Lightning streaked across the sky over Croden. Rain poured down in thick sheets, drenching the buildings and turning the streets of the city to mud. Thunder bellowed so loud and long, you'd think an angry god was in those grey clouds, punishing the town for some unseen transgression. A small wooden church was struck by lightning and went up in flames. Dozens of townsfolk scrambled with buckets trying to smother the fire. Their shouts and cries could hardly be heard over the storm. A priest covered in soot and coughing from the smoke was dragged from the burning building and watched in horror as his place of holy communion collapsed before his eyes. People hunkered in their homes, or desperately tried to save their properties, but all feared what would be left come the morning. It was the worst storm in decades, and the city was not prepared.

And with such wanton destruction being wrought, who would notice a small thing like a helpless child in the mud?

Away from the chaos—only a few streets away—a woman lay in an alleyway. She struggled and writhed in pain, clutching at the soaked, dirty rags she wore with bony fingers. She looked down at her belly, cursing the horrible, wretched thing inside of her. 

"Gods damn you child!" she cried.

Another wave hit her, pained cry smothered by another clap of thunder. The babe slid from his mother's womb and into the mud. He wailed and cried, covered in mud and assaulted by the heavy rain. His mother fell limp, her diseased corpse still attached to the babe. 

And so mother and child lay in the filthy alley, dead and dying. People walked by, some not even noticing, others choosing to ignore them.

Just another dead whore in an alleyway.

Just another day in Croden.

An old woman—her name of no importance—shambled down the muddy streets. She wore a filthy torn cloth rag, soaked and clinging to her wrinkled, weathered form. Her old bones ached as they always did when a storm rolled through. She had no place to take refuge from the winds and rain so she walked along the buildings of Croden, searching for an overhang of some sort. If she stopped too long outside someone's house, the owner would step out and shoo her away, usually with some harsh language. The woman was used to it though, years of living on the streets as a beggar had given her a tolerance to the vitriol of those better off. She always thought it strange, the way they raged at her, it wasn't like she chose to be old and hurt and devoid of a home. If it were up to her, she'd live in a castle with as many servants as could fit the halls. Why were they so angry with someone for having bad luck? 

She found a small alley to duck into, shielding her from a good portion of the rain. She let out an exhausted sigh and raised a shaky hand to wipe the water from her eyes. A wailing could be heard in between gusts of wind and claps of thunder. She glanced around, her old eyes struggling to see in the dark, until she found the source. 

A newborn babe lay writhing in the mud of the alleyway. He was still attached to his mother who the woman found unresponsive to both her words and her prodding. The woman crouched down and looked at the child. A boy. He was covered in mud and soaked to the bone. The woman thought she'd be wailing too in his situation, if only she had the energy. 

She looked from the babe to his lifeless mother. "Bit of back luck, eh little one?"

Reaching for the small kitchen knife she kept tucked into a fold on her rags, she leaned down to the child. 

She raised the knife, hand trembling. "We all have a bit of bad luck now and then."

The knife swung down and with one smooth motion cut the cord tethering the babe to his mother. The woman scooped up the child, cradling his head. She tore off some of the dead mother's clothes and wiped the baby clean, wrapping him in the cloth. 

"There there, little one," she said, rocking the child. 

She attempted to calm the babe as she carried him in her arms and walked out of the alley. Soon the woman came upon an abandoned, half ruined shed. From the lingering stench it may have once been an outhouse, but it still had some semblance of a roof and for now, that was good enough.

When they were out of the storm, the babe's wailing finally ceased. His head rested against the woman's chest, one thumb in his mouth as he slept.

The woman looked down at the sleeping babe and for the first time in a very long time—she smiled. The pitter-patter of rain, the howling gales of wind, the flashes of lightning across the skies, the distant claps and rumbles of thunder—they all seemed like such tertiary worries now. Cradled in her arms was life—fresh and uncorrupted by the wiles of the world. The woman never had any children of her own. She had given up on that dream a long time ago. 

The gods had never been kind to the woman, in fact on many occasions she had scorned them for cursing her to the life of a beggar. But tonight she felt she ought to thank them.

"Oh gods, whichever of you breathed life into this beautiful boy, thank you."

Until the storm had passed, both beggar and child lay hunkered in that ruined outhouse resting, for their path ahead was one full of weary and strife.

No life in this world was without hardship and as the boy would soon come to find: if you want something, you must struggle dearly for it.

———

"Spare coin?" the woman begged.

