Archive of Our Own

Inside every door and every moonlit window, there was a candle, a light of tender gold, caressed by the slow ocean breeze entering the creaky homes: the beached bodies of the ships, once filled with true tales – now they were only legends of their former glory. Perhaps it was a curse, inflicted because of the greed, the pride, the envy and all the rest of the good old sins of all living and dead Bilgewatians, but a peaceful sleep always eluded the city. Too many throats were cut at night to keep count, too many learned from experience to never leave their back exposed. Such complete distrust, and how it strained both the body and mind over years and years, was one of many reasons no one stayed here for too long, and why children on the streets were of two kinds – the sickly, knocking on the deaths’ door, and the rough, the strong, with the world of hurt reflected in their young, determined eyes.

Tobias first saw the city arriving at night, hidden underneath a large piece of heavy cloth. The earliest memory of the city was of the lights, the lights from top to bottom, flickering, as if winking at him. Thousands of old nosy keels and bowsprits protruded from the mountain walls; hulls that once hauled cargo and crews of tens or even hundreds through the devouring waves now bore the people and their loot on the land, in many inns and taverns and warehouses. The lighthouses, beacons of hope, with a neverending carousel of bulbs and fires, illuminated the ocean’s moody surface like stars hoisted up high upon the rocky shores.

He immediately fell in love with Bilgewater.

Even after weeks on the water, he recognized that sensation of joy. Because the journey took days, and the storms severely delayed their arrival, the world moved in Tobias’ eyes at a wobbling pace, and all the bright colors doubled, and tripled, as he once again weakly pushed his thin upper body over the board and held back the waves of nausea. The flickering silver foam of the tar black ocean only made that headache ten times worse. His arms clawed into the wooden railing with an iron grip.

And yet, once the wave passed, and he could slump back down under his covers, the city was now even closer, and brighter, and lovelier.

Tobias was five years old. He did not care about the smell, and he did not see the slime and the dirt and the rats on the streets; he did not see the mold and the rot in the tired old eyes of sailors and pirates who have seen too much of this world. He saw the lights, he heard the music of their laughter. He was enamoured, because this was different from what he’d seen, back at home – this looked like a new life. Stubborn, brave, and curious life he wanted to see so much more of.

A life so far away.

He wasn’t even supposed to be here. He snuck onboard without notice. From the many older children back on the river, he heard so many tales of sea monsters, and treasure hunts, and adventures he wanted to experience on his own, too. He heard about the taverns, and the food in them, and about the people, too, from all over Runeterra, and Bilgewater in the middle of the map, the pearl, the beginning of all things exciting and dangerous. He wanted to see this entire world in one city. All the adults back home ignored his pleas and whines to go with them. He begged them for days, and nothing came of it. Asking his grandpa didn’t help at all – he simply shrugged, and told the boy to wait a few years.

Tobias learned early on that no one wanted to take him seriously. Looking back, it should’ve been obvious to why, but back then, five years were all he had seen of life, and to him it seemed enough to challenge the world head on.

“What– no, oh no, you couldn’t, you didn’t…” he heard a sigh right above him, and snuggled tightly with the heavy blanket clutched in his hands, hurrying to wiggle underneath as fast as possible. “Oh, Tobias…”

The person held an oil lamp in their hand, and the spotlight spilled right onto where Tobias was hiding. Confused about how they could spot him, he held his breath and stopped moving entirely.

“I can see you,” said the voice of a woman – oh, he knew her, of course. Their leading merchant. “Tobias, get out of there,” another sigh, this time much more exhausted, but quietly conspiratorial, “he’s already so mad at you, do you really want to–”

“Marina,” interrupted the thunderous voice of their headman, “what is going on here?”

“Tobias snuck on board.”

“Tobias? Tobias Felix, that son of his?”

And every time he said his name, it dripped with pure venom.

~*~

There was a sparkle dancing around his hands – a speck of dust, as quick as a thought. Mesmerized, his wide open dark eyes followed every hop and dip of the particle, his billowy laughter cradling the miracle as he wiggled his fingers. He rolled over on his stomach, trying to catch the light with his other hand.

The sound of the argument outside the boat cabin disturbed the idyll, as it rose momentarily:

“-and allowing him to bring those to other children, where were you looking?!” cried the headman.

“It's his birthright! Do you expect him to hide it his entire life? Even among family?” defended his grandpa’s croaky voice.

“Yes, yes, if it means our people's safety!”

“Ah, ‘our people's’, you say! ‘Our people's’! As if he's not with us as well! Letting him be himself would be safer for everyone, if you'd only stopped treating him like he's a mistake.”

Listening to this was tiresome: Tobias grabbed the corner of the carpet and rolled himself into a cocoon, pushing his hands over his ears. He hated hearing the headman’s scoldings.

After rolling back and forth on the wooden floor, his eyes caught the shining glow of his grandpa's cards, a disarray of them where Tobias dropped them earlier in the morning.

They were pretty. He tentatively reached out his tiny hands. Still rolled up in his carpet, he clumsily started to build a house out of three cards. No matter how careful he was, the cards kept losing balance.

“He’s only a boy,” his grandpa murmured, barely audible even to his young ears.

“He is his father's son.”

“And his mother's, too. Let him live like how she wanted.”

A sad, powerless chuckle escaped the headman.

“How she wanted… even the entire world would never be enough.”

~*~

“Please, take him!” she screamed through the storm, pushing the round little blanket onto the boat. She clung to the starboard as the roaring wind blinded her, and the river current kept crashing into her, tearing her away. Rain drowned her pleas. Her long hair clung to her wet skin – a suffocating web. 

