamed out a warning that he had no choice but to obey. He froze mid-stride, his foot awkwardly scraping across the stone floor, echoing in the spacious room.

Wincing in fear, Abbott’s heart stopped as the customer turned around.

From first glance, the boy was around Abbott’s age. Sandy brown hair fell in soft hair over his ears, a striking contrast to his bright blue eyes, which were staring straight at Abbott.

Abbott hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he heard the boy speak into the silence. “Hey! Do you think you could help me with something?”

Abbott swallowed thickly, a thin layer of sweat suddenly deciding to make an appearance on his forehead. Recovering quickly, he found his voice enough to answer.

“Um, I don’t... I don’t work here, but...” He trailed off, knowing he would be in worse trouble if the boy was able to figure out he was Alastair’s ward.

The uncertainty in Abbott’s voice didn’t seem to faze the customer at all, though, and the boy simply shrugged and turned back to the display.

Abbott’s heart raced. He wasn’t ready for this to end so soon. Gathering his confidence, he cleared his throat again, louder this time. The boy turned his head slightly as Abbott stepped towards him.

“I think I could probably help you, though. What do you need?” Years of sitting in his room listening to O’Leary tend to the customers was finally good for something. The boy raised an eyebrow slightly but picked up the nearest potion in his hand.

“Okay, do you know how these potions work?”

Abbott forced his feet to move forward and approach the customer. His mouth suddenly dry, he licked his lips and replied, “Erm, well, they don’t work like your typical love potion. Normally, you have to put them in the food or drink of a specific person you are attracted to, and it makes them attracted to you back. Messes with their hormones, I think. This one you ingest, and it changes your hormones to make you seem more attractive to others.” At this point, Abbott noticed the young man watching him intently, and he suddenly became aware of how close they had gotten while he had been talking. “But, I mean, I’m no expert…” He trailed off, sensing the moment break as he stammered, “I- I don’t think you need it though.”

Awkward silence filled the room as Abbott realized the implications of what he had just said. He found himself staring at the other boy’s face as heat crept up his own, dusting his cheeks with crimson. He opened his mouth to correct himself, but no noise came out.

The customer gazed at him for a moment longer before a small grin broke out on his face, followed by a small snort of mirth.

“Nice one,” he said, the smile evident in his voice. Setting down the potion bottle back where it belonged, he wiped his hand on the side of his trousers before offering it to Abbott. “I’m Finnian, Finnian Granger. I apologize if I’m wrong, but I don’t think we’ve met before.

Happiness tugged at the corners of Abbott’s mouth as he spoke. “I’m Abbott,” he said in a soft tone. “Abbott… McClellan.”

His real last name was a mystery to him. He had been discarded on the Empyrium’s doorstep at the ripe age of one day old. The only thing that had been left along with him was a small silver knife, which was wrapped in a note. On the top was scrawled the baby’s name... Abbott James. Following it was an explanation about how Abbott’s parents thought their baby would be better raised by someone who knew about magic. Little did they know, the man they were turning their infant over to would neglect him for the next sixteen years.

The writer of the note had scribbled ‘MC’ at the bottom of the page. Abbott had often wondered what it could have stood for, and when he was younger he had decided that it represented his last name. He listened around in the shoppe for the names of customers, and one day he decided he liked the sound of McClellan. No one knew of it but him, but it made seven-year-old Abbott feel better, almost like he had a family out there waiting for his return. Someday.

Finnian clearing his throat snapped Abbott out of his stupor. “Well, Abbott McClellan, where are you from? Like I said, I’ve never seen you, and I know almost everyone in this town. See, I deliver papers. I was just stopping by to give old O’Leary his, but I’m guessing he isn’t here?” Abbott shook his head violently, making small shushing noises in order to get Finnian to keep his voice down. Alastair might have poor hearing, but any time his name was mentioned, he seemed to teleport into the conversation instantly.

Abbott would have thought it was teleportation, except he knew teleportation was one of the five impossible pieces of magic, along with bringing back the dead, creating something out of nothing, changing the past, and influencing the future. While O’Leary had dubbed Abbott’s powers ‘prophecies’, Abbott simply had the ability to view what was happening or find out how to solve a certain scenario using what was currently going on. Alastair liked to advertise the ability as more than it actually was, but Abbott knew it wasn’t fully true.

He looked up and realized Finnian was watching him intently. Blood rushed to his cheeks as he scrambled for a response.

“I’m not from around here,” he said in a hushed tone. “I’m from a town a little ways from here…”

“Barrington?” Finnian interrupted. “Or Chestnut Hills?”

“Barrington.” Abbott stated. “That’s the one.”

“My dad lives in Barrington,” Finnian mused. “Maybe I’ll see you around next time I go to visit.”

Abbott hesitated, feeling caught in a lie. “Yeah, maybe.”

Finnian nodded, but then moved to leave. “I gotta go deliver the rest of my papers. How long are you staying here in town? Are you staying with O’Leary?”

Abbott mulled over how to respond. “I’m here for a while. Yeah, I’m staying with Alastair. So maybe I will see you around?” He said the last statement almost like a question, hoping the answer would be yes. He was overjoyed at the possibility of interacting with another person, but more than that, Finnian gave him a sense of comfort he had never felt before.

The curly-haired boy grinned. “Definitely.” In a sweeping of robes, he was out the door.

Abbott stood, watching him leave out the window for a moment longer. He then sighed, and turned to go back to his room. Instead he found himself face to face with a livid Alastair O’Leary.

“What,” he growled, “the hell was that?”

Every inch of Abbott’s body screamed for him to leave, to run, to get out of that situation which he knew would end badly. But there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, and Abbott knew that would just escalate the situation. So he stood his ground, his feet planted against the floor, and prepared for the beating that was to come.

Alastair stomped to the windows and pulled the curtains closed, a sure sign this would not end well. Turning round, he asked again, “Care to explain what that was?”

Abbott swallowed, tasting bile. “I… I was going to the bathroom, and-”

“Bullshit.” A fist caught Abbott in the face, knocking him onto his knees on the hard floor. “You weren’t anywhere near the bathroom. You came out here on PURPOSE. What did you want?”

Abbott spat onto the ground, tasting blood mixing with his saliva. “I just wanted to stretch my legs,” he mumbled. “I- I didn’t know he was in here or I wouldn’t have come out.”

“You don’t need to stretch your legs, boy. I give you plenty of space in that room of yours. Are you saying that’s not good enough for you?”

“No, I’m just…”

He was cut off yet again by a kick to the stomach. He hit the ground hard, laying with his aching cheek pressed against the cool stone as he was kicked over and over again. He felt something in his chest snap, but he was used to the pain, and had learned to dissociate from his body until the beatings were over. He felt the presence of the other man recede, and Abbott thought for a minute that he was done, but the man was back shortly with the broom. He raised the metal handle above his head and brought it down on the poor boy’s body, once, twice, three times, until Abbott lost count. His head was feeling woozy; the handle was sharp, and he could feel his blood spilling out onto the cobblestones. He was no stranger to pain, but this was surely worse than anything Alastair had ever done to him before. He felt his limp body being hoisted up and thrown back down, again, again, again, his head hitting the ground with a dull thwack each time until everything went black.

He awoke on the floor where he had passed out. The first thing he noticed was not the pain, but the immense embarrassment he felt. He had disappointed his master yet again. He was useless; nothing more than a puppet for O’Leary to play with.

Speaking of O’Leary: where was he?

Abbott made a half-hearted attempt to lift up his head, immediately noticing the immense pain that came with it. Radiating from his temple all the way into his chest and then out into his limbs, the pain made itself worse with movement. Red-hot daggers of fire drove themselves inside Abbott’s chest and twisted themselves in deep, deep, deeper than he thought pain could ever go. Every breath hurt; he regretted every heartbeat shaking through his body. Perhaps if his heart would just stop, the pain would go away.

He shook those thoughts away, chiding himself for being so dark, and continued his meager attempt to look for his master. He was nowhere to be found; the lights in the Empyrium were dark, with nothing but the glowing orbs in the jars along the wall to see by. He could barely see down the hall from where he was at, but he could see there were no lights on there, either, and Alastair always kept a light on in his quarters.

But if he wasn’t in the building, where was he?

He rarely ever left. With his poor temper and his fear Abbott would escape, he hardly ever set foot outside of the prison that was his home. Perhaps, Abbott mused deliriously, perhaps he thought I wasn’t a flight risk, and just left. Perhaps, if I could get this shitty sack of meat off the floor, I could leave and not look back. Just perhaps.

But the strain of thinking was too much for Abbott, and the pain overtook him yet again.

He next woke to the light filtering in through the curtains that had been so hurriedly drawn over the windows. It cast a strange glow on the floor, highlighting the dried blood surrounding his body. He contemplated this with his brain foggy, oblivious to the pounding on the door.

The noise faded in and out of his awareness until suddenly, it was louder than anything else. “Mr. O’Leary?” someone shouted with a gravelly voice. “I have your paper. Are you in there? Alastair? Abbott? Someone?”

Hearing his name being shouted confused Abbott. Who was this person? Did he know them? Why did they know his name?

Abbott opened his mouth, which hurt like hell after being punched in the jaw, and made a small noise. He hoped the other person could hear him and help.

“I can hear you in there,” they shouted. “Can you open up?”

The voice hesitated, then Abbott heard the doorknob jiggle.

“It’s unlocked,” the voice said loudly. “I’m just going to come put your paper on the front desk, okay?”

Abbott sighed in response. This person was going to come in. Maybe they could help him...

He recoiled as the door was pushed open and the piercing light struck his face. All he could see was a silhouette against the blinding glow, but it was enough to trigger some memories in his concussed brain.

The love potion… the customer…

Abbott opened his eyes, which had been shut tight against the light, to find the aforementioned eyes staring into his own worriedly.

“Abbott!”

He shut his eyes again. It wasn’t worth dealing with the pain. He’d rather just pass out. Or better yet, fall asleep and not wake up.

“Abbott, bud, open your eyes, please.”

The voice was pleading now, worried, a hint of panic edging its tone.

Abbott’s mind picked a helpful time to remember who this voice belonged to.

“Fin..nian?” he whispered, his voice raspy against his dry throat.

“Yep, bud, it’s me. What happened? Please, c’mon, stay with me…”

Finnian’s voice seemed to be fading away, criss-crossing into oblivion with the louder roar of the pain in Abbott’s head. He sighed sleepily. “O’Leary,” he slurred deliriously.

