His shoes had disappeared at some point, but Jameson was thankful to have his life. He smelled of sewage and rot and limped noticeably. The open sores on his feet gathered dirt, but it was fine as his feet were numb with cold. He wiped a hand over his face as his thoughts turned back toward Samson.
It was his fault that he was dead. If he hadn't been such a coward and turned the attention on himself, the guards would have found him instead. He would be the dead one, not the innocent man. A small sob escaped his lips at the thought. He was so lonely now.
Not that he was alone now. The small city had stood as a beacon of light to welcome his exhausted body to rest. But he hadn't thought of the people.
There were people on the dimly lit city streets, but not the kind Jameson wanted any association with. At night there were only a few select brands of people awake on the streets, ladies of the night, philanderers, petty criminals, and insomniacs. All of which brought their own brand of dangers.
A woman in a tight fitting green dress called to him, adjusting her black stockings. Red hair fell over her shoulders and thin pink lips grinned back at him. The women pressed fabric against his skin, rich satins and lace—even silk. For a moment all Jameson wanted was to fall into their embrace and sleep. He didn't have a kip to his name, no idea of what the year was, or how old he was. But he had his body and his life for now and that was worth some sort of money. To him and those who knew what he was.
A hand grabbed his arm and a woman with kohl painted eyes smiled, the smell of burning incense filled the night air. She was beautiful, her dark hair trailing down her back in a braid the color of a raven's feathers. For a moment he was captured in her eyes, the sound of her voice, like velvet. What was she saying? His head couldn't wrap around the words. She wasn't speaking English, that's what it was. She was speaking the old language—Rajsend. And she was still calling to him in her silken tones, dragging him deeper into the light behind her.
She didn't know that his pockets didn't contain a single kip and that on his back he bore the mark of a Greenwater criminal. But inside looked safe and warm, it probably even had a warm meal. His feet ached to lie down and rest, his stomach gnawed on his backbone at the possibility of food. The woman was closer to the light and he could see that her face was covered in a blue shimmer, hiding the thick makeup that caked her face and hid the scars from disease. Jameson shook his head a little, eyes widening.
What was he doing here?
Jameson jerked away, stumbling further into the streets as the women called out to him in various languages and accents. No. No more blood. No more death. He ignored the calls of the blue lady as he walked down the cobblestone streets.
What criminals! What absolute w—
For a moment he forgot that he was a criminal too—a murderer of all things.
He abandoned his judgment and pressed forward, always glancing behind him to the women. They had turned their attention to a new mark, a man twice his elder who held up a few glittering kips.
Jameson fell to his knees in the streets as his knees gave out. He hit the cobblestones hard, the air jarring from his lungs. He took a breath, bowing until his head hit the ground. How long had he been walking? It was night now, which meant he'd been walking in the sewers for over a day. When he'd emerged from the dark sewers into a river, it was dusk. His feet were covered in open sores and he'd walked perhaps a mile upstream in the freezing water so that his scent wasn't traceable by the dogs. He'd stolen clothes from an empty house and buried the dead guard's uniform. A dog went after him before he had time to eat anything stolen from the house. But at least he was in new clothes, regardless of how ill-fitting they were. At least he was somewhat warm.
Where would he go from here? Back to the family land?
His neighbors would turn him in for a few dirty kips. He couldn't.
Perhaps he could make a new name for himself?
The brand on his back said otherwise. He would always be a prisoner. There was no escape. There was no place he could escape, so he'd live one day at a time, always on the run. It wasn't much of a life, but there was no other way.
He raised his head for a moment to see a towering steeple above him. It was a beauty of gothic architecture, its tallest spire disappearing far into the night sky.
A chapel?
It could offer him protection and safety, two things that he hadn't seen while in Greenwater. The brand on his back itched at the thought.
He wandered through the doors, exhaustion guiding him. His legs shook like jelly and he was losing the constant battle of holding his eyelids open. Everything was dimly lit with a few candles showing the way to the altar.