Her elderly father desperately reached for her slipping hands.

“I have a rope! Hang on!” the headman roared, on another boat, too far. The night was dark, the heavy lanterns were swinging and banging on the cabin doors. A blinding flash – a horrible thundering croak of a struck down willow, lightning up like a pillar of fire in the night. The wood moaned, the hot branches splashed into the untamed waters as the thunder roared through the electrified, pulsating skies.

The headman jumped from boat to boat towards the drowning woman.

“Where is that drunkard?! Why did he leave her?!” the headman screamed at the old man through the curtain of the storm, catching the blanket she weakly held above the water. The headman passed it carefully to the old man, which he clutched tightly by his chest, in front of his old beating heart, spurred by the horrible, helpless, abrupt realization of his daughter's imminent doom.

The headman threw out the sturdy rope – but the woman had vanished below the surface.

So instead, he stepped on the side of the boat, preparing to jump for her into the ink black maw of the chaotic tides.

Her time was up. The willow let out another groan, and the hundred year old tree, the weeping guardian of the river, buckled under its’ own weight, and fell into the water, rocking the boat violently. Waves splashed onto the deck in layers, leaving the foam stuck between the boards. The crying of the rain mixed up with tears on the wrinkled face of her father.

They searched for her in the morning.

But the river never gave her back.

~*~

“Raise him,” pleaded the old man, “raise him like your own.”

“No. No, not if it's his child. His child, with her blood...”

“How can you be jealous, after everything that happened! She's dead! She made a mistake, and now she can't choose again! And he's all that's left of her!”

“No. She made her choice. She chose wrong. Now she's gone. And I won't be responsible for her mistakes.”

“You don't have a soul.”

“It is exactly because I have one I will leave him alone.”

~*~

Ten, and with the ace of hearts, eleven, twenty one…

“Blackjack,” the crooked, sly smile bloomed on his face, rich with pride.

Tobias was sitting on the carpet with his grandpa, rocking back and forth in excitement as he once again correctly added all the numbers on the fancily decorated cards, making his grandpa proud. They have been counting, adding and multiplying all sorts of numbers, so much so that any other six-and-a-half year old might’ve gotten a headache already.

But not Tobias. This was a game, and he was winning. And he found out that he really, really liked winning. His grandfather shared his joy – he slapped the knees as he chuckled.

“Good job! But we can do better – try hitting three times in a row,” he suggested, pointing at Tobias’ cards.

“Okay. Hit!” Tobias slapped the floor with his palm as hard as he could.

His grandpa drew a two of spades from the deck.

“That’s thirteen,” Tobias confidently nodded, “hit again!”

Another card was drawn.

“That’s a jack of diamonds, it's worth a ten,” supplied his grandpa as he noticed his grandson frowning.

“I know, I know… but that's twenty three, and it's a bust,” the boy quietly concluded. “I lose.”

“Oh, but is it?” His grandpa turned the card sleeve up, then lightly tapped Tobias on his mischievous nose, and once his grandson wrinkled his face, he revealed that the card had switched into a different one. “Don't be afraid – and don't give up.”

“Another ace!” marveled Tobias, tearing the ace of spades away from his grandpa's hold to eagerly place it on the top of his hand. “That's fourteen. Can I try now?”

Incredulously, his grandpa asked with raised eyebrows, “the card trick? We haven't finished counting yet. And we would still need to practice–”

“Multiplying them by two, I know,” Tobias hurriedly finished the sentence, getting impatient. “I wanna turn the next one into a seven, so I get Blackjack again.”

The bushy gray eyebrows rose even higher, “what if it is a seven already?”

And before his grandpa could even draw a card, Tobias suddenly froze in place – an icy blue dashed across his warm eyes, and the words “I know it's not” tasted sweet on his tongue, like a candy from overseas. He sometimes had the taste when really good things were about to happen, and a repugnant sour milk one when things were about to turn, well, sour, which helped a lot in avoiding that stupid headman as much as possible.

The old man still checked the next card. “Well I’ll be…” he whispered in awe as Tobias laughed at the surprise clear on his face.

“Gimme that five,” the boy reached up, opening and closing his fists impatiently. “I can show you! I know how.”

“Maybe if you multiply the cards in your hand first…” he lifted the deck scarcely above Tobias's reach.

Now that was just unfair, they only got to the most interesting part of the lesson. Tobias dropped his gaze down to follow his finger, as it went up through the cards as if up a ladder:

“Twenty, two, six, two,” he chanted, “can I do the trick now…”

“And if the ace is–”

“Eleven times two is twenty two. Ple-e-ease,” he whined, reaching up again. 

“Oh fine, you little devil,” the old man handed him the card, “let your magic flow.”

Crafty fingers snatched the five of clubs – Tobias instinctively held his breath and closed his eyes. With the first flick of his wrist, he felt the card take its' first breath, a living thing pulled out of the still waters. With the second, he pushed the card between the other two fingers, raking the patterns and colors as if rippling the river's slow and steady stream. With the third, he opened his eyes. The old man took the card from his extended hand. 

And laughed again. Tobias tilted his head interrogatively, taking his card back.

A seven of hearts. What was wrong?

“Oh, Tobias, you’re good at this! Really good!” His grandfather powered through the amused chuckles,”but this card was already in our game, my boy, my poor eyes aren’t that bad yet! You can’t trick me!”

The boy gazed at the card, “so what do I do?”

His grandpa smiled. “Remember the ones already out of the game.”