Finnian ran one hand through his messy curls. “Ok, ok. Can you sit up? Can I help you sit up? We gotta get you off this floor. Is there a bed here?”

Abbott’s eyes closed on their own.“ ’N the hall…” he muttered, trailing off as he lost what was left of his strength.

The other boy nodded. “Okay, I’m gonna lift you up. Can I do that?” he asked, his voice surprisingly calm, despite the stressful situation.

Abbott hummed in agreement. He was so far away from his body, nothing Finnian would do could bother him, he thought.

He was wrong.

As the other boy slipped a single hand under Abbott’s back to support him, a scream tore itself from Abbott’s throat- the cry of a wounded animal. He began to thrash, his limbs moving of their own accord. A strange green light began mixing with the dim sunlight in the room, and Abbott’s eyes flashed upon- pure emerald green.

Finnian jumped in surprise but continued to cradle the broken boy’s body, attempting to restrain the boy from hurting himself further.

Another scream ripped itself from Abbott’s mouth, and then a deep voice followed. “You… must… protect… him…”

Abbott’s limbs seized up one last time and then his body went still.

Very still.

Completely and utterly still.

Alastair stumbled through the forest in a frenzy, bottle in hand. That dumbass kid was going to cost him his whole business! Even worse, if someone found out he was beating the boy, the consequences would be terrible. They would probably take him down to the local prison and lock him up, barely giving him enough food or water to survive. It was a life in hell- but was it too similar to the life he had given the boy? He shook his head, unaware of where this thought had come from. He couldn’t be sympathizing with the boy, not when he was his master, and especially not when there was business to take care of. He shook his head and turned around, grunting angrily. He knew what he had to do. He lurched drunkenly back to the weathered building. There was work to be done.

Abbott woke to the sound of the front door slamming. Heavy footsteps entered the shop; frantic breathing accompanied them. He could smell the liquor from his room. It immediately caused his head to spin, and only then did he realize that the immense pain he had felt earlier was dull and muted. It was certainly still there, but not as strong; he could push it aside and ignore it as if it were just an annoying itch.

Finnian, he thought with a jolt. He thought he remembered the other boy lifting him up, but nothing after that. Was it possible that he had dreamed it all in his half-conscious state?

He then took notice of the fact that he was lying on his bed, bundled up tightly in the sheets. He knew immediately that Finnian had indeed been there, and that he had put him in the bed to rest. But then, if he really had been there, was he still in the shoppe?

Abbott heard the drunken steps falter outside his door. He shut his eyes tight, in an attempt to shield himself from whatever punishment was coming next. The door swung open in one fell swoop, and the ragged man stumbled in, stopping at the foot of Abbott’s bed. He reached out one long finger and poked the boy in the face.

Abbott’s eyes shot open to find the man directly in his face, looking into Abbott’s eyes with his own bloodshot ones. Abbott could smell the alcohol on Alastair’s breath; his stained teeth bared in a grimace. The two stayed like this for some uncomfortable seconds, before the older man backed up and smiled.

“You’re fine, I see,” he slurred.

Abbott tried not to scream. How could the man think that he was fine after he had beat him so cruelly, so savagely? But he knew that saying this would escalate the situation and only make matters worse. He cleared his throat half-heartedly, his mouth dry from sleep and blood. “I- I guess.”

“Good. I expect to see you up for work tomorrow morning, as soon as the sun rises. Don’t be late. We can’t lose customers, can we? Without customers, there’s no business. Without business-”

Your sorry ass is back on the street where it belongs, Abbott thought grumpily. He had heard this speech so many times he could recite it in his sleep. Did O’Leary really think in his twisted mind that Abbott would be ready to deliver prophecies tomorrow? He sighed as the man rose to his feet and staggered back out the door.

“Sunrise,” he spat over his shoulder. “Be up and ready. Or else.”

Abbott knew that the man wouldn’t be up by sunrise, not after the amount he had clearly had to drink that night. He would probably be awake by late afternoon with a splitting headache, leaving Abbott to run the shop from behind the scenes.

Perhaps, Abbott mused to himself, Finnian would return for him, and whisk him away into the outside world, never to deal with the likes of O’Leary again. But he knew that this was nothing but a wish, a dream to get out of this terrible situation that he was stuck in. It would never happen. But Abbott could dream, couldn’t he?

That night passed without another complaint from Alastair. Abbott should have been sleeping, recovering from the day’s beating, but instead his mind was wide awake, so his body was too. He couldn’t stop thinking that perhaps he gave the old man too much credit, that maybe he wasn’t such a good person on the inside. After all, it seemed that all the man really cared about was his own business and reputation, and anyone like that couldn’t be a good person, could they?

He shook his head. He desperately needed sleep; his body ached in a thousand places, and his ribs were surely cracked, not even counting the four or five prophecies he had struggled to deliver that day. Each prophecy recently had been taking more out of him, and he was finding it harder and harder to recover after each one. He feared that Alastair would push him too hard one of these days, and he wouldn’t wake up afterward. But maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, would it? To be free of his obligation to his terrible master, to not have to feel pain anymore? To just be gone.

But he knew he couldn’t. Deep down, he felt that there was something more to live for, something besides this imprisoned, impoverished life.

He was determined to find it, no matter what it might be.

Abbott awoke that morning to a rapping on the shoppe door. He panicked, sitting up sharply with a jolt of pain. Running one hand through his unruly hair, he swung both feet over the edge of the bed and stood up in a hurry. It was only out of pure spite that he didn’t collapse on the spot; his legs felt like they were made out of pure molten lead. He took a deep breath and made his way unsteadily out to the hall.

He paused, glancing down the hall to see that O’Leary’s personal quarters were sealed tight. Smirking, he relished in the thought that he was right. The other man had drank far too much the night before, trying to forget the temper that had caused him to viciously beat Abbott.

Seeing that Alastair wouldn’t be in any condition to confront him again, Abbott pushed down the bile rising in the back of his throat and swung open the door to the main shoppe. He almost jumped at what he saw: numerous customers, a mob almost, standing outside, banging angrily on the doors and waiting impatiently for the store to open. Apologetically, he raced as fast as his feeble body would allow over to the front door and undid all of the thirteen locks that held the front door closed- his master was a very paranoid man, after all.

Before Abbott had even opened the door all the way, the mob started shouting questions in his face. The knife edge in their voices showed their true aggression.

“Where’s O’Leary?”

“Who are you?”

“Why wasn’t the shop open sooner?”

Abbott looked outside. It was true, he had slept much past sunrise, when the shoppe usually opened. Judging from the amount of light pouring in through the windows, which Alastair must have opened before passing out the previous night, it was mid-afternoon. Which meant-

Abbott craned his neck to take in all the faces in the crowd. This was around the time which Finnian had brought the papers by the day before. God, it seemed like such a long time ago. The days seemed to be getting longer after each one passed in pain and repressed anger. It couldn’t be healthy to live this way, Abbott thought.

He was brought back to the present by a tall, lanky woman pushing her way through the half-opened door into the shoppe. She stopped directly in front of Abbott and jammed one long, bony finger into his chest. “I don’t know who you think you are, but this store was supposed to open a long time ago. I’ve been standing here for the better part of the morning hoping Alastair would come and unlock these damned doors, but instead I get some battered street-rat in the middle of the afternoon. Now where is the owner? I demand to know the reasoning behind this. I desperately need a poultice for my son, who’s likely dying in bed right now, no thanks to you!”

Abbott panicked, his mind going completely and utterly empty. He managed to squeak out between gasps, “Mr. O’Leary is rather… indisposed at the moment. I’m afraid I don’t know of any poultices in this store. Is- is there anything else I can help you with?” he stammered. “Ma-ma’am,” he added after a murderous glance from the woman.

“Nevermind, you useless boy. I’ll just take my business somewhere else- Lord knows I should have done that hours ago. Good day to you, you dirty knave!”

She spat on the ground in front of his bare feet, and spinning on a heel, she strode out of the store with a swish of her coat. But the calm did not last; almost immediately after she left, another angry townsperson entered. A small, balding man wearing a sloppily patched jacket stomped into the store behind her, three small children in tow. He glared up at Abbott with beady, watery eyes and snarled, “Where is the prophecy man?”

Abbott’s heart skipped a beat. “What-what do you mean, sir?”

The man scoffed. “The man who sells prophecies, you oaf. Are you stupid? What the hell else would I mean?”

Abbott inhaled deeply, trying not to lose his temper. The man must have been talking about Alastair. Calmly, he recited the same speech he had given the other customer. “He’s indisposed at the moment. Could I assist you instead?”

The man ground his teeth irritably. “Unless you can give me a goddamn prophecy, I suppose you should get the hell out of my face.” Grabbing onto the grubby hands of his children, he huffed and turned to leave. Abbott was about to let him, but a small voice in the back of his head said that this was his duty, and that if O’Leary knew that he passed up a sales opportunity, he might just kill him.

“Wait-” Abbott muttered. “I- I can get you a prophecy. What do you need to know?”

The customer froze in his tracks. Backing up, he faced Abbott and regarded him with a wary eye. “Where did my gun go?”

His heart stopped in his chest until he realized that was the question the man wanted to know. The man wasn’t intending to shoot him- yet.

“I’ll go find out, sir. Please be patient, it may take a while.”

The man tsked, but made no motion to leave. Abbott hurried back to his bedroom and sat down on the ground roughly. He wasn’t sure if he had enough energy to successfully deliver a prophecy, but he was surely going to try. There was no one to listen to what the voice would say, so he would have to pay close attention to his vision. He closed his eyes tight, and took a deep breath, smelling the coppery scent of blood on his own clothes. He probably looked a fright- it was no wonder that woman had called him a street-rat. He certainly appeared to be one.

He shook his head to himself. Focus, now, he told himself. You have a job to do. He could feel the warm glow taking over his body; he could feel the green light pulsating out from under his eyelids. The last thing he felt was the last of his energy rushing out of his limbs as his head hit the ground.

He was standing in an empty field. The sky was dark with anger; it appeared that a storm was looming on the horizon, except there was no horizon. The sky and the earth were one, and then he was falling, falling far down into the abyss that used to be the ground. He could feel a powerful force, it was just there out of sight, but there was an evil connotation with it as well. This was something that had hurt someone else, and Abbott wasn’t sure if he wanted to find it. But if it was the gun the man was looking for it, he had to.