She sat on one side of Croden's main square. It was a large sprawling area of packed dirt lined with carts, stands and hawkers. Surrounding the square were dozens of multi-storied, wooden buildings, mostly shops or businesses looking to capitalize on the foot traffic. It was one of the few places in town where the buildings were new and their structure sound. There were no permanent structures inside the square save for the fountain in the middle of the square. It depicted an armored knight with his arm raised high, however his hand had long since broken off. The grey stone of the fountain was weathered and cracked, the face of the knight faded into obscurity. The base of the fountain sat dry, surrounded by merchant stalls and people using it's old stones as seats. The square was loud, men yelling to try and sell their goods, each one louder than the last in an attempt to drown out their competition. Despite the wide space in the square, it always felt crowded midday. 

Crowded was good for the woman. Most of the people walking through the square were customers who carried coin. Some might have a few coppers of change left after their purchases. Sometimes the food stalls would have scraps left over at the end of the day. It all made a perfect place for beggars, which meant that nearly every beggar in Croden chose to claim a spot here.

Normally the woman would take up a shaded place far from the rest and receive a meager reward for it. That was enough for her. But now? Now she had a purpose—a reason to fight for those few extra coppers. 

A gaggle of men and women, old and dirty, gathered at one entrance to the square. They all begged, each trying to drown out the others just like the merchants did. It made for a loud and chaotic place for a child, but the babe in the woman's arms had grown used to it over the many months spent here.

"Spare coin?" the woman asked a passerby. 

It was a man squeezing through the street with a goat in tow, held by a hempen rope. He wore farmer's clothes, no jewelry or fanciful accessories. A man by all accounts that needed every copper in his pockets that day. But when he heard the call for coin he saw the sleeping babe pressed against the old woman's chest. He let out a deep sigh and fished in the pouch on his hip. 

He leaned closer and every beggar reached out their hands, pleading. 

The farmer pressed five copper coins into the woman's hands, meeting her eye. 

"Take it," he said. "And have some better luck, eh?"

The woman inclined her head. "Thank you, kind sir."

He nodded and turned away, his goat bleating as it was pulled through the crowd. 

The woman looked down at those five coins—enough for two days of food for her and the baby—and gave a gap toothed smile to the boy. 

"You'll grow up big and strong at this rate," she cooed at him.

"Oi!"

She turned to see a very disheveled man wearing a grey cloth draped loosely across his bone thin form. His hair was mostly gone and his teeth were a brownish yellow color. He was shorter than most of the women here and walked with a limp.  His fists were balled and his face set in anger, vein popping on his forehead. 

"Ain't fair that," he said, accusation clear in his tone. "Why do you get more just cause you stole someone's baby?"

"I didn't steal anything!" the woman scowled, placing a protective hand over the babe.

"He sure as shit ain't yours."

"His momma's dead. I'm lookin' after him now."

A few of the others had taken notice of the argument and kept their eyes on the two. It wasn't uncommon for a fight to break out between the beggars. No one ever cared to stop them, even the guards stationed in the square. The best they would do is drag away the one who started the brawl if someone happened to die. The normal folk threw them scraps and then walked by as they killed each other for it.

Just another day in Croden.

"Well shit, hand him over."

"What?" the woman scoffed. "I'm not lettin' you lay a finger on him you old crag!"

"I'll give him back, promise," said the crag, reaching out and grabbing the woman's shoulder as she tried to turn away.

"Let go!"

"Lemme hold him for a while, it's only fair!"

"NO!"

The woman swung around, hand connecting with the man's cheek. He reeled, staggering back. He raised a finger to his lip and saw blood.

"Now you've done it, ya old cunt!" he growled, shaking his head.

The first blow sent the old woman to the dirt, jaw aching. A kick to the ribs knocked the air from her lungs. The baby lay in the dirt, wailing and flailing his limbs next to the coppers that had flown from the woman's hands. She groaned in pain with each kick, bringing up her arms to shield herself as the man continued his assault. This wasn't the first beating she'd taken and probably wouldn't be the last. 

"Ain't—fuckin'—fair," said the man between blows.

When he relented, he stooped to grab the crying child. "It's alright boy, I'll take good care of ya."

The woman leapt on top of the boy. She was trembling, but used her body to shield him from the man. A passerby met her gaze, paused for a moment, then continued on his way.

"Fine, have it yer way then."

The woman felt a sharp pain and heard a loud crack as the man stomped her leg. But she didn't roll over. She didn't leave the boy to that man's clutches. 

She could hear the heavy breathing of the man behind her as he leaned down and scooped up the farmer's gift from the dirt. 