Rows of red velvet pews passed him as he stumbled into the altar, dropping to his knees. His head hit the wood and his hands gripped the legs with white knuckles. He cried out, shoulders shaking violently as the events of the day rushed over him. Samson was a brother to him and he'd left him to die in pursuit of his own life. Samson was undoubtably dead and he was the only person to blame. Furthermore, he had killed a guard. He hadn't killed him with machine or weapon but with his own hands had killed him.
Jameson leaned into the altar, the table taking the entirety of his weight. His fingers gripped onto the wood harder, keeping him upright. "My God, what have I done?!"
"My God!" He yelled again, his voice echoing around him in the silence of the sanctuary. He bowed his head low. "Samson, forgive me."
He pressed his hands against his face, wiping away at the tears. He didn't know he was crying, only that he was. "I never meant to hurt you. I never meant for this to happen. I'm sorry." His back shuddered with a sob. "God forgive me. I am a damned man for this."
He raised his face to the stained glass windows surrounding the sanctuary. The panels were dull in color thanks to the dim light but he could make out the scenes. The angel Gabriel in full glory speaking to the virgin Mary, the birth and life of Christ, the Crucifixion and Resurrection, and then Revelations. In the morning it must have been beautiful to watch the glass windows scatter multicolored light over the dark stone walls and wooden pews. In the darkness it was ominous, as clouded as his judgment.
Jameson lowered his head against the altar. "God forgive me." He whispered, falling to his side, completely prostrate. "I am a damned man. I deserve worse than death."
He let his exhaustion cary him away.
~~~
He awoke to a hand on his back. Jameson screamed, the memories of a hot brand against his flesh coming into focus.
"Nasty beggar, desecrating this place!"
"Probably planning on stealing!"
The hand turned into a fist, grabbing him by the shirt and the neck.
Jameson struggled to his feet, hands fighting to tear the fists away from his shirt. What would they do if they found the brand? If they knew he was an escaped prisoner, what then? Kill him immediately? Send him back to Greenwater to face Inspector Boucher? He'd rather die than go back. At least he'd die free here, but he didn't want to die period! Not when he'd escaped so much!
"Street filth!" Now there was another man, this one pushing against him as he fought uselessly to get the hands away from him.
"Don't touch me!" He yelled, his voice cracking.
"Call the Inspector!" One yelled and Jameson immediately stopped fighting.
He took a step back out of fear, managing to escape the grip of the men. Inspectors would know the brand without a second glance.
"Oi, the man's half rats!" A man laughed as Jameson stumbled back, eyes still half-lidded with sleep. "A drunkard in a church?"
"I'm not drunk! I am just tired!" Jameson's head spun a little as he fought back their hands and cries.
"Get him out of here!" The accent was thick and Jameson didn't recognize it. How far away from home was he?
"Call the Inspector!"
He lifted his hands in placation, running. His shoulder bashed into the church doors as he skidded to a stop in the snow. His arms instinctively crossed as he stared up at the sky.
Snow fell from the grey sky, falling onto his newly shaved head. His feet stung as he looked back towards the church doors and the warmth there.
What more could he do? What place would take him in?
Jameson ran towards the outskirts, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His feet stung as they slapped the snow covered ground. He glanced down at them, staring at the red and angry skin. "This is it?" He whispered through the chattering of his own teeth. "You're going to kill me like this? I didn't expect this one, I can tell you that."
He collapsed with exhaustion in the woods, his stomach growling as he pulled himself onto his knees. "I deserve this, don't I? Samson was the innocent one, I deserve this fate." He pressed his back against a tree, pulling his legs tight against his chest. He threaded his fingers into the fabric of his shirt, pulling the unhemmed length of his stolen trousers beneath his frozen feet. He leaned his head into his knees, breath hot against his exposed skin.
The forest was silent as Jameson shut his eyes tightly.
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