His vision went rusty and light seemed to glow from everywhere, but also nowhere. The light wasn’t outside, it was inside of him. This was a completely different beast; any hint of the man’s gun was gone. Instead, Abbott found himself staring at the figure of a woman, kneeling on the impossible ground. Her back was to him, and she was draped in robes, so he could make out nothing about her. He wasn’t sure how he knew that she was a woman, as there were no defining characteristics, but he knew this, as he knew many other things from his visions.

A voice surrounded him, lifting him up in its airiness, whispering things in his ears. It was a different language, but somehow he knew what it meant. It was calling to him, beckoning him forward, to find it. But Abbott also knew that there was a dark side to this temptress, there was a honey-coated knife hidden among the words of welcome.

One last phrase stuck out to him- “Life for eyes. A fair trade.”

As soon as these final words were uttered, the vision surrounded him dissipated, and he found himself back on the floor to his room, retching violently. He was shaking so badly that he couldn’t lift his head off of the ground; it seemed as if it were filled with darkness. He couldn’t get that voice or the feeling of sweet evil out of his mind. Let alone that woman.

He wiped his mouth with an unsteady hand. He had never, never, seen another person in a vision before. That vision was different. Normally they had a purpose, to answer a question that a customer had desperately needed the answer to. They didn’t often make sense, so it was no different in that regard, but it just felt different. Abbott didn’t know why, but somehow he knew deep down that that vision was for him.

When the strength had come back to his body, he went back out to the shoppe to find the man and his children standing by the front desk, tapping their feet and talking in hushed tones. They froze when they saw him enter the room, the man’s eyes boring holes into Abbott’s soul.

“Well?”

Abbott decided in that moment to make something up. “It said that… that only you knew the answer to that question. L-look inside yourself.” He shrugged, finding the man staring incredulously at Abbott’s rapidly heating face. “Hey, I’m only the messenger,” he lied. “I’m sorry, but that’s all I know.”

The man shook his head, the thick jowls on his face quivering dangerously. His fingers moved deftly, and there was a flash of metal as Abbott prepared himself for a knife in the gut. Instead, the man hit Abbott in the forehead with a small silver coin as he sneered. “Keep the change, ya big imp. Look inside myself, my ass. I hope you burn in hell where you belong.”

Shaken, Abbott picked up the coin off the floor. He rubbed his head where he had been struck and sighed. It wasn’t his fault; he couldn’t control what he did or didn’t see. After all, he didn’t see why everyone else’s problems had to be his problems too. Couldn’t he just live a normal life like everyone else, like-

Finnian? A flash of curls in the back of the now-full store caught Abbott’s eye. He snapped his head in the direction, but realizing that the person wasn’t actually Finnian, he bowed his head and went to talk to other ungrateful customers.

The afternoon slipped into evening without much more excitement. Abbott delivered four or five more prophecies, successfully this time, but he was bone-tired; every muscle in his body was screaming in complaint. He felt as if he were going to drop at any moment- he was swaying tediously, and his head was practically buzzing. After the final customer left the store and he turned the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’, he returned to his room and nearly fell onto the bed. He closed his eyes, his chest heaving up and down, each breath bringing more and more pain into his side. He was certain that the old man had cracked a rib. It wasn’t anything new; Abbott was used to the perpetual suffering that came with living in the Empyrium, but this was also different. The first vision he had that day, that was different. Dangerous. He still didn’t feel like he had recovered from the effects, and that woman was still lingering in the back of his mind, as if waiting for him to slip up so she could attack. Her dark form was behind his eyelids whenever his eyes allowed themselves to close, watching for a moment of vulnerability to take down his defenses. Abbott knew he had to stay strong, despite the seemingly evil force in the back of his mind. He took a moment to compose himself, then rose from his bed and tiptoed gently down to the door at the end of the hall.

The lights were out behind it- this was odd, as Alastair almost always left the lanterns in his room lit. Abbott pressed ear up against the door, and hearing no noise coming from inside, he placed his hand on the doorknob.

He turned the knob delicately, cringing as the metal on metal squeaked. After no audible reaction from inside, he finished opening the door, peering inside with wide eyes.

He found the lantern sitting on the other side of the door, unlit and cold. He struck a match from inside his pocket and held the light up, casting the room in a warm glow. The light fell upon… nothing.

The room was absolutely unremarkable. A rumpled bed sat in one corner, a small workbench was in the other. The room connected to a small bathroom, but other than that, there was nothing else inside of it.

Including the man whose room it was. Alastair O’Leary was gone.

Staring in pure shock, Abbott took one step into the room, lantern held aloft. The flickering light cast dancing shadows onto the damp walls, surrounding him with his own figure. Circling around, closing in- like the woman from his vision.

He tried to clear his mind and stepped gingerly farther into the room, lifting his light to view every corner. Besides the bed and work table, the room was completely empty.

Abbott scratched his head. This didn’t make sense. Where was the man going when he disappeared into his room for hours on end? Abbott knew that he was working on the youth potion, but there weren’t even any ingredients on the table for him to work with. He was completely and utterly puzzled. Besides that, where even was O’Leary? Abbott had almost never known him to leave in the years that he could remember living in the Empyrium. He was a secretive man for sure, and kept to himself outside of store hours, but he was always skulking around the building somewhere. In fact, Abbott thought, the previous night had been the first time Alastair had ever left- to Abbott’s knowledge.

He approached the bed in the corner, eyeing the rumpled sheets covering it. It surely seemed as if someone had jumped out of it in a hurry, not even bothering to straighten the covers. He lifted one sheet cautiously, looking under it as if perhaps the man would be hiding. Instead, he exposed an unnatural looking object- the corner of a sheet of parchment, tucked under the pillow purposefully. Abbott looked back at the door, which had seemingly shut on its own, and reached over to grab the paper. It slid out from beneath the pillow with a crisp swish as he brought it up to his face. His bruised eyes struggling in the dim light, he set the lantern on the edge of the bed and held the paper back. It was a note, scrawled in O’Leary’s handwriting that covered the displays around the store. Abbott recognized this immediately, however, the normally immaculate print had shifted into something more like cursive. It was obvious that the man had been writing fast- but why?

Abbott strained his eyes to see the top. He had never been a great reader, as he hadn’t gotten any sort of an education, but years of reorganizing shelves in the store left him with a basic reading vocabulary. It was enough to make out that the letter was addressed… to him?

Dearest Abbott, it read. Do pardon me for leaving on such short notice, but I needed time to… compose myself after the events of last night. If you believe that you can do my job and talk to customers despite what I’ve always told you, you won’t have any trouble running the shoppe in my absence. I will be back soon, but fair warning- I have eyes everywhere. You know this. If you even think of running, I will come. I will find you. And I will make you wish that last night was the biggest of your problems.

Your gracious Master,

Alastair O’Leary.

Abbott shivered, even though it was plenty warm in the room. It felt as though someone was slowly running a frozen finger down his spine. The threats in that letter were not even close to masked by the level of false sweetness that resonated throughout the words, and it was taking all Abbott had not to fling the letter down on the floor and leave. Even though Alastair certainly had ways of punishing him for his disobedience, whether physical or magical, Abbott almost felt that it wasn’t worth it. If he could just get out, get away-

He scolded himself for even thinking about it. Even if he could get away, he knew nothing about how to survive out in the real world. There were certainly many downsides to being raised in a magic shoppe with an abusive guardian, and that was one of them. He wouldn’t last a minute on the streets, O’Leary often told him. He needed to be thankful for the home that he had so graciously received from Alastair, because at any moment he could decide to kick Abbott out, and as he liked to remind Abbott, there were plenty of more dangerous people in the world that would take advantage of a naive kid like him. He’d be dead before he could even blink, all his worldly possessions (which wasn’t much) stolen and spread out more than his body parts would be. It was a cruel world, and Alastair was really doing him a favor by preparing him for whatever may come. If he could ever get out, that was.

He crumpled the paper, shoving it into his pocket. He was just going to have to deal with whatever Alastair had in store for him, probably for the rest of his life. But if it was truly better than the outside world, perhaps he shouldn’t be complaining. Maybe he should instead be thanking the man, down on his knees, begging for forgiveness, groveling at his feet, praying to the god that O’Leary clearly thought he was. The old man would certainly like that, but just the mere thought of it made Abbott want to vomit- again.

Just thinking about being sick brought all the pain that he had temporarily forgotten about back. He could barely make his way back to his room before collapsing on the bed and finally- finally! getting some much-needed sleep. For once, his dreams weren’t filled with nonsense, though. The robed woman lurked in the corner of his vision all night, whispering in a language Abbott both could and couldn’t understand. He knew that she was calling him to her again, but as his unconscious body thrashed in the covers, he couldn’t wake up. Couldn’t escape.

His eyes jerked open as the woman exploded into a shower of green sparks, filling his vision. Sweat beaded on his clammy forehead, and nausea prompted him to practically vault out of his bed and into the bathroom in the hall. He leaned over the toilet for minutes on end, what was left of his pathetic meals splashing into the toilet. He wiped his mouth with a shaky hand, thinking that this was becoming an all-too-familiar scene. He was just contemplating drinking any and all of the bottles in the shoppe at once when he heard a muffled voice from outside of the door, down the hall.

“I think the man’s gone. That’s what that scrawny brat said to me this morning. The time is perfect.”

Abbott’s head shot up in alarm. There were people in the shoppe, in the middle of the night. It sounded like they were trying to… rob him? And to make matters worse, the voice sounded like it belonged to that woman who had attacked him in the store over a poultice. Was she back for revenge?

Abbott slipped into his room and grabbed the dagger he kept under his pillow. He held it close to his face, his breath leaving clouds of fear on the blade. He could see his own reflection in what little light was seeping into the room; his eyes had dark rings circling them from exhaustion and bruises, and his cheekbones jutted out far from his face like rocky outcroppings on a mountain. He hadn’t eaten a square meal in months, and he certainly looked the part. He just hoped his appearance would be enough to scare away whatever threat was about to come his way.

On silent feet, nimble from years of practice, he swept down the hall, his back against the wall. He could hear the voices again, clearly now. Two of them, and if Abbott wasn’t mistaken, they belonged to the same two customers who had given him hell that morning. Just what he needed- a pair of maniacs out for revenge.

“I don’t know where the boy came from,” the man spoke in a low voice. “I’ve never seen him around before, and O’Leary’s never mentioned anything about an apprentice. Not to mention the fact that he looked like a corpse risen from the grave. D’ya think he offed O’Leary and is out to make money?”