~*~

The red card comes to life, and the burning eye in the middle of the golden frame opens to the fire in the iris. The image of a crimson sword hovers above the waxed end of the candle string. The tips of his fingers hold the scorching card in place. The wax quickly melts. The slender, tall flame is licking his hand.

One.

Despite years and years together, he did not remember her that well. She reminded him of Marina. There was nothing in common between them, nothing in their appearance – however, sometimes in one’s mind, faces can blur and blend together, when the years are unkind.

He moves his hand to the next candle.

Two.

The annoying one was short and loud, and had a big frog mouth that eventually doomed him. The days are silent now. The nights are haunting.

One more.

That's three.

A wise old person, covered head to toe in hunting trophies. A long harpoon, as sharp as their eyes, as their tongue, glistened once in the darkness. One final push – the harpoon got stuck in the maw of the metallic prison guard. The line snapped in half. A doomed endeavour. Even their entire life experience could not be enough. Failing them felt like failing his old man all over again.

A heavy, sinking heart. This silence. And a terrible mountain of regret, unbearable.

There is another, but he has no right to be remembered. So the thief moves on to the last one. The one whose absence feels like missing a heartbeat altogether.

His clenched teeth bite into a cigar. The card lights it up. His tongue and eyes burn from the familiar smell.

He inhales. He tastes.

He mourns.

Again, and again.

~*~

The air in the port was crisp – the ten year old boy shielded his eyes from the blazing sunshine. Within the salty breeze, the steady ringing of the ship’s chimes gilded the seagulls’ cries. Between the moored creaking ships, the voices of hundreds of sailors flowed, wavering and lingering on the busy sea-side streets of the Bilgewater Bay.

His enamoured gawking at the whipped cream-looking clouds did not last long: Ermis, the older boy, called after him.

“The sky isn't going anywhere, you know!” he shouted across the street, to which Tobias, annoyed, waved him away quickly. “I’ll tell the headman on you, if you don't come back right now!”

Ermis shook the citrus-filled crate in his hands for emphasis. Tobias frowned, but rose up from where he was sitting, grumpily marching towards their stand. He held his nose high as he tore the crate away from Ermis’s hands with distaste and dropped it on the counter.

“You be careful there with the merchandise!” The headman shook his fist at them as he kept unloading the rest of the boxes from their boats. A couple of adults, including Marina, helped him carry the goods towards the stand. Preparing for the rush hours. There was an Ionian woman with glowing tattoos, also a merchant, by Marina’s side, who used magic to help with the heaviest barrels.

Her inclusion into the process stirred a strange, pulling pain behind the cage of his chest, so he chose to distract himself. “I heard you the first ten times,” Tobias mumbled as he sorted out the fruits, separating the ones that went bad during their long seafaring journey from the few still fresh and juicy ones. Unfortunately, some were moldy, which meant the entire crate was no good now – an awful loss, considering this year was already poor in harvest. They were not going to sell a lot this time. Another year spent without new equipment, then. Another year…

The other kids, all older than him, helped with setting the support beams and the overhead canopies with brightly colored patterns. Some were busy with the products, just like Tobias: the children were digging in the barrels, trying to get the salted and dried freshwater fish ready for the display. The stink almost made Tobias throw up again. Especially when they started unloading the pickled kelp.

They were working all as one, running up and down, all occupying themselves with whatever tasks at hand, and Tobias kept glancing around, vigilant and at the same time bored out of his mind. After only a few minutes, an insistent noise distracted him. The flies started to buzz around as he had found a corner of the crate where the fruits were downright rotten. Tobias slammed the lid back on, and heaved – disgusting, disgusting sight, the smell, the sensation of even touching one of those squished, soft pulps spilled out of their peel– he shuddered and kept the nausea at bay with a closed fist in his mouth. Ermis noticed, and scoffed.

“What, our little magician doesn't want to do the work now?” Tobias sharply clicked his tongue. “You thought we’re here for a vacation? You want Bilgewater, you have to work. Those are the rules.”

“They are stupid rules,” Tobias’ braids shook with his head.

“You’re not even doing anything!” the older kid rolled his eyes, “you only have to sort out the fruits, meanwhile we’re here straining our backs to get this entire store up and running! Do you want to haul the beams yourself, then?”

“...No, I can't lift them,” Tobias winced. Ermis was persistent:

“Or do you want to prepare the fish for the market? Some salted offal?”

“No!” Tobias barked at him. Even picturing his hands touching those scaly, bony little sprats, with their beady little dead eyes staring up back at him was enough to send a bolt of disgust through his body. Last time, the fish was handed to him in heaps. Never again.

“Then do what you can do to help us! Go and be useful with your cards for once!”

“I can–”

“And no gambling!”

With that, he threw his hands up in defeat, and with a frustrated mumble, “this Felix!”, went on to help unload the rest of the barrels.

Maybe he simply wasn't cut out for this part of a merchant’s life, setting up the store and such. What bad could one single day of roaming around do , Tobias thought as he looked the place all over. The street stared back at him: this bustling corner was now also filled with sailors and pirates pointing, scowling. Tobias noticed how all the adults worked, as if blind to the blatant staring. Only Marina occasionally glared at the crowd, but in a subtle, controlled manner. Bold, and yet with fear at the same time.

The cards in his pocket shivered: they wanted out, just as he did. He let go of the wooden counter and dove into the mess that was the back of their store, where everyone kept rushing back and forth from the boats to their respective storefronts.

Luck smiled at the boy as he found who he was looking for – a girl, Hester, his little cousin and the only kid here younger than him, was helping with tying the dried fish to the strings.

“Hester!” He greeted her. She was sitting on a box, trying to figure out how to tie a bow. “How are you?”

