[ p ] to douse a fire

Life had never been particularly kind to Keith in the sixteen years he walked the Earth. He never knew who his parents were, nor where his sister vanished off to once she'd been taken away from the orphanage. Life there was dull, desolate, without meaning. He spent many hours watching other kids waste away the countless minutes and days and years simply waiting for someone to claim them— for something to happen. Keith was never one of them, refused to be one of them. He ran away. He apprenticed himself to a carpenter in the next town over, and still, life was not kind to him. He slept in the stables with horses, in haystacks mired with bugs and stenches and discomfort. He went hungry more often than not despite the growing skill of his hands, when he could carve figures with an exquisite attention to detail and delight customers with his artisanship. His master, although not cruel, was never kind to him either. And as much as Keith desperately tried to earn his approval— to try to be the son he never had —old man Roland would never smile at him.

Life had never been kind to him. But it did very little to douse the fire flickering in his chest.

Maybe it was that naivete that led him to this situation now. Trapped. In a crate. Amongst the scent of rotting flesh.

He knew his master, Roland, had been going into debt for some time. He'd seen the tax collectors at their door— the way Roland's voice seemed to be strung taut with tension. But he never imagined that Roland— not kind but never cruel —would sell him off. I'm sorry, Keith, he said. I have my own son. He's sick. I have to do this for him.

Back then, Keith could only stare incredulously before two strangers would place a sack over his head, tie up his hands, and lead him out of the stables. He put up a fight, sure, but the shock of betrayal still coursed through his head and robbed him of his strength. At least, that was true, until he learned what the hell he'd been sold into.

Human bondage.
Keith was rightfully furious.

Now, he sat within his crate. One he'd become all too familiar with. The crack in the side. The little hole big enough to let in light but not big enough for him to see out of. The rough patch of wood where he'd accidentally given himself a splinter. He felt as if he'd been in there for days. Weak. Hungry. Suffocating from the nauseating smell coming from outside his confines. 

Then, he heard a voice. A strange one. It was different than the traders, whose calloused hands forced him into this very same box. It was... gentler. Yet it in no way seemed to dissuade Keith's fear.

"Break him out."

Footsteps towards Keith's crate. A loud noise sent him backing away as far as he could inside. Then, light. A crowbar. Wood separating. He was being... freed?

"Well good afternoon."

Keith looked at the man, now sitting in front of him. Aristocratic, no doubt. Certainly rich. Privileged. Something made Keith feel very, very much unsettled.

"Who the hell are you?" he spat, warily examining the rest of the room before standing up. He was scared, but he wouldn't show it— not for the world. "And this place— it reeks of death. What are you doing here?"

The words seemed to hover in Keith's mind like a bell tolling for the dead. Property. Of course he'd become someone's property. If he was lucky, he might've been shipped overseas for conscripted work for a foreign empire. But instead he was to become someone's object. A thing numbered, calculated, valued like livestock. Maybe even less than livestock.

Keith balled up his fists, knowing there was little he could do in this situation now, with the man— Marius —watching him so. As much as Keith badly wanted to run, he stood his ground, fearing that aggravating the man would result in harsher consequences. All he had to do was bide his time, right? Find out the nooks and crannies of his new residence, plan an escape route, then... he'd be free, right? That required patience. Keith could be patient.

"I'm not anyone's property," Keith replied firmly. His eyes did not waver from Marius' gaze. "I'm my own person, goddamnit. This is wrong."

Of course it was wrong. It was pointless to point out. If Marius was a good person to begin with, Keith wouldn't be here. If Roland was a good person— they would have worked something out. Keith could have worked another job. He would've helped out as much as he could. But the world and all its damned had no need of his kindness, it seemed.

Keith looked away, wiping his eyes. Again, with the emotion he could not control. The anger, hurt, betrayal. Fuck Roland, he thought. After all the years they spent together. After the long hours in the workshop, working by torchlight. Maybe Keith meant less to him than he thought.

"Just let me go." Keith said. "I don't care what the hell you're doing here that makes this place smell like a fucking cemetary. I just wanna leave."

So it was entirely true. Marius was the scum of humanity. Keith had heard about people like him before— people who tortured and killed for the pleasure of it and no other reason. Marius' grin made his skin crawl, and he shuddered, putting his arms around himself to ease the feeling. He felt unsafe, vulnerable, as if Marius had stripped him naked and defenseless and was merely awaiting a suitable moment to strike.

"Roland was never a father to me," he replied. "And I was never his son. I don't mean anything to him."

Words spoken more out of spite than truth, perhaps, but Keith cared very little at this point. To hear Marius go on so coldly about his worth— about the worth of life —was sickening. Keith wasn't worth anything to his parents, this may have been true. He wasn't even worth anything to the man he worked for. And certainly he wasn't worth anything to any strangers. But Keith firmly believed in his own right to live and be free— not caged in a box. Not as someone's property. And certainly not trapped by the likes of this man.

The world is cruel, he said.

"I don't need someone like you to give me worth," Keith replied.

The way Marius spoke. The words he used. Threatening him with a fate he knew not of. Keith wanted so badly to run far, far away— from men like him, to a place where he could live alone and free from all the people who could take advantage of him— and betray him. But Keith knew he was in no position to fight Marius. He didn't feel good. He was weak, dizzy, and malnourished. If he took Marius on now, he knew he couldn't win.

So for now, he relented, still looking away. He hated giving in, but it was the only thing that was sensible for the time being.

"What the hell are you going to do with me?"