“It’s possible,” the woman returned. “But whatever is going on here, it’s not right. Stupid kid didn’t even know how to run the shop, let alone lock the damn door. It’s no wonder he’s resorted to criminality. He’s too thick to do anything else.”

Shit! He had forgotten to lock the door to the goddamn shoppe. Now he was going to have to deal with two angry customers who thought he had murdered Alastair. If they knew the truth, that he was basically held hostage by the man, would they be more sympathetic? Would they even believe him? Probably not. He hoped he wouldn’t have to fight his way out of this one. He had only ever learned to defend himself, and not physically. Alastair had taken it upon himself to try to teach the boy magic when he was younger, assuming he would have some affinity with it due to his prophetic abilities, but Abbott had never quite gotten the hang of it. He hadn’t even thought about practicing in years- that was before Alastair had started drinking much more and, as a result, treating Abbott poorly. Before, he was tolerable, sometimes even pleasant, but now? Abbott wouldn’t even feel a tinge of remorse if he had murdered the old man.

The male voice spoke again. “Well, if the boy’s in here, he’s not going to be for much longer. Can you imagine the reward we could get from the prison if we caught a murderer? We won’t have to suffer again. We could get your son a doctor, and I- I could have all the guns I wanted. I could buy a gun for all of my children!”

The woman scoffed. “They’d just kill each other, imbecile. Then you’d be tried for murder.”

There was a loud noise, like a hand slapping against a face, and the man huffed in a rage. “Don’t you dare ever call me an imbecile, or they might just find your dead body next.”

Abbott couldn’t breathe. He was dealing with people from the real world, who wanted to turn him in for a reward, and certainly sounded as though they could be murderers themselves. If they ever stopped arguing, they would certainly come and catch him. He couldn’t take on two people at once, not when they sounded like they could kill him in his sleep. God knew that he couldn’t hurt other people, he didn’t have the stomach nor the heart for it. But there was no way out; the only exit was from the front doors to the store, where the two thugs were waiting for him. Unless…

How did O’Leary leave? He hadn’t left through the front, or Abbott would have heard him. There were no windows he could climb through in the rest of the building, and no other doors. That left only one reasonable explanation: perhaps there was a secret exit of sorts in his bedroom. That would explain why there was nothing in the room itself; all of his stuff could be hidden in a secret room. Maybe it had a way out!

Abbott slid down the hall in bare feet and practically dove into the room at the end of the hall, closing the door behind him as quietly as he could. He surveyed the room, using the lantern that he had lit earlier, which was sitting on the workbench still, the flame on its last legs. There didn’t appear to be any secret doors in the walls, and the bathroom appeared to be just that- a bathroom. Which left the workbench, and… the bed.

Maybe there was a reason Alastair had left the covers in such a mess, hanging off the bed and draping onto the floor around it. Could it be- hiding something?

Abbott gathered all the sheets into his arms and cast them aside. As they collapsed in a pile in the corner with nothing but a whisper, Abbott frantically felt around with his hands in the dark. His fingers were scrabbling on the ground for anything that felt different, his nails digging into the wooden floor of the bed, searching for something, anything-

A lip! His fingers caught the edge of a board sticking apart from the others. Grabbing the lantern in his other hand, he pulled himself farther under the bed by his fingertips, exploring the floor. There was certainly something there, but was it a trapdoor? His hand grazed against a dip on the edge, something his fingers could hook themselves into and pull.

The floor gave way, an entire section of the ground flipping up without even a sound. The trapdoor was heavy, and Abbott was wedged underneath the cot in an uncomfortable manner, but there was enough room for him to manoeuver his legs into the hole it left behind. It was dark, too obscure to see into the passage, and so he held his breath and slid his body all the way into the drop.

His feet touched something warm, and he instantly recoiled before realizing that what was underneath his feet was simply stone, but it was almost like it was alive, radiating body heat. He put one foot after the other, and found himself descending down a staircase into the dark.

He didn’t know how long he was descending, until the stairs rapidly stopped. He was standing on flat ground, the floor warm like the stairs had been, and was completely surrounded by darkness, save for a small light on the opposite side of what appeared to be a room.

He took a single step into the room and instantly found himself surrounded in an explosion of light. A small orb of light, much like the ones in the jars of the store, circled his head, leaving a halo of pure white around his head. Other orbs began to join it, and soon, a cacophony of light surrounded Abbott, as if welcoming him to the lair of his master.

One by one, the orbs glided to specific points on the wall, lighting up the room in a mess of colors. It should have been obnoxious, chaotic even, but there was something about the way the soft lights blended together that Abbott found oddly comforting, even in the midst of the apparent robbery. A final emerald light hovered against the wall of the chamber, shivering, beckoning him to move forward, to come and see what it had in store. Abbott’s feet moved as if in a dream, he walked forward, entranced, to a much larger and messier workbench against the opposite wall. This was where Alastair truly made his potions; ingredients were spread everywhere with measuring and mixing tools scattered in for good measure. The orb seemed to be pointing him in the direction of the middle of the workbench, however, and Abbott moved in for a closer look. Surrounded by frog legs and newt eyeballs was a single sheet of paper. Abbott’s hand reached out and picked it up on its own accord, his skin paler than usual bathed in the peaceful glow; it was as if his body did not belong to him anymore. The hand drew the paper closer to his face, and his eyes took in the paper as his heart stopped.

The sheet was covered in various sketches of small figures in excruciating pain- one was being crushed by a boulder, another being turned inside out, and yet one more was being drawn and quartered. Not an inch of the paper was left blank; various forms of torture were everywhere he looked, each more gruesome than the next. While this was terrifying in its own sense, this wasn’t what disturbed him the most.

Written at the top of the paper was a single word: a name.

ABBOTT.

Feeling as if scorching fire was coursing through his veins, Abbott tried and failed to breathe. It was almost as if there was a boulder upon his chest- and maybe, according to this paper, there would be soon.

What did O’Leary have planned for him? Why would the man risk his business just to torture him? Maybe that was his backup plan, just in case Abbott left while he was gone. But if the man was planning different gruesome ways to kill him, was it truly worth staying? Abbott weighed the options heavily in his mind as he stood completely still, still in shock. His hands trembled so badly he couldn’t hold onto the paper any longer, and it fluttered to the ground as if in slow motion. It landed on the ground and slid across, carried by some unseen breeze, to the floor right at Abbott’s feet.

He almost left it there and never thought of it again. He was good at that after living with Alastair for so many years. There were just some things that were so traumatizing that Abbott had learned to forget them completely- it was an art that he had perfected. He almost decided to walk away, to return up the stairs and give himself over to the kidnappers who were surely searching for him upstairs, thinking that a quick death by hanging would surely be better than whatever O’Leary had planned for him. It would be so easy; he would never have to deal with the older man again.

He was no stranger to these kinds of thoughts- many nights he had lain awake in bed, fingers pressed against the cold metal of the blade underneath his pillow, the same knife that was currently tucked into the waist of his trousers, freezing against his leg in the warm room. It would be so easy.

He drew the weapon out of where it had been hiding and looked at it for a long while. What he had to do was easy. What wasn’t easy was convincing himself to do it. He knew it was certainly an option, but was the situation that desperate?

He went to tuck the blade back into his waistband for another time, but froze when the glinting of the metal caught sent a small beam of light reflected onto the paper that laid at Abbott’s feet, nearly forgotten in the midst of the tornado of his emotions.

There was more writing on it.

A small paragraph, scrawled messily in the middle of the page. It had landed on its back when it fell, and it beckoned Abbott to pick it up and read all it had to offer. Abbott couldn’t read the small print from where he stood, and he was frozen for a good minute while his body and brain fought over what to do. His body wanted badly to reach down and grab the paper, taking in all it had to say. His brain, on the other hand, wanted to leave the paper where it was, and never have to think about it again.

His heart broke the silence. He leaned over and lifted the paper up in two hands, delicately, as if it were a bomb that could explode at any moment, taking Abbott’s life and the entire Empyrium with it. Squinting in the light, which had gone dim, Abbott struggled to make out the words. Some of the writing didn’t make too much sense to his brain, as it appeared to be in a different language. Could… could it be the language that the woman in his visions kept speaking in? If so, what did Alastair have to do with her?

He pushed aside the thought and moved on to the words he recognized. Bits and pieces stuck out to him as he tried to patch them together, despite his limited reading vocabulary.

The boy… useless… transfer of powers to me… will likely kill him. Spell???

Abbott couldn’t feel his body. He had gone completely numb, as if he wasn’t even a part of this world anymore. It felt as though he was a bystander, watching the situation unfold through the eyes of someone else. Someone who was going to be killed, but it wasn’t him. It wasn’t about him.

But who else would it be speaking about? Abbott was the only boy with powers that O’Leary had contact with, as far as he knew. It sounded like Alastair was developing a spell to remove Abbott’s powers and give them to himself- a spell that would kill Abbott in the process. Would he have to be a sacrifice? Maybe that was what all of those terrifying drawings were. O’Leary was finding the most painful way to kill him to make a sacrifice in order to gain his vision abilities.

If there was any doubt in Abbott’s mind about staying in the Empyrium before, all traces of it were gone. He sprung into action, turning frantically around the room, searching for a way out.

The room was filled with dusty shelves, all of which were covered in a lovely collection of magical objects and ingredients. And the body parts- one shelf was completely lined with jars in which floated pieces of dismembered bodies, both human and animal alike. A jar full of eyeballs seemed to track his movement as he stumbled around the chamber, following him with the pupils. Watching him.

Was this what Alastair meant when he said he had eyes everywhere? If so, he likely knew that Abbott was in his secret room, and had found the note. He wasn’t safe anymore. He had to get out, and get as far away from the Empyrium as possible.

He noticed a small beam of light filtering in from the ceiling in the corner. On shaky legs, he scrambled over there and looked for how to get up. There was certainly another trap door, and a short rope dangled from the edge of the panel. He stood on the tips of his toes and stretched his weary fingers in the air, trying desperately to grab the frayed end of the rope. He… just... couldn’t quite reach. He practically screamed in frustration.

As if answering his call, three multicolored orbs detached themselves from the wall where they waited and drifted over to him. As if by magic, the rope suddenly seemed to be longer, or maybe he was taller? Either way, he could easily grab the rope now, and he pulled sharply, the panel dropping down and releasing a set of stairs with a loud groan. He cringed and paused, hoping that the people upstairs hadn’t heard it, and with an acknowledging nod to the orbs that had helped him out, he stepped up the stairs and into the outside world for the first time he could remember.