“Good. Trying to help mom,” she cautiously shrugged.

“Do you like it here?” he asked.

“Not really,” she held up the tangled string, like it was a festive garland. Tobias, unamused, smiled tightly.

“Looks good,” he lied, “you’ve been sitting here for hours now, don't you wanna go outside?”

“It’s too windy,” she turned around a few times, eyes going all over the colorful canopy, the great puffed out sails of a mighty ship.

“You know what I mean!” Tobias argued. “How about I give you a silver kraken, and you go out there, take that crate on the counter by Ermis’s side, and sort it out? Don't touch the one on the left, though, it’s gone bad.”

After a beat of silence, Hester kicked her legs. “Are you leaving because of your magic?”

“What?”

“Mom says you skip work to hurt people with your cards.”

“Again with this… Let me guess, you’re also not supposed to talk to me either, are you?” He rolled his eyes.

“Yes!” Her eyes were wide as saucers, and she gasped conspiratorially, “did your cards tell you that?”

“M-hm,” he lied again, humming, “anyway, you in?”

“Mom’ll be mad,” Hester whispered.

“No, she won't,” assured her Tobias, smiling like a shark, “‘cause if you do it, I’m giving you two krakens.”

“Okay,” she jumped off her seat, the strings of perch entirely forgotten. Tobias waved her goodbye. He snuck behind the boxes, lifted the canopy up just high enough and slipped out of their store. Out of sight, out of mind.

Finally. 

He had the city to himself. The city of adventurers, explorers, thieves, murderers… and mages, too.

On his chest pocket, the one his grandpa had once sewn, he put a grateful hand, feeling his playing cards buzz with shared excitement.

~*~

A bright idea lit up in his head as he watched the older kids catch fish, reeling in their weighted nets. The process looked repetitive – throw the net, then slowly keep reeling, careful not to graze through rocks or branches. Tobias stumbled up to his feet, clumsily catching his balance as he took a few unsure wobbly steps. One, two, three – he fell back down again on the sandy shore. He checked for his grandpa: the old man was talking to that woman with a round, serious face.

Eventually, after raking his fingers through sand for a minute or two, Tobias crawled towards the older children. His excitement escaped with laughter in advance. One girl, with bright, shiny beads in her hair smiled back at him.

“What'cha doing there, Tobias?” the fisher asked, amused, as she kept pulling on the net.

He made a bubbly noise. The girl's brother, a boy with a golden hair clasp in his braid, turned to him as well.

“Ah, the mage baby,” he smiled.

“The ‘mage baby’?” repeated his surprised sister.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure. And he's a Felix, too, he's the son of–” the boy gestured vaguely at the river, looking at Tobias with sad eyes, “you remember, those thunderstorms–”

“O-oh, I see,” the girl nodded. “How’d you know he's a mage, though?”

“Ermis told me his eyes glow blue when he cries.”

“Ha! Ermis says nonsense all the time! Next thing you know, he’ll tell you the moon is made out of cheese and we can't see it during the day because mice eat it at night! Tobias doesn’t look like a mage to me.”

“Well yeah, because he's a mage baby ,” he lightly scolded her and finally turned back to Tobias, who had been trying and failing to stand up again at least two times in a row. “Interested in fishing with us?”

Tobias eagerly nodded. He had just the solution to speed up this long, tiring process.

He held up a card he snuck away while his grandpa wasn’t looking – a red one. They needed a lot of fish at once, right?

The curious children watched him wind up his arm as far as he could – which was not far at all, actually – and the burning card landed right by their feet.

The resulting explosion scared both of the siblings away.

~*~

Would there be at least one damn bar willing to let him stay long enough for a big stakes game?

Tobias grit his teeth as he hugged the deck close to his chest – he'd been hopping from place to place, one poker table to the other, Krakenhand, blackjack, too, Mudtown Hold ‘Em as well, and his gold pouch was filled to the brim. The jingle of the coins dispelled the angry cloud in his mind every time he made an especially lengthy jump forward.

He had a good catch today, but his mood was nonetheless sour. What made him mad was the attitude of the players – especially with Pilties or Noxians at the table. One of them even asked Tobias if he knew how to read . What a joy it was to watch their faces fall into despair after they lost to a child!

Tobias hated them, and their words, and their mean glances, more than anything.

There was something about the way they held themselves. They assumed higher ground with every play of the phrase, with their appearances, too: gemstone traces even on the inseams glittered with exuberance.

They were all liars.

And those who lied the most were the richest.

Most frustrating of all was how their foulness reflected in their style – outfits designed and fitted for those high-class thieves. Clad in their radiant like the high noon sun shirts, they pushed the little boy down when he wanted to go up.

And their vests, and their embroidered jackets…

Even their boots.

Tobias almost stopped running completely when this particular thought caught up with him. Oh, the boots, the boots! Maybe in all other ways the moneybags were horribly snobbish, and yet, the older Pilties at the table had practical, good shoes, fit for travel, made from the shiniest leather Tobias had ever seen.

So different from his own canvas shoes, with smoothed soles. Maybe he could buy a better pair, with all his winnings? This idea sparked up like a peat fire, and Tobias ran through the busy streets and alleyways with renewed vigor.

Turning the idea over, like it was a delicious omelette on a sizzling pan, he gleamed with a hungry sort of excitement, with a spring in his steps, he ran through the packed streets of central Bilgewater. Oh, good boots, maybe up to his knees, to protect from the muddy waters by the riverbanks. With ornaments on the leather, with strong stitches. Polished until he could see his own reflection. Those boots on that Piltovan man. Those exact boots.