"Keep him then, I'll take these."

Everything hurt, but as she looked down at the babe right beneath her, she felt that any pain she took on was a small price to pay for that little face.

The next day woman and babe sat in the square once more. Her leg was crooked and throbbing, but she made more copper that day than any before it. Something about the pity of an old cripple caring for a child seemed to tug at the hearts of even the most apathetic people of Croden that day. The boy was babbling now and reaching up to grab her nose.

She couldn't help but smile.

She looked up as another group walked by.

"Spare coin?"

———

Over the next years the child grew quickly from an infant to a tottering boy. He could speak but rarely did. Instead he chose to watch everyone else. He watched the beggars, the merchants, the other children who played in the streets. It was interesting to him that each person sounded so different from the next. Some were loud, some soft, some shrill, others so deep he couldn't understand them. Most used words he didn't understand, but still he liked to listen.  His time was spent more on the streets, letting his curiosity guide him more than with the woman who reared him.

The woman's injuries from that day had never quite healed right and, while it earned her much in way of pity, it hindered her ability to care for the boy or for herself. Now, during the coldest winter in a decade, she was confined to the small abandoned stable they had claimed as their home. Sleep consumed the majority of her time, and she could barely keep her lids open for a meager meal. 

The boy didn't understand but knew that she needed the food and water he would scrounge for during the day. It was never much, mostly relying on the pity of strangers for any scraps they would have thrown out anyways. Sometimes the man in the white robe would have a pot of soup or stew outside his odd-shaped home that he offered to the children.

Today was a particularly cold day. Snow floated gently down, creating a layer of pure white on the streets of the city. The boy sat in an alley, watching the people like he always did. He wore an adult-sized cloth wrapped around him multiple times in an attempt to generate some warmth.

But he was still cold.

He didn’t like the cold. 

The old woman got worse when it was cold. He didn’t know why but she would sleep more, go out less, and she always looked sad. The boy thought that she might’ve just needed a blanket. But blankets were hard to get, the old woman had told him as much. He had looked for one today, but all he found was a torn-up sheet in a trash heap.

On his way back to the stable, the boy noticed a group of children playing in the snow, so he decided to sit and watch for a while. Laughing and smiling, the children scooped up handfuls of snow and tossed at one another. It didn't matter if someone got hit, they just kept throwing. The boy never joined in when the children played games. He was much more comfortable watching from afar. But today one of the other kids noticed him and ran over. It was a girl; she was a bit older than him and was missing one of her front teeth. She had on a real winter coat and most likely had a warm home to return to after her games. The boy didn't think it was fair, that some kids had parents and homes and fires. He only had the old woman.

"Hi there!" the girl said, rosy-cheeked and sporting a gap-toothed smile.

The boy stared back at her.

She crouched down to his level. "Want to come play?"

He shook his head.

"That's okay. I'm Mara. What's your name?"

The boy didn't answer. He didn't have a name, not one he knew of at least.

"Hmm... what about your parents? Where are they?"

The boy just stared. 

The girl was clearly at a loss for what to say next. "Well... see ya."

The girl darted away, rejoining the icy battlefield and leaving the boy alone again. He watched for a while longer, eyes gravitating to that fine winter coat, before starting the trek back to the stable as the sun began to set. The houses that lined the city streets were filled with the glow of firelight and the aroma of the residents' nightly meals. He'd had his meal for the day, but the smells were enough to set the boy's stomach growling. 

When he'd made it back to the stable, he was shivering from the chill. The old woman was lying in the corner with a sheet pulled over her. The boy ran over and climbed under. Normally the woman would hold him so they could both stay warm, but tonight she didn't move. He grabbed her arm and shook it, trying to wake her up. Her arm was strangely cold tonight, and her body was more still than usual. He continued shaking her arm, but the woman didn't respond. Finally he gave up. The woman had barely talked to him the past months so the night wouldn't be that different. She wasn't his mother, he knew that at least. Who she was didn't matter to the boy, she was just a bit of warmth and a face he had known. And now—she was gone.

He sat leaning against the old woman, cold and alone. He imagined all the warm houses and hot meals he'd passed by in the streets and that coat Mara had been wearing. He pictured the men in the square with their carts and goods. Even the man in the white robe, with a bowl of stew big enough to share.

What was it like, he wondered, to have something?

He didn't know how, but he was going to get something. Something of his own. 

A freezing gust of wind blew through the stable, reminding the boy of how cold it was now without the woman.

A blanket. He'd start with a blanket.