He didn’t have any sort of light to be able to see in the dark, but he could tell that he was outside of the Empyrium. He turned, seeing the building behind him, and fled.

His feet pounded against the cobblestone steps in a one-two pattern, sounding almost like he was dancing. He liked the idea of that better. He was simply dancing, and not running for his life down a road edged by buildings, so many buildings. Surely someone was watching him, and if everyone in the town thought he was a murderer…

There was only one person he knew that might be able to help him.

He needed to find Finnian.

Abbott pressed his back against a cool wall in the alley he had just dashed into, trying to get his lungs to function again. He couldn’t breathe; he felt as though he were dying. He was shaking uncontrollably, he couldn’t get any air into his lungs, his chest was tight, and his mind was shutting down completely. This is it, he thought. I’m going to die right here, in this alley, without even living. I just finally got away from that goddamn hellhole, and now I’m going to die right here. He pulled his knees to his chest. Breathing was coming back to him now, but it was much too fast; he was hyperventilating, and stars were popping in the corner of his vision, the lack of oxygen getting to him. He allowed his body to fall over, and he lay curled on the ground in the fetal position, until his breathing began to slowly even out. He was asleep before he knew it.

He slept fitfully, plagued by nightmares of Alastair hunting him down. He saw the man clearly in his mind, with a gun, or a knife, or a noose. O’Leary was on top of him, ripping him open with long silver claws that had appeared out of nowhere, and Abbott was screaming, yelling, dying.

He woke with a start, drenched in a cold sweat. He half expected to see Alastair O’Leary standing over him, but instead he was greeted with a strange creature leaning over his face. He shot up with a yell, hand instinctively reaching for the knife at his side. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he brandished it at the small beast, who was posing nonchalantly on top of a box next to Abbott in the alleyway.

“Mrrow…” the creature said contemptuously.

“Back, foul fiend!” Abbott shouted as he stepped closer to the being. Was this what Alastair had been talking about when he said the outside world was dangerous? Was he going to die, vanquished by this small but evil-looking creature without even making it to find Finnian?

The beast rose from its sitting position and hopped gracefully off of the box, landing on the ground at Abbott’s feet. Emitting a strange low noise, it circled once, twice, three times around his ankles and then began weaving in between his feet, rubbing itself oddly on his legs.

“What- what are you doing? Are you trying to capture me?” he asked, wondering briefly if the creature could even understand him.

It looked up at him with wide eyes and made the strange noise again. Its mouth opened wide as it did so, exposing a mouth full of tiny fangs. This startled Abbott again, and he jumped back, blade out in front of him. The animal began striding slowly back over towards Abbott, who was cornered against the wall.

“I swear, if you get any closer, I’ll… I’ll kill you!” he yelled, hoping the creature would take the hint and back up. It didn’t, and instead kept advancing towards him, but his yelling must have awoken the tenants of the neighboring building, as he heard a door slam next to him. His head turned curiously, the animal momentarily forgotten, as a young boy ran into the alleyway. The kid took in the scene- the animal weaving around Abbott’s ankles, and Abbott standing with the knife brandished bravely. The little one shrieked, running towards Abbott. “FUZZY!”

The child grabbed the strange creature and glared at Abbott protectively. “What were you doing with Fuzzy? Why do you have that knife?”

Abbott stammered, flustered. “Fuzzy?”

The child stared at him impatiently. “My kitty cat!”

Oh… Abbott thought. This creature was called a ‘cat’. That sounded familiar- perhaps he had seen something relating to it in the Empyrium. Yes, he thought, he had seen bottles labeled “cat” in Alastair’s secret chamber. Perhaps these creatures were used for parts, like O’Leary used them.

“So…” he asked, “it’s not- dangerous?”

The kid looked astonished. “Only if you pull his tail, stupid. Then he’ll BITE!”

At the word ‘Bite’, the child jumped forward, startling Abbott into dropping his knife. As he fumbled to recover it, he questioned, “Do you use it for- parts?”

The child’s face fell. “MOM!” he screamed. “THIS GUY WANTS TO CUT FUZZY UP!” With one last terrified look, he fled into the house, odd creature in arms.

Abbott sighed and took off at a jog, getting away from the house as a woman, presumably the boy’s mother, emerged, shaking her fist at Abbott. She screamed profanities at him as he sprinted off, not quite sure where he was headed. Away from that house, that was for sure.

He didn’t know where Finnian lived. Hell, he didn’t know anything about the kid except that he worked for the newspaper, and Abbott didn’t even know where the newspaper building was. He knew absolutely nothing about the outside world, except that apparently the people were oddly protective of their ‘cats.’

Abbott turned down another street, putting as much distance between himself and the Empyrium as he could. He needed to find someone to ask about Finnian, but he wasn’t sure if that would raise any red flags. He wasn’t honestly sure how to go about asking someone that; social interaction certainly wasn’t his strong suit after being raised in the back room of a store for his entire life. Besides, there weren’t any people out and about at this hour- the sun had just started to peek over the horizon, painting the sky with brushstrokes of yellow and orange. Abbott wasn’t even sure if the newspaper building would be open for him to ask about Finnian.

He caught a glimpse of a woman watching him in a window. He turned to face her and smiled, but she disappeared behind a curtain. Thinking that maybe she would talk to him, he trotted up the front steps and looked at the door. There was a heavy brass knocker attached to the front. Did all he have to do was knock?

He picked it up in one hand and let it drop. He wasn’t quite sure how many times he had to do this, so he repeated the action twice more for good measure. He was about to do it a fourth time when the woman finally opened the door, looking frazzled and defensive. Her right hand was held up and open, as if warning Abbott to back off; her left held a rolling pin, presumably for self defense. She shrieked, “We don’t have anything!” and went to slam the door.

Abbott kept the door from shutting with an outstretched palm. “I- I don’t mean any harm, madam. I just… could you tell me where the newspaper office is? The place where the newspapers come from.”

The woman held up one bony finger, hand trembling. She pointed down the opposite street. “Down there. Big red building. Now get off my doorstep or I’m going to beat you!” She raised the rolling pin threateningly.

Abbott didn’t think twice. Nodding in thanks to his rather terrified informant, he rubbed the back of his neck and retreated back to the street. He put one foot after the other, trying not to slip on the cobblestones, which were slick with the early morning dew, and made his way down the road, following the tip of a red building, which rose above the others. In the crisp morning air, the building was surrounded by a halo of color from the sunrise. It seemed almost like whatever gods were out there were beckoning him forward, confirming that the newspaper building was the right place to go. He just had to get there.

One foot in front of the other. It wasn’t hard. It was just down the street.

But every step he took away from the Empyrium made his chest tighten, a fist around his heart squeezing every last drop of life out. O’Leary knew exactly what he was doing, and sooner or later, he would find Abbott.

The newspaper building wasn’t open yet, so Abbott made his way into the small alley next to the building and sat down. He needed some alone time to process everything that had happened. His ribs still sent sparks of pain through his chest if he moved his arms; he didn’t have any money, or he would have gone to the market that O’Leary sometimes picked up supplies from. He hadn’t had anything to eat for three days, and hunger was gnawing on the inside of his ribcage, intensifying the pain he felt there.

His attention was caught by a frazzled-looking man rushing up to the front of the building. Noticing Abbott camped in the alley, he fumbled with the key, trying to get through the door as fast as possible. Abbott stood quickly, moving towards the man inquisitively. “Do you work here?”

The man sighed. “Yeah, I’m opening up for the morning. What d’ya need? I don’t have any money on me.”

Abbott frowned, tired of people assuming he was some sort of dangerous bum. “I’m just- just looking for one of your employees. A guy by the name of Finnian G-Granger?” he questioned, not quite sure whether the last name was correct. “I- I think he lives here in town. Do you happen to know where it is?”

The man turned to look at him as though he were stupid. “I don’t keep tabs on my employees at all hours of the day. I don’t even recognize that name. Are you sure ya have the right person?”

Abbott felt his stomach sink. If he couldn’t find Finnian, what was he going to do? He had no money, no food, and no belongings. All he had was the knife he didn’t know how to use. A knife that would soon be buried hilt-deep in his own chest if he didn’t get some help.

“Are you sure that he doesn’t work here?” he practically whined in desperation. “Is there any way you can check? Please?” he added as the man gave him a dubious look.

The man exhaled, thinking. “Fine,” he muttered. “Come on in, now, don’t just stand there.”

Overjoyed, Abbott followed the man awkwardly into the building, his heart thumping heavily in his chest. The man pulled a pack of matches out of his pocket and began lighting the lanterns that lined the walls one by one, giving Abbott a better view of the building. Heavy-looking mahogany desks were set in rows as far back as Abbott could see, presumably for the people who worked there. Absentmindedly, he walked up and down the rows, looking for anything that might hint that Finnian did indeed work there. Finding nothing, he turned to the man, who had finished lighting the lanterns and was now watching him with a curious eye.

“Find anything?” the man asked, amused.

Abbott shook his head. “Do- do you have a book or something? That you would keep track of names?” In the Empyrium, Alastair had kept a large book at the front desk with information of everyone who bought something at the shoppe. Perhaps the newspaper building had a similar log.

Abbott could see the wheels in the man’s head turned as he considered this question. “Tell ya what,” he said. “In that cabinet over there,” he gestured at a large set of drawers pushed against the wall in the very back of the building, “there’s a stack of papers about a hand’s width thick. If you look through those, you might be able to find yer friend.” He looked Abbott in the eyes. “He is yer friend, right? Yer not gonna go and kill him in his sleep or somethin’?”

Abbott laughed nervously before realizing that the man was completely serious. He cleared his throat in a minute of awkward confusion before stammering some sort of assurance that he was not, in fact, a murderer. Hoping to relieve the tension, he turned quickly and marched back to the aforementioned cabinet. He could feel the heat of the man’s gaze upon his back. He didn’t like it. It made him feel like a target, as if the other man was the killer.

He opened three or four drawers before finally finding a stack of papers that fit the man’s description. Stretching his fingers, he grabbed around the stack and staggered back to a desk near where the man was standing, dropping them onto the tabletop with a satisfying thunk. He looked up to see the man was nodding in approval.

“Get to it, then. You gotta be outta here before people start to come.”