He wandered freely until a certain moment, when the crowd became one big mass, right as he turned closer to the other market with guns and bullets, swords and sabers. His small frame was shoved side to side by the bumbling pirates; no one noticed the small boy wading through the rare openings between the huge, jaded bodies of the seafarers, like a dinghy maneuvering through a fleet of barques. A pickpocket paradise, Tobias distantly thought, but now the mass was suffocating, drowning him – an obstacle rather than a fortune.

A stray narrow alley came to the rescue: he snuck away with the speed of a street cat, and kept running with a full grin on his happily sly face. Two, three more wins, and he would hit a jackpot. His grandpa would be so happy to see a new pair of boots that he had earned by using his own wits. Maybe even ten more wins, and he’d buy new clothes for Hester, too. He’d help his family in the best way, practical way. His hands would dive into piles of gold, gemstones would adore his every knuckle, and all would look at the rings surrounding his every finger and cry in unison, how wrong they were to doubt him! Yes, he was going to win and trick those stupid, arrogant fat cats in the dim bars, he'd win, get rich like a king, on the top, as it was the only place where he'd finally be–

A crash, and the fantasy shattered and fell on the ground together with Tobias. He was barely fast enough to put his hands in the front, not to fall nose first on the cobblestone pavement. Scratched palms and knees made him hiss. Some of his cards, knocked out from his grasp, laid scattered, and trembled in confusion. Tobias coughed the dust out of his lungs and snapped his neck to look with pure venom at the dunce who ran him over.

“Watch where you’re going, moron!” said both the street urchin and Tobias in unison.

The street urchin was a boy, one or two years older than him, with short, cut hair. He was the second type of Bilgewater kids: the type that lived despite the world. Tobias angrily watched him shake the clumps of dirt off like a dog.

“What, you’re trying to start somethin’, huh?” The other boy readily jumped back on his feet, his palms balled up into fists.

“I don't talk to thick-headed rams,” Tobias scoffed and reached down to his whimpering cards.

A silent moment had passed. Tobias sat on the ground, re-counting his cards, murmuring their number under his breath. Strangely, the other boy said nothing at all – just stood there like a mutt, watching him reshuffle the deck. Tobias threw another angry glance.

“I like your–” the boy started, but a sudden yell from the side of the alley where Tobias just came from absorbed his attention.

“Come on, we’re gonna be late!” the other boys called after him, “come on!”

“Last ship to Shurima this week!”

“Why bother with him?! Go! He’s bein’ a chicken!”

“Come on, Mal!”

And the boy followed his gang, with one final, confused turn at the long haired boy. Tobias returned the look with an irritated scowl. 

After a few seconds, he checked again, to make sure the boys wouldn't suddenly decide to pick on him, after seeing him fall on the ground with a single push.

And once the coast was clear, he stood up, tucked the cards closer to his heart, and kept on going.

~*~

Hester danced in front of a mirror, happily jumping in place with a wide smile shining on her face – every time she moved, the blue summer dress with embroidered daisies on it swirled with her. She laughed, ringed with pure joy, and from all her excited hopping the boat rocked slightly. Tobias looked proud, with his hands crossed in front of his chest, nonchalantly standing by the mirror and nodding every time Hester laughed.

“It’s so pretty!” she said with awe, “Tobias, thank you!”

“You are quite welcome,” he smirked while Hester preoccupied herself with trying to count all the daisies. Ermis rolled his eyes. “What?” Tobias retorted, “what, is it suddenly bad that I gave her a present?”

“It’s not about the dress, you know it,” Ermis shook his head, “it’s about the money you bought it with. The dirty money.”

Tobias let out a very sharp, very mean chuckle that even Hester looked at him incredulously, not to say anything about the way Ermis’s eyebrows immediately shot up.

“There’s no such thing as dirty money,” Tobias stated as if it was commonly accepted knowledge, “it’s just money. Who cares, anyway? The dress looks pretty.”

“I care! Everyone here cares!” Ermis raised his hands up in the air, “don’t you ever listen? This sort of money does no good! Only the opposite! We have a legitimate business going on, and messing with– with stuff like the black market–”

“Ooh, the scary dress with daisies that I bought on the black market, ooh,” Tobias mocked.

“Can you take this seriously for one moment?! I just told you that it’s not about the dress, it looks nice, but this money you won comes from some really, really bad, and really powerful people that we do not want to mess with, or else we’ll all be fish food!”

“So you admit it looks nice.”

“How many times, it’s not about–”

“But it is,” insisted Tobias, “it is. It’s better than the rags she was wearing before, anyway.”

The room fell silent. Ermis, in disbelief, opened and closed his mouth, at a loss of words.

“You were thinking that,” Tobias squinted, “we’re all thinking that. We’re poor. We don’t have anything good.”

“Her dress was a gift. Hand-crafted, piece by piece. My grandmother weaved the strings for it. My uncle made the dye.”

The realization that he had never even considered all this effort clashed with the defensive  embarrassment in Tobias, and as a result he simply stared into nothing, waging the war in his head with a fallen expression.

“I think those people you play with have a bad influence on you,” Ermis guessed.

“No!” Tobias suddenly shouted, unsure to why exactly he was so angry. This was an issue that would be easier to resolve, if only he was older, and more sure of himself. “I mean, I mean, yes, they are bad people, but that’s the point! I fool them, I win! It’s different. They’re not an ‘influence’. I just wanted to give her a gift! Her last dress was so old, anyway!”

“Tobias… Don’t be angry at us for the anger they have for you ,” softly said Ermis.

