The Sweetbread Incident
The skin on my right hand itches under the glove. My left hand flinches towards it before I correct myself into petting Keena, who is purring on my lap. I know tonight, when I have some privacy, I’ll need to rub some lotion on it so the rough fabric doesn’t scratch at the scar. I rarely feel it anymore, but on days when the weather is cold, or the air is dry, or the wind is full of salt, I feel it. The dwarven woman across from me is snoring, leaning against a tall, tiefling man. They seem to know each other, and they are both kind. I have heard rumors about both of them before; I assume they have heard rumors about me.
Lord Vaeren Isareth clears his throat before coughing into a handkerchief. He tells us that he has already paid for our accommodations and that, not to worry, he’ll be back in three days. Thinking to myself, I wonder how I got tangled up in working with this nobility when I had promised myself I would level out the playing field of wealth. I suppose we all must do things that contradict our ideals occasionally, especially if the pay is good enough.
Meeting with the others in “Lord Isareth’s Band” is interesting. In these past few hours, I have learned more about the tiefling man, Killian, and dwarven woman, Deborah, than in the whole day we were on the road together. Belaern and Cassandra are intense, strict with their moral code, and stern with their countenance. Unsurprisingly, I’ve heard about them as well, about Belaerns’ armor and Cassandra’s attitude. Belaern confronted me, alone from the group, about my family, about the person or people responsible, of whom I’m going to kill. Hearing what others said behind your back after you left was hard. Keena flinched for me; I had trained myself not to twitch at their mention. I drank more at the bar that night than I had in a long time.
Alone in my room, I summoned Keena again from her slumber somewhere in the fey realms. I knew tonight I would need her comfort. I peeled the glove off my hand and finally flinched for the first time that night. The salty air and the long say must have made the scar appear worse than it was, though it already looked bad, to begin with; the law enforcement never really cared what their brand looked like in the end, only that it was apparent and in a place that would hinder the thief’s ability to steal. Cleaning is always the most challenging part, as is pouring alcohol on it to disinfect it from the sweat and grime of the day. The muscles in my hand spasm in protest, though I have grown used to it and know where to continue pouring. In the candlelit room, on the table of an inn, in a city I never expected to travel to, I wrap my hand in bandages and pray that my hand heals before dawn.
In the night, I dream of memories of my mother and father, my siblings training, both their bodies and their words. I dream of the first time I was caught, how all I wanted was a piece of sweetbread on my birthday, the first without my family. I remember the strength of the guard’s grip on my young wrist, how they had thrown me to the ground, and of the sweetbread rolling out of my grasp onto the ground as well. They didn’t even care about the pastry, only that I had taken it. I thought it unfair and cruel, as did the person watching me. She said I had talent and that what I did was stupid, and then she taught me how to do better. The next time I stole something, it was from a vendor on the corner selling meatpies. The smell of cooking meat and then burning meat changed the scene of my dream.
The last time I was caught, the reason why I had to run.
The burning pain in my hand, the cold steel against my wrists, the heat from the coals next to me.
The brand, in the shape of a T, pushing into the muscles of my dominant hand. The flesh rendering itself from my bones.
A gasp tore through my throat in the early morning light, Keena next to me purring loudly. I pet her with my left hand this morning. I unravel the bandages and see the scar cleared up in the night. I pray in gratitude, though I also think I may have imagined the scar acting up. I push the thought from my mind and head downstairs, barely ready to handle the day as it arrives,
“Though,” I think to myself, “it’s an odd world out there; someone has to live in it; it may as well be me.”