Abbott nodded and began to sift through the papers. He was having trouble making sense of some of the words, but he could tell that it was a mix of information. Some pages were covered in layout designs for the newspaper, and others appeared to be scratch paper. He paused when he reached a section of papers that had names listed down the left-hand side in a table of sorts. Following one of the names with his finger to the right, he reached what appeared to be a set of numbers and words he didn’t recognize.

He beckoned the man over with a swift wave. He approached, although somewhat warily. “What d’ya need?”

Abbott pointed at the sheets. “What are these?”

The man squinted down at them with a scrutinizing gaze. After a minute of reading, he straightened up, chuckling. “Well, lad,” he said, “It appears to be a list of employees and their addresses. You’ve found what you’re looking for.”

Abbott squirmed where he was sitting. “I- I can’t really read it. Is there a Finnian on the list?” he questioned sheepishly. He felt awkward about his literacy- or lack thereof.

The man grabbed the sheet from the desk. “Let’s see,” he murmured. “Finnian… Finnian… Granger, ya said?”

Abbott nearly jumped out of his seat. His heart in his throat, he struggled to contain his nerves. “Y-yes, Granger.”

The man slammed down the paper with a triumphant ah-ha! “There it is,” he crowed, jabbing his stubby finger at a spot towards the middle of the paper. “Granger, Finnian.”

Abbott craned his neck to see what the man was speaking of. Underneath his finger, there was a name that looked like it could have belonged to Finnian. He hoped the other man wasn’t messing with him. “What’s the address?”

“102 Mapleberry Lane,” the man responded after a second of looking at the paper.

Abbott felt an uncomfortable heat creeping up the back of his neck to his ears and cheeks. Ashamed, he admitted, “I don’t know what that means.”

“Hell, kid, did ya grow up under a rock or somethin’?” the man joked playfully. After recognizing the growing shame on Abbott’s face, he quickly covered, “Just a joke, son. The name, Mapleberry Lane, is the street where ya friend lives. And the number is the number that yer gonna see on the house. Just look for that number, okay? You’ll get there. Mapleberry Lane is around seven streets down, to the east.” At Abbott’s confused look, he clarified with a quick point of his finger, “that way. Ya should pass a church and a bookstore on the way there, and then you’ll be in the right place. Okay?”

Abbott nodded quickly, thankful that the man wasn’t laughing at him anymore. He gave the man a grateful glance and whispered, “Thanks.”

The man looked into Abbott’s eyes and said, “Anytime, kid. Now, you’re gonna answer a question for me in return. What are ya doing with Finnian? Why do ya need to know this? It seems urgent, and paired with the fact that you look like you crawled out of the sewer, I’m gonna wager that ya got something going on right now.”

Abbott nodded, and muttered a hasty reply. “I… just need some help. I know he will help me. He has to,” he added, more to reassure himself then provide a backstory.

The man sighed. “You got a name, kid?”

Abbott hesitated, then replied, “Abbott.”

“What about a last name?” the man pushed.

“Don’t really know,” Abbott admitted.

The man nodded. “I’m Wilson. If you need anything, stop by the store. I’m serious.”

Abbot was shocked. He wasn’t used to being shown kindness, especially from a complete stranger. He murmured his thanks and made a beeline for the exit, unsure just how to deal with a situation like that. He felt a little bad for leaving so abruptly, but he told himself it was better than turning into a blubbering fool in front of a man he had just met. He was going to find Finnian.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky and more people began to emerge from their nests, Abbott wandered through the streets, taking everything in. No detail escaped him. He was amazed by the way the clouds drifted through the sky, as if of their own free will, and he was startled when a carriage shot past him, carrying people inside of it and pulled by two beasts that snorted when Abbott looked them in the eye. The world was certainly large and complicated, but was it truly as bad as Alastair had made it out to be?

Abbott looked up and realized that he was standing in front of the church that Wilson had mentioned, meaning he was on the right path. He gazed at the church with its massive pillars and stone cross. He had not been raised religiously, as magic and religion tended to clash and create conflict. Those individuals who worshipped higher deities often disliked the fact that other humans could harness the power of magic, thinking that it was something sacred that should be left to the gods only. However, while Abbott didn’t often agree with the religious opinions that he occasionally was forced to deal with when angry protesters stood outside the shoppe, he certainly respected all that practiced religion, and he was in awe of the building that stood in front of him. With a nod to all that were entering and exiting, he looked down the road in search of the bookstore that Wilson had spoken of. He took one last look at the church and continued down the street, following his gut.

A child ran past him, twirling some sort of colorful stick. Abbott couldn’t help but stare; he had never had a childhood, and so he was often confused when children came in the store, little bundles of energy, full of life and love and joy, and not full of resentment and pain as he had been at that age. Abbott had long ago vowed that if he ever escaped the horrors of the Empyrium, that he would do everything in his power to make sure that no one else had to experience what he went through. Gazing down at the child, he felt sick to his stomach. How demented did you have to be to look at a child, especially an infant like he had been, and decide that you were going to be cruel to them? To lock them in a room, to barely feed them, to beat them with a stick until they cried and screamed for it to stop, not understanding what they had done to upset you?

Abbott remembered the first time Alastair had shown his true colors. He had been around the age of six when his master began drinking heavily, and one night after the man had indulged himself far too heavily, Abbott had been running around the halls, being a typical child. He had rounded the corner to the store too fast, though, and not looking where he was going, ran straight into O’Leary. The older man had grabbed him by his collar and lifted him up almost to eye level as Abbott squirmed, the shirt digging into his neck, cutting off his air. He gasped and groaned as Alastair stared into the boy’s eyes with his own bloodshot, unfocused ones. The alcohol on his breath was strong, and Abbott coughed as the man shook him roughly, then tossed him onto the ground.

“Damned idiot child,” he snarled. “Thinks he can run around without looking where he’s going. Thinks he can run into me and get away with it. Well, think again!”

He kicked the child in the side with a steel toed boot, sending the frail frame sliding across the slick floor. By this point, Abbott was crying, taking heaving breaths in an attempt to make up for the air he had lost. It hurt, and he didn’t understand why Alastair was doing this to him. He was normally so calm…

Abbott could barely recall the days when Alastair had been a good master. He knew that he wasn’t always treated like a piece of shit, but he couldn’t imagine the man ever being nice to him. What had changed?

He realized that while deep in the fog of his memories, his legs had carried him past the bookstore and onto another road. He gazed up at the sign that stood sentry on the street corner, his mind struggling to turn the odd symbols into words that made sense. Mapleberry Lane, he thought. Could those letters be spelling out that name? He thought he recognized the letter m, but in the bright glare of the sun, reading was even harder. He took a chance and continued down the road.

Numbers were a little easier for him after working in the store, labeling prices and such. He remembered Wilson telling him that Finnian lived in house number 102. He wandered up and down the street, desperately looking for any house with that number, but they all looked the same. Narrow cottages, practically stacked on top of each other, all with a small front porch and layered shingles. They seemed warm and inviting, but provided no clues as to which house Finnian’s could be.

He was unsure of where to look to find the numbers. His eyes took in a house on the left side of the street, noticing a small ‘109’ tucked into the corner next to the door. His heart racing, he ran down the street as the numbers descended. 107, 105, 103, 101.

He wasn’t positive, but he was pretty sure that 102 was in between 101 and 103. So where was Finnian’s house?

Turning to look at the other side of the street, Abbott noticed that the first house at the end had ‘102’ tucked in the same spot. This was it! This was Finnian’s house.

The world seemed to be moving in slow motion. Abbott felt as though his legs could not go any slower as he stumbled up the front steps, weak with hunger and dehydration. He reached the door and, seeing as there was no knocker, curled his fingers into a fist. Inspired by the beautiful church he had passed on his way there, he sent a quick prayer to whatever god was listening. Then he raised his hand and rapped on the door.

Once, twice, three times. Then he stepped back and waited.

All Abbott could hear was the pounding of his own heart in his ears. It was going fast, so fast.This, followed by the squeaking of the front door, was enough to make sparks of anticipation, or perhaps dehydration, pop in his vision. The door opened at a snail’s pace, followed by a face appearing in the doorway.

Peering around the doorframe, face creased with sleep and hair mussed as if he had just rolled out of bed, was Finnian.

“Finally,” Abbott slurred as the sparks took over his vision and he blacked out.

Finnian had hardly rolled out of bed before hearing the knocking on his door. He grumbled, knowing it was probably the church representatives again, coming to guilt him into attending each week. He ran a hand over his face, trying to put some life into his sleep-worn expression; his fingers tangling in his curls in an attempt to look decent. He plodded over to the door and threw it open, fully expecting to tell the people outside where they could shove their religion.

Instead, he was met by the weary, bruised face of Abbott McClellan hovering just outside the door. Their eyes met, and Finnian instantly recognized the pain hidden inside of Abbott’s. With a look of relief, Abbott muttered a single unintelligible word and began to pitch forward dangerously.

Realizing what was happening, Finnian threw the door open quickly and grabbed onto Abbott’s limp body as he fell, catching him against his chest. What the hell?

He looked around to see if any of his neighbors were watching. Surely if they were, they thought he was crazy. He sighed. This kid was ruining the reputation he worked hard to build. Seeing no visible people, he hefted the other boy over his shoulder without a hesitation and carried him inside.

Finnian looked around the room, trying to find the most comfortable piece of furniture in his house. He didn’t want to put the boy in his bed, because all he wanted to do was climb back into that himself. He decided on the sofa that sat in the middle of the front room, and set Abbott down on it gingerly, wincing as the dirt caking Abbott’s clothes smeared on the light gray upholstery. He shook his head, clearing those thoughts: Abbott clearly needed his help, and he wasn’t going to turn him away. Especially after what that horrible shop-owner had done to him.

Finnian wasn’t quite sure what happened there, but he could tell there was more to the story than Abbott had revealed, especially after his eyes had gone green with that weird glow and that voice that wasn’t quite his had spoken to Finnian. He had wondered after seeing the small room that Abbott had lived in if the older man was holding him against his will, but if he was here, in Finnian’s house, that couldn’t be what was happening, right?

Abbott chose that convenient moment to groan from the couch, his glassy eyes flickering open. “What…?”

Finnian helped the other boy sit up, shaking. He fetched him a blanket off his bed and wrapped it around him, then sat down on the coffee table, right at Abbott’s eye level.

“Look,” he started. “I’m not sure why you’re making it a habit to faint whenever you see me. Like, I get I’m good looking, but that’s laying it on a bit thick.”

He waited a few seconds to watch the heat creep up Abbott’s pale face, then grinned. “Just joking with ya. Seriously, though, are you okay?”