“I’m not–”

The boys heard a hiccup – and turned to crying Hester.

“My– my dad s-sewed me that dress…” she stared at the floor, her tiny hands in trembling fists. “The one with the– the snakes on– on the…”

“Oh, Hester…”

She sobbed, and Ermis hugged her tightly as she clung to the embrace. 

Tobias’ lip quivered. Before Ermis could turn back to him, Tobias lifted the curtains of the entrance up and hopped off the boat right onto the sand of the shore.

Ermis called for him. Probably to scold him.

You hurt people with your cards.

He didn’t.

He desperately wanted to tell them all that he didn’t. They’ll see, one day. He can do good, too.

~*~

“Get back here!”

This was as if one of his repeating nightmares: water kept rushing in through the shotgun bullet holes peppering the heavily damaged hull of the ship, and there was no way out. Like two ship rats, they were cornered, trapped on the lower cargo hold, below the waterline. Tobias refused to die here. Enclosed, and underwater. So he ran.

The water seeped into his boots, and every step felt heavier and heavier, the more water rushed in. The corpses on the ground, shot to an unrecognizable state, bled out, dark red ribbons coiling under the upset surface.

Another explosion rocked the ship. Tobias slipped, and heaved as he took a mouthful of saltwater. Limbs shaking, he scrambled back up, clawing into the crates and barrels.

“We can fight! We can fight back!” Graves’ voice sounded so tiny underneath the roaring cannon fire and shouts of those ruthless bounty hunters on the deck right above them, “Stop running! We can show ‘em!”

“We will die! Malcolm!” Tobias cried back, “don't you understand!?” shipwrecked, cold, soaking wet, and scared out of his mind, he clung to his last card, “there's nothing we can do! Fightin’ them means death! And I ain’t dyin’ here… Malcolm, there’s nothing… I can’t. I can’t stay.”

Graves lowered his gaze to the bright blue light in Tobias' hands. Confused, he stared at Tobias. Numb, he mouthed his name.

Malcolm had blue eyes. Serpentine blue.

Tobias would never forget them as long as he lived.

~*~

“You will make a fine merchant one day, my boy.”

“But I don't want to be a merchant, grandpa. They hate me there.”

“Our headman only acts tough, but he's all bark, no bite – don't mind him.”

His frail old hand shakily reached for the cup by his side. Tobias rushed to help him, to hold the cup as the bearded man made a few laborious gulps and winced – it hurt his throat to drink.

“I’m not talking ‘bout our headman. Well, not really,” Tobias clarified, “I mean the sailors. The moneybags. I don't like how they look at me, or talk about me, or to me,” his hands trembled with rage, “the grown-ups say I just have to get used to it, for our business. I don't want to. I refuse.”

A laugh turned into a wet cough, “oh, my boy, if only this choice was up to us.”

“It is!” The boy cried, carefully placing the cup back, “it is up to us! We can fight, we can show them–”

“Who do you want to be, if not a merchant?” his grandpa suddenly interrupted him. “As a merchant, you will travel far, far and wide. All you have to do is count the loot, and charm the people, what an easy life!” He then went into a fit of a cough, struggling to get a word out.

Tobias did not answer. This was, in fact, the best he could do in life, given all the circumstances. But the problem wasn't the profession – the problem was how much more was expected from him, more than from any other merchant in Bilgewater, and especially outside of that melting pot, in other nations.

Worse, even home never felt like one. Who did he have here? Who would care for him, when his grandpa died? His aunts, uncles, cousins? He saw the confusion on their faces. No one wanted to talk about his abilities. What a strange way of thinking: they never cared for mages from afar, they had deals in Bilgewater with magicborns from Ionia, Shurima... But as soon as it was Tobias, here, in their home, as soon as they saw his cards, suddenly it was an entirely different story. They didn't understand. No one wanted to stay with him, when he was present.

No one remembered him when he was absent, either.

“Grandpa, how do you have these cards?” he finally asked.

The old man sighed deeply, looked back at his grandchild with tears stuck on his lashes. And spoke in a hoarse, pained voice.

“There were different times, once. So long ago… These cards were a gift to my grandfather. Yes, yes, I still remember… When I was your age. We had people visiting us, asking us for help. But there were those who confused fate seers with fate weavers – and we all paid a terrible price for this confusion. Still, I… I always thought it was wrong to abandon our past. It was never our fault to begin with. We were… we are not responsible for their hatred. We are not responsible for their words, and their thoughts. I wish the headman realized this. The past can scare some people into coming to the wrong conclusions. To see life in a different light. To make unfair decisions. To jump at their own shadows. I…” Tobias’ heart palpated – this sounded like a deathbed confession. “I’m sorry I didn’t do more. I should’ve… Should’ve convinced them. Should’ve tried. My dear boy… Oh, how history repeats – and again we leave our children at the mercy of a cruel world!.. How I hope you’ll live a good life, despite my failures!”

Thinking about this future only made Tobias realize how terrified,

and utterly alone he was.

~*~

O carry my body, the bones that are old,

Come hither in silence, come sit in the boat,

And tell me your fortunes, your futures foretold,

O Serpentine mother, let me gently float.

“He was a very kind man, Tobias. We will all miss him.”

“You won't. I know you won't.”

~*~

This was a snake’s den, he realized as the final pile of gold landed heavily on the green velvet table.

“All in,” wheezed the ancient, ashen-gray bearded man, chewing a fat cigar. Smoke circled him, as if he was a mountain piercing the clouds. The collar of his suit was unbuttoned, and beer stains colored his white shirt yellow.

The dealer neatly rearranged their betting pool with a thin stick. A fish lady in a violet dress smiled down at her cards.

M-hm. She has two pairs. Tobias blinked the blue light away, not to spoil the fun too soon. 

“Hey kid, are you still in this?”

Tobias turned to see his opponent of the last few rounds – a Piltovan boy, a teenager chewing on tobacco gum, with his traders suit worn loosely in the summer heat of the pirate city. He had golden hair, shiny like the coin that danced between his knuckles. His eyes couldn’t settle on being one color, and kept switching from black to green to blue – the other boy was a mage, too.

“Yes, I’m still in this,” Tobias answered in the common tongue.

“That's very good, I thought you’d be out of the first round already,” the boy smiled, “but if I were you, I’d give up after this one. Cash out and take what you can – some big sharks will join in, the longer they see you play. Kinda bruises their ego, to see a child win.”

“That's the plan,” Tobias smiled back, “I want a big payout. I’ll be here till the sun goes down.”

“You’re that poor?”

“Excuse me?”

Chuckles, all across the table.

He couldn't keep his poker face – the polite smile slipped, and Tobias looked lost between the adults at the table. So terribly small, and highly conscious of his legs not reaching the floor.

“Poor,” repeated the Piltie, “as in, you really need this money. I mean, we can tell, there's no shame in it, everyone struggles in this life, everyone earns their bread however they can,” he nodded at others at the table. They nodded back in understanding, barely biting back their haughtily laughs. “You’re from the Serpentine, correct? From those fish sellers? You sell some exotic fruits, too, or whatever. Those guys?”

“...yes,” Tobias said quietly. The cards kept murmuring in reassurance, but he couldn't hear them underneath the noises of the saloon: the singing barmaids and the ringing pints.

“No shame, no shame at all,” he raised his hands up in mock defense, “just wondering how you’re the first river person I’ve seen actually playing the game. Really weird, I assumed I’d see more, when I came here. Y’know, you guys are famous for your card tricks.”

“Oh are we?” Tobias sarcastically asked, but he knew the answer, and the answer was ‘yes’. In truth, cartomancy was a lost art, and whatever distorted version the Piltie was thinking of definitely didn't come even close to reality.

The magic that ‘only brought sorrows’, as the headman kept repeating over and over, like a cuckoo clock. Plus, gambling was strictly prohibited, as was alcohol: these rules went back generations.

“Of course! And how great it is to see those skills in action! You know, people like us should stick together. And I heard your kind of mages can curse people using simple playing cards. Don't you curse me if I win!” He teased, and Tobias cringed.

“I.. won't?” He’d never heard grandpa even mention any curses of this sort.

Everyone laughed again. Tobias still didn’t get the joke.

“How did you learn this?” the golden boy’s eyes turned dark brown when he pointed at a burning red dagger painted on one of Tobias’ cards. He lit it up earlier, a little party trick to impress the Piltie teenager, “I mean, if your people don’t play cards... Did you learn this yourself?”

“Well…” Tobias sheepishly looked aside. He didn’t want to tell them too much, “Well, yeah, I learned this myself.”

“How impressive!” the Piltie gasped. “Ain’t that something?” He addressed the table. They agreed with polite nods.

“Listen, I don’t usually say this, but you really are special. You deserve better than… this,” the teenager gestured at Tobias, “If you win, you should ditch those rags, and invest in some… normal clothes.”

Normal clothes?.. He attempted to discreetly look himself over. Then compared with the other boy.

Piltovan gold, Ionian silk, Noxian leather and steel… and everyone else at the table were in their evening suits, evening gowns, smoking Shurimian cigars and cigarettes, the entire room was filled with a disgusting smoke that accumulated under the ceiling. Gents and dames were wearing rings, bracelets, pearly necklaces. Drinking aged wine, sweet cider and soft beer.

Tobias shifted in his seat.

For some reason, he felt ashamed.

He’d show them. He’d get the last laugh.

~*~

The boats were burning.

The river was on fire – flames roared and whistled in the darkness. Tobias watched the masts fall onto the water, shattering like glass on impact – the pillars of fire, bright against the clouded night sky, were drowning out the cries. The wood turned into charcoal. The wind picked up the flaky ashes in a thick, dense smog. The silhouettes of the bandits danced with their elongated shadows on the shores.

He stood alone. A little mage boy who brought death into his home.

Tobias covered his ears. Bright blue kept peering through his eyelids, and he desperately wished to close them.

There was something morbidly ironic in the fact that he couldn't.

~*~

The Eye opened years later.

Those fires were still burning.

~*~

The dim little room had a cozy corner, in the back, with the plush seats of a stranded table booth. The air, spoken into with hushed words, had a smell of woodland fires, the certain mark of an innkeepers' defence from winter – a constantly burning fireplace.

Kolt twirled her revolver lazily, with one bony finger. Swishing, she set a hypnotising rhythm of up, and down, and up again. The metal clicked in satisfaction on every second beat. 

A soft noise hung in the air between the bar and the table. A hum, and tender words in a language no one at the table could understand. The first song of the spring, the dawn of a new life – a happy memory, fading away in moments where the words turned into mumbles, forgotten by their singer.

“What’s he doing?” Kolt asked her companions.

‘The Brick’ took a sip of his ale, pushing the escaping liquid from his lips back into his mouth with his large webbed palm. “No idea. Meditating? Who knows. You know what he’s doing?”

He nudged the silent figure by his side. Wallach shrugged, and the Brick immediately lost interest. He gulped down the rest of his drink.