Abbott went to nod his head, but then seemed to think the better of it. He opened his mouth instead and squeaked out, “F-fine.”

Finnian leaned in, eyeing Abbott out of the top of his vision. He pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose exasperatedly. “Look, this is how it’s gonna go. I’m going to say ‘are you okay?’ and you are going to answer with the right answer, which is, ‘no, I’m not. Please, O Mighty Finnian, help me.’ Got it?”

The corner of Abbott’s mouth twitched, and Finnian felt a strange sense of satisfaction. He was getting through to the boy. He watched as Abbott regained his shaky composure.

“Okay. Let’s try this again. Are you okay?”

Abbott took a deep breath, trying to keep the pain off his face, but Finnian could see it. “No, I’m not,” he muttered.

Finnian smiled cheekily. “You forgot a part.”

Abbott raised an eyebrow indignantly. “I’m not saying that.”

Finnian pretended to be hurt. He gasped deeply, clutching one hand to his heart as if shot with an arrow, killing him instantly. “Do you mean to say you think I’m not worthy of that title?”

Abbott spluttered, clearly unsure how to respond. “No-no,” he stammered. “No, I’m sorry, no, please don’t be upset with me, I just-”

Finnian cut him off. “Stop, stop! I was just kidding again. I do that a lot. There’s no need to apologize.” Someone had obviously hurt this kid when he was younger if he felt the need to apologize so severely, and Finnian was sure he knew who had done it. He also had no sense of sarcasm at all, Finnian realized. He made a mental note to tone down the joking until Abbott was more comfortable. He looked Abbott up and down, taking note of how he was shivering- shaking?- even underneath the blanket. He could see the outline of his body, and the thought crossed his mind that Abbott was far too skinny- when was the last time this kid ate? He was sure that if he looked, he would find ribs jutting out of the boy’s chest.

“Okay,” he started. “How can I help? Are you hungry?” Abbott quickly shook his head. Finnian sighed, knowing that this boy was going to be the death of him. “I know you haven’t eaten. Do you feel like eating something, or would that just make it worse?”

Abbott knew he should eat something, as his stomach was utterly empty, but he hadn’t eaten a proper meal in so long, he couldn’t even handle the thought of eating. “I don’t think I can eat right now,” he admitted, shame coloring the edges of his voice. “I’m sorry.”

“What did I tell you about apologizing?” Finnian asked, sounding dangerously close to something O’Leary would say. The difference, however, is while Alastair required apologies in the form of pain and totrutre, Finnian required no apologies at all. “It’s not necessary. All I want you to do is get better and not feel bad about it. Asking for help isn’t a bad thing. I assume that’s why you came here, after all? To get help?” he questioned after a second thought. If not, why was Abbott here?

Abbott mused over this thought, finally settling on a simple nod. Apparently this was the wrong answer, and Finnian sighed again, standing up from the table and sitting next to Abbott on the couch. “Scoot over.”

Abbott did, and Finnian turned sideways so that he was facing Abbott, who did the same. “Okay. I get that you’ve been through some shit, and I don’t wanna discount anything that happened to you in your past. But I can’t help you if you refuse to talk- if you won’t let me help you.”

Abbott looked up, into those bright blue eyes, so full of life yet laced with worry and concern, and the cage that he had locked his heart in long ago opened with a small click. He began talking, started with how he had gotten to the Empyrium in the first place, and soon his entire life story was pouring out of his mouth like an uncontrollable waterfall. Not even the dam he had built could hold the intense floodwaters that yearned to be released, that had never seen the light of day in all his years of life. He spoke of the seemingly unmentionable torture he had endured in the Empyrium, the terrible things that O’Leary had done to him, things that he had showved so deep in the back of his mind he thought he would never think of them again, let alone share them with another person. But there was just something so comforting about Finnian, something so inviting that once he started, he couldn’t stop. And Finnian didn’t seem to discount anything, he sat at attention and watched Abbott’s emotions seep out. Abbott was worried that Finnian would think him a terrible, damaged person after all he had gone through, but if anything, Finnian seemed to respect him more.

He finished with the story of how he had found Finnian, sheepishly skipping over the part where he thought the cat was going to kill him. He knew that Finnian would find something to tease him about there. When he was done, he looked up, his fingers laced together in worry, dreading the look he was going to find on the other boy’s face. Instead of the disgust he thought would be there, however, he saw a spark of concern intermixed with sympathy.

Finnian scooted closer to Abbott on the couch. They were practically touching, and Abbott felt a small spark of something flood through his body. It was over before it started, though, and he pushed it aside to look back at Finnian’s face. Finnian ran one hand through his hair, sweeping the curls to the side as he smiled sadly. “Damn. I’m so sorry.” He blinked hard, unsure of how to continue. He normally had a lot to say; he wasn’t used to being at a loss for words. “Well, I know I barely know ya, but I’m really honored that you chose to come here to me and told me all of this. I- I can’t change anything that happened in the past, I just… we can make sure this doesn’t happen again, okay?”

Abbott ignored the tear that was welling in the corner of his eye. He couldn’t cry; couldn’t show weakness. “Okay.”

Alastair O’Leary sat at the bar of a grimy pub, his glass clenched tightly in his sweaty fist. He couldn’t stand when that brat disobeyed him. How dare he think that he had any authority over his own life when the man did everything for him? Abbott had never had to work for anything- O’Leary just gave it to him. When the boy needed clothes, he had provided them. He brought him food almost every night- sometimes he forgot, especially when he had a little to drink, but everyone makes mistakes.

He downed another glass in the heat of his anger, head thrown back. He could feel the liquor burning its way down his throat, but he relished in the heat. It was the only reliable force in his life anymore. While he couldn’t count on business being steady, or the boy providing accurate prophecies, he always knew that he could count on his old friend- alcohol. He took delight in the way that it seemed to cause his problems to fade, and he even loved the rush he would get as he pulled back his fist to hit the boy, the influence of the drink in his bloodstream whispering to him to continue, to beat him until he couldn’t feel any pain at all. Something in him always stopped him though, whether from the loss of business it would cause, or some strange gleam of empathy buried deep inside him. Whatever it was, it kept O’Leary from killing the boy altogether, but he vowed that next time, he wouldn’t let it control him. If the boy needed to be punished, he was going to punish him, however extreme it may be.

He slammed the glass down onto the grubby countertop with a huff, gesturing to the bartender impatiently. The man scurried over and took the glass in one hand, replacing it with a full one with the other. Alastair wasn’t quite sure what number this was- four? Five, maybe- but he didn’t care. As long as it kept his thoughts from flowing quite so freely, he would do anything.

He drank to forget. He drank so he didn’t have to remember all that had happened to him in his life. He drank to forget his father towering over him, the stench of alcohol radiating off of him. He drank to forget nursing the bruises that covered him during his entire childhood. He drank to forget his father standing over the body of his mother on the floor after he had come home through the door to find his wife with another man, a man that worked down the street, a man who Alastair had always been told was just his mother’s friend. He drank to forget how his father had pulled out his shotgun from the cabinet in the front and marched into the living room, the room in which he had caused the majority of Alastair’s pain. He drank to forget how his mother had jumped up in a panic, fear in her eyes apparent as she pushed the other man behind her. He drank to forget how the other man had fled in the blink of an eye, leaving faster than he had snuck into their lives. He drank to forget how his father, without the other man to use as a target, had turned his aggression onto his mother, screaming obscenities as she cowered in the corner. He drank to forget the screams he had heard rip through the house as her husband turned the gun on her, and to forget the gunshot that followed. He drank to forget how his father had kicked the corpse of his mother laying on the floor before stomping out of the door into the forest, where a second gunshot soon screamed out. He drank to forget how his parents’ bodies had looked, sprawled on the ground, a growing halo of blood surrounding them, seeming almost decorative. He drank to forget how at the ripe old age of twelve, he had gone from having two parents to none, all within the span of a single day.

He drank to forget how the neighbors had come by after hearing the commotion, and seeing Alastair left all alone, taken him from his home. He drank to forget how those same neighbors, who he thought he would finally have a home with, had shipped him off to an apprenticeship with a wizard. He drank to forget how the wizard had treated him like a son for once in his life, and while he taught him many things that Alastair would use later in his career, what touched Alastair the most was that the man truly cared about him. He drank to forget how the man had taken him into his home, only to leave him less than four years later. He drank to forget how the doctors told him that the man had passed in his sleep, of some malady related to his heart. He drank to forget how he had slowly descended into madness that day, tearing through every book in the wizard’s study in the hopes of finding something, anything, to bring him back. He drank to forget how the doctors had put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and told him that the man wasn’t coming back. He drank to forget the day he began to become his father: upon hearing this news, Alastair had screamed out loud, all his sorrows and anger leaving him in a single burst of power that immediately incinerated everything within a twenty foot radius, including the doctors. He drank to forget how he was left untouched by the flames.

He drank to forget how the wizard had left his house to Alastair. He drank to forget how, feeling how empty the house was, he turned the house into the Empyrium he ran today. He drank to forget the somewhat happy times he had in the store before it became such a pressure. He drank to forget the woman that had come into the store one morning and caught his eye. He drank to forget how they had flirted and eventually started courting each other. He drank to forget how they had gotten married, and she moved into the Empyrium, helping to run the shoppe by his side. He drank to forget the happiest days of his life.

He drank to forget how his love had become pregnant. He drank to forget worrying over the littlest things, like what the baby’s name should be. He drank to forget worrying over the bigger things, like how his wife had fallen gravely ill before the baby was due. He drank to forget clutching on to her hand as she cried out, contractions rocking her body as she heaved. He drank to forget how his son, his pride and joy, hadn’t even had a minute of life out of the womb. He drank to forget the blood, all the blood that poured out of his wife’s body as she lay still, utterly still. He drank to forget all the bodies he had lost, surrounded by pools of blood. He drank to forget the tombstones that sat across the Empyrium in the graveyard, a larger one with an angel carved into it, next to a tiny, imperfect one, not even graced by a name. He drank to forget how they could lie together, yet so far apart from where he was.

He drank to forget how the next twenty years had been a blur, one day after the next, running the shop over and over again- opening up and closing, opening and closing, over and over and over to the point of insanity. He drank to forget the night his life changed, the night he felt a strange summoning sensation forming in the bottom of his stomach. He drank to forget how the small infant had been left on his doorstep, and how for a small moment, he thought he could start his life over again. He drank to forget how he had immediately decided against it, as nothing could replace what he had already lost. He drank to forget how broken his life was.