“I think ‘s some sort of a holiday today. He told me last week,” explained Graves as he came back from the bar with two more pints. Wallach grunted thankfully. “Don' mention it,” Malcolm shook his head. 

“A river folk’s holiday? What’s the occasion?” Kolt looked at the man sitting by himself at the bar.

The cards hovered above the surface of the counter under Tobias’ command. Malcolm caught a fleeting glimpse of the typical blue glow before he left for the table with the rest of the crew.

“Dunno. He doesn't like talkin’ ‘bout them,” Graves took a sip.

“But he still celebrates?” Kolt asked. The twirling came to a halt as she cocked her head interrogatively.

“Yeah. ‘s personal stuff, I don’ pry into it.”

“Wait, he doesn't even tell you about it?”

“Wha’s that supposed to mean?” Graves put the pint down.

“I thought he hated ‘em,” the Brick added, unhelpfully. “With how avoidant he is constantly. Last month, remember, the market? He turned as pale as a shark when he saw a girl selling those… uhh, those golden little fishies.”

“Perch,” Graves nodded. He grabbed the bowl filled with salted peanuts (to go with the ale) in front of Kolt, and shoved a handful in his mouth.

Kolt jokingly pointed her gun at him, but didn't stop his active thievery, “I don't think he hates them. More like, he's afraid, for some reason.”

“Tough family,” Malcolm’s words were muffled as he chewed loudly, “I get that.”

“It’s not that. He misses them dearly.”

Everybody turned to Wallach – they took a sip before continuing their thought.

“We can't understand what he's been through, but whatever it is, he is separated. Listen.”

That tenderness in the shivering voice, the notes collecting his mournful yearning like dewdrops in the twilight hours.

“Yeah,” agreed Malcolm, “Yeah, I hear what you're sayin’.”

“He still celebrates. Something has happened, but you can't take the birthplace from a man’s heart – childhood dreams often linger, and bring pain rather than inspire joy, especially if…”

“If one can't come back home anymore,” Kolt finished for them. Graves, thoughtful, gazed at Tobias’ hunched back – he looked so lonely there, at the bar. Keeping his distance from his only friends.

~*~

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn't know, I’m so sorry,” he hiccuped, and cried, and his face hurt – he curled up as his stomach churned and legs buckled from shaking so much.

“I’m sorry,” came out of his mouth with a gulp of tears. He nearly threw up from effort, the pain of guilt enveloping his voice, “I- I’m sorry.”

The cards, one by one, slid out of his weakening grip. Like leaves in the fall, before a long winter.

But the headman said nothing.

“I’m- I’m sorry.” His wet cheeks were freezing and wiping the tears away did not help in the slightest. His eyes and nose were red, and he sank to the ground, where he curled into himself, and every single tear he dropped was accompanied by a full body tremble.

“So I was right. You are your father's son, after all.”

“I’m sorry.”

Again, and again. 

Apologizing resolved nothing.

~*~

I don't want to be poor anymore.

I’m on a win streak. I’ll just win one more round. One more, and I will go. Just one.

Just one.

~*~

“I don't need you! I don't need you, or your boats, or your rules!”

His screams echoed in the valley, on the thin stripe threshold of the blooming dawn. The white, grieving sails, flapped under the wind, so far away one could mistake them for a flock of doves. Gold, green, silver foliage rippled across the shores – a farewell, a disappointed sigh of the river.

“I hate you!” the words scraped his throat, “I hate you! I don't need you! You’ll see, I’ll live on my own!” his rapid, terrified breathing deafened his own voice, “I won't ever need anyone in my life!

I won't need anyone at all!”

~*~

The clock struck twelve, like in a fairy tale – the giant hands synchronized, pointed up as if in prayer; the roar of each bell toll sheltered the running thieves from the prowling guards.

One heavy clang. Two. Then three.

A quick blue card waltzed between his skilled fingers.

Four. Five. Six.

Wallach signalled from above, from the opened panel to the clock’s gears and screws and bells and hammers. Brick took the gold-heavy bags. Kolt was outside, already on the roof under the set up zipline, impatiently pacing.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

Tobias looked back at Malcolm. The big man had a wild grin on his face – drunk on adrenaline and success. From the way his ocean blue eyes glittered, Tobias must've had the same crooked smile reddening his cheeks. They climbed into the clockwork mechanism together, through the maze of metallic stairs, up and up the giant clicking gears. As they stepped onto the biggest one, it made one sharp turn, making Tobias stumble for a moment. Graves, walking behind him, noticed.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve…

Malcolm took his hand.

~*~

Help me. Help me, someone. I beg you.

The metallic prison guard sliced his stomach while he was teleporting away. He was bleeding out, in a dirty alleyway behind a closed bar, under a trash container. Life flashed before his eyes, the lightless visions of youth. He couldn't come back.

Help me.

Please, anyone, help me.

~*~

There wasn't anyone left.

Only one witness remained for his penitence:

The man in the mirror.

He was so damn tired of watching his home burn. Maybe the issue was inside him all along.

This won't change anything, of course.

But he can shut it all up,

For as long as he can run.

~*~

The man took off his green jacket. One by one, he cut his unwashed braids up to his scalp with a rusty old pocket knife.

Then walked forward, like how he saw traitors walk the plank. 

With a quiver, his voice rang above the glass surface, alone in the dead stillness of the night:

“ Ooh carry my body… my bones that are old… ”

He walked and sang, until the waterline reached his throat.

The river hugged him tightly, like a mother greeting her wayward son.

With the final gulp of air, he submerged his wailing head.

No birdsongs. No ripples. All quiet.

Tobias Felix was gone.