He drank to forget the times when he hadn’t been so cruel to the boy. He drank to forget the look on the boy’s face the first time he had drunk too much, the first time he had thrown the boy to the ground and kicked him across the floor, bringing back memories of his father's last moments. He drank to forget the many times he had lost control since then. He drank to forget how he had turned into the spitting image of his father.

He drank to forget how he hated everything that he had become. He drank to forget the blackness that lived inside of him, eating away at him. He drank to forget how to live.

He drank to forget that he wanted to die.

Finnian looked over his shoulder at the bundled figure asleep on his couch. Abbott had fallen asleep almost as soon as he had finished spilling his life story. Finnian felt bad just leaving him there after all he had gone through, but he had a job and a life to tend to, and he had to find a balance between helping this kid and his own duties. He watched as a flicker of a grimace passed over Abbott’s sleeping face, his dark hair slick with sweat against his clammy forehead, and closed the door behind him.

His feet carried him away from his house into the town, where he felt he truly belonged. He was by no means an introvert, as he was fueled by interactions with others, and he found that sitting in his home alone all day didn’t cut it. He looked forward to his excursions when he would make small talk with all he ran into on the street, because that just who he was. If he couldn’t talk, he didn’t know what he would do. That was just how he coped with everything in his life- if he had a problem, rather than letting it well up and stew inside him, he just spoke to someone about it. Perhaps that was why he felt a disconnect with Abbott. While all Finnian ever wanted to do was talk and be talked to, the other kid just wanted to listen.

He was like a blank book. He had supposedly grown up, if you could even call it that, locked in a room by some alcoholic maniac. Because of it, he had never had a chance to be properly socialized, and he had trouble communicating with others. He had a lot to learn if he was going to survive out in the real world, but Finnian didn’t doubt for a minute that he could figure it out. It would take some work, but Finnian knew that he could help this boy become all he was meant to be.

He hadn’t exactly had the easiest life either, but it was by no means comparable to what Abbott had gone through. His ma had gotten sick and died when he was young from some odd form of the flu, and his dad was crippled in an accident and couldn’t work some days when his injury was acting up, so Finnian was stuck scrounging for coins however he could get them. He remembered clearly the day the newspaper man found him sitting on the street corner, humming a little ditty as he waited for someone to drop a coin at his feet. People didn’t tend to pay any mind to him- after all, he was just another child, wasn’t he?- and he often could make a dime a day just sitting there and snatching up coins whenever they happened to fall, as if they were gifts from the heavens themselves. One day, a pair of feet had strolled by, but instead of continuing on with their path, they stopped, right in front of little Finnian’s face.

Finnian had looked up in confusion, following the feet all the way up to a long, horseish face. It belonged to a man, dressed in a crisply pressed suit, with a finely manicured mustache. Finnian scrambled to his feet, as men like these usually yelled at him for loitering, whatever that meant. He grabbed his coins off the ground with grubby fists and was about to run when he heard the man speak.

“Wait,” he commanded in a clear voice. Finian stopped where he stood; voices like these usually carried authority, and he had learned in his short years that it was better to do what they said. “Are ya looking for money?”

Finnian’s little ears perked up at the question, but he then hesitated. Sometimes people didn’t like it when he asked for money. They would yell at him and then he would feel tears slip out of the corners of his eyes as they scolded him. He wished he could make the tears go away, but they just kept flowing.

He wasn’t sure what to say, so he just kept staring. The man sighed and crouched down to eye level, looking the boy deep in the eyes. “I can get you a job.”

Finnian’s heart raced. A job? He knew that would make his parents proud, and maybe he would be able to buy the train from the toy store that he had always wanted. Maybe if he saved his pennies, he wouldn’t have to dig for scraps in the garbage can outside of the market.

He smiled at the man, just a corner of his mouth at first, but soon it had spear into a full on grin. The man smiled back at him knowingly. “I’m Mr. Costanzi. You can call me Wilson, though. Follow me.”

The small job of standing on the corner selling papers had turned into a career with the company. He now wrote the days articles in the morning, helped print them in the afternoon, and delivered them in the evening. He loved his nightly walks, when he would hand out the papers as the moon peeked out from overhead, and make small talk with those he delivered to. He had his routine down pat, and it was only if another worker was unable to work that he would deviate from it.

That was why he had delivered to the Empyrium just that one day. His coworker Calder just had to go and get conveniently ‘kicked in the leg by a carriage-mule’ on a day he simply didn’t want to shop up, and Finnian had gotten stuck running his papers for him while he ‘recovered’. What an ass.

While Finnian loved his route, after meeting Abbott, he had considered asking Calder to switch deliveries. There was just something about the boy that captivated him, that drew him in. Finnian just wanted to peel back each layer of his personality, taking time to examine all that he would find beneath. However, he knew that Abbott would do this himself with time, and that was what he was going to give him.

Finnian jogged up the stairs to the front of the building, taking the steps two at a time. He pushed the front door open with a squeal, announcing his presence to the workers inside. They greeted him with a friendly chorus of “Finnian!” as he stopped by Wilson’s desk to check in for the day.

The man regarded him with a raised eyebrow. “Your friend stopped by for a visit this morning,” he said in a low tone. “What’s the story there?”

Finnian fought to keep the gravel out of his voice. “Oh, nothing,” he lied quickly. “Just a friend who was in town and needed a place to spend the night. Didn’t know where I lived, though,” he added after a suspicious glance from his boss.

The man shook his head. “Whatever ya say, kid. He said he needed help. Did’ya give it to him?”

Finnian nodded and tried to retreat from the desk. Wilson could be an intimidating man, even though the two had known each other forever. Instead of the freedom he had wanted, though, the ability to return to his desk and just write, letting his creativity run wild, he was beckoned back to Wilson with a single finger. “We’re not done here. What’s really going on with that kid?”

Gulping, Finnian muttered a quick version of the story he had heard. That Abbott had been basically held hostage by Alastair O’Leary, and that he had escaped. He was currently at Finnian’s house, recovering from the ordeal.

“Good lad,” Wilson said, and slapped a hand down onto Finnian’s shoulder as he rose from behind the desk. “Looking out for yer mates, eh?”

Finnian felt his head bobbing up and down in agreement, and Wilson removed his hand from his shoulder. “Now,” he said with a hint of irony in his voice, “go write me some articles.”

Finnian sat down in his chair, his quill tapping against the mahogany of the desk. He usually had so many ideas, but all he could focus on was the mental image of Abbott alone in his house, curled up in a ball on the sofa. He shook the picture out of his head and began writing in a neat print, his letters dancing on the page, arcing and spiraling over and around each other, weaving and intermingling like the threads in a piece of clothing. Holding the world together.

Wasn’t that what friends did? Held each other together? Without friends, without anyone but a raging drunk to turn to, how did Abbott ever manage to survive? Finnian knew he couldn’t have handled it. He had such a need, a craving for social interaction, for attention, that he would have rather died then lived the life that Abbott had.

But then, Abbott had even briefly mentioned wanting to die. Why hadn’t he gone through with it? What was so important in his life that he would have stayed alive for? Was it the fear of what would happen if he failed, or the fear that whatever came next could be worse?

Finnian had never been a religious person, and he guessed that Abbott hadn’t either, if he was raised by a follower of magic. However, he knew that those who practiced religion believed that there was a place that your spirit went after you died, and depending on the choices you made in life, you would either end up in a place of eternal peace- or eternal punishment. He never quite agreed with this way of thinking, as he didn’t like to believe that one wrong choice could uncontrollably mess up your entire life. Instead, he liked to think that there was some sort of redemption that was available to everyone, if they were willing to take the chance and work hard for it. It didn’t really matter to Finnian how a person was for the majority of their life if: they were able to show that they had changed, he would try to accept them, no matter what they had done before.

Finnian believed, deep down, that O’Leary must have had a reason for why he acted as such, and he felt that Abbott did too. The difference between the two boys’ viewpoints, however, was that while Finnian felt that the behavior was uncalled for, Abbott surely felt that what had happened to him was his fault. Finnian had interviewed victims of long-time abuse before, and almost all of them seemed to have some sort of reasoning that it was their fault. If Finnian could show Abbott that he was worthy of love, of a chance to start over with a new life, would he be able to? Or would he fall into the pit of despair that so many others had, and never fully live?

His coworker Calder came hobbling by on a pair of wooden crutches, the bottoms making a loud clicking noise with each step. The sound caught Finnian’s attention, and he snapped back to reality, suddenly remembering that he was supposed to be working. Instead of doing so, however, he turned to Calder as he passed, a question itching in the back of his mind. “Calder…?”

The man stopped. “What, Finnian? Gonna ask me to the festival dance again? I already told you, I’m not interested.” He smirked, knowing that he had hit a soft spot.

Finnian took a deep breath and stated, “Calder, you know I didn’t write that note. Now knock it off. Seriously, I have a question for you.”

Calder was ready to shoot back a snarky reply, but thought the better of it when a glare from Wilson caught his eye. His mouth closed, then opened again, and finally a small “okay…?” escaped.

Finnian leaned in a little closer; everyone around him was hushed, trying their best to listen in on the conversation. Upon seeing that he had recognized this, they turned back to their desks and began conversing loudly again. He focused his attention on the man leaning impatiently against his desk. “You know the Empyrium?”

Calder scoffed. “That trashy old shop? Yeah, of course I know it. Why wouldn’t I?”

Finnian rolled his eyes. “Just let me finish. When I went to deliver your papers the other day while you conveniently got kicked by a mule-” he paused as the other man grinned, winking, “-there was a kid inside. About my age, maybe a year or two younger. Longer dark hair, green eyes, really skinny. Have you ever seen him around before?”

Calder seemed to be deep in thought for once in his life, but then the moment broke and he shook his head, as if Finnian were stupid. “No, dumbass, O’Leary doesn’t live with anyone. He’s just a lonely old hag. Don’t pay any mind to him, unless you want a good love potion. Then he can hook you up with any girl you fancy, if you get my drift.”

He sauntered back to his desk, looking very much not injured.

Finnian sighed. He didn’t want any girls, he just wanted answers. How was it that people could visit the Empyrium every day and never catch wind of the atrocity that was going on inside of it? It simply didn’t make sense. Surely someone had to hear the screams every time O’Leary beat the kid nearly to death.

He picked up the pen, tapping it against the bottom of his lip, and continued writing.