Chapter 2

The silence was long and painful. Rye, Ash and Tark sat on the floor around their meal of sliced bread and seasoned water that Ash was trying to pass off as soup, the three of them barely eating. The less food they ate now, the more they could have later. Ash had been happy to see Rye come home, but he also hadn't said anything since Rye showed them the prize loaf he brought with him.

It was true that they wouldn't have been able to have such a luxury in more honest circumstances, but they lived in the Shadows, past the wall. Did anyone really expect them to abide by the same rules that those inside the wall still upheld? Besides, Tark was growing worse each day. He needed some good nutrition if he was going to live. Rye knew it and Ash knew it. What other options did they have.

Tark coughed tiredly from where he sat, but a warm smile crossed his face as he looked at Rye. "This is a good meal, Rye."

"Yes, it is," agreed Ash. "We're quite lucky to have such a feast."

Rye said nothing, but tried to force a small smile. Tark knows something. He always did. He looked at his soup and spooned a mouthful down, content to let the silence return.

"We really are," Tark said. "Tell me. How did we run into such luck? Hm?"

Looking into his eyes, Rye could see a glimmer dancing. He wasn't sure how, but Tark knew exactly what Rye had done to that merchant in the alley. He just wanted to get Rye to say it formally.

"Oh, um," began Rye, "you don't need to worry about that." Tark's glimmering eyes solidified to a knowledge. He might as well have confessed with that awkward attempt at a brush-off. Rye never could lie well. All he knew was how to fade away and carry himself with grace. He continued on, trying to sooth over his words and distract from the problem at hand. "I mean, you two have provided for me so long and so well. I just want to repay you."

Tark's long dark hair fell in front of his face as he looked down at those words. This is it, this is my chance. Rye started to fade again, allowing himself to become difficult to notice. The gift that he was born with, after he mastered it, allowed him to slip between others' levels of perception. A normal person was simply as notable as the people around wanted him to be. Someone like Rye could control how much attention others were able to give him. Some states required more attention to be in than others, and for Rye, his natural state was to be just under the radar. Still someone you could see and interact with, but easy to forget they were there.

"Rye, we never wanted you to feel like you owed us," started Tark. "We saw you and loved you. We can't have children of our own obviously," Ash's blond hair lay in front of his eyes as he gazed at Tark. "We just wanted-- Rye! Stop it." Tark broke into a light laughter as he realized that Rye was trying to throw him off his trail. He regained his composure, and Rye stopped fading. "You can't do this to us. We're your family. Have been for the past 15 years. Your thieving gift is not something you should be using on--"

Loud banging on the door cut off Tark's words. Rye looked back at Tark and Ash, then stood up to go see who was here. Before he could make it to the door, Daylyn Kellis opened the door and came crashing through. She was their neighbor that lived just below them in this old abandoned building.

"Daylyn?" said Ash. Her short brown hair stuck up in every direction, a sheen of sweat glistened on her face, and dark eyes looked around frantically. "What's wrong Daylyn?"

"We have someone! She came back! She returned! Oh it's horrible, the poor thing." Ash stood, speechless.

"You don't mean," began Tark. "We... Someone's returned from the haze?"

"Yes! It's the little girl who went missing a week ago." There was a brief pause of silence as everyone in the room thought about what was just said. Rye immediately faded to become unnoticeable. If someone has returned from the haze, there's no way Tark or Ash would willing let him go check on her. Especially if she was gone for a week. But if she survived in the haze for a week, Rye couldn't pass the opportunity to see her. He slipped pass Daylyn Kellis and made his way down the steps.

"A week..." said Tark at last, breaking the silence. He looked down at the half loaf of bread still left from dinner. "Here, Daylyn. Take this bread to the girl. She needs it more than we do." The excitement of the evening was wearing on Tark, leaving him without much energy. But he gathered up the rest of the loaf of bread, as well as his uneaten half piece he had with dinner, and tried to raise himself to his feet.

"Tark, we can't." said Ash.

"Ash. This is not a discussion. Someone is in need. We can't stand by." He turned to Daylyn, his legs starting to shake. Ash came to support him, and nodded his consent. Fearful though Ash was for Tark's health, this kind of offering was exactly what he loved most about his companion. Ash eased Tark back down onto a sitting mat, and took the bread.

With a deep breath, Ash gave away the food to Daylyn. "Please, Daylyn. Take this to her, to the girl. And let us know how her condition is faring."

"Of course, Ash. Thank you both so much." Daylyn turned and left in a hurry, closing the door behind her.

Ash sighed, turning back to Tark and the meal they had not finished. He started putting his soup away as Tark lay back with eyes closed, resting. Someone returning from the haze. The poor thing would be in such pain, physically, mentally, emotionally. If she recovered, she'd be unlucky. It would be better for her if she died. But it would be better for everyone else if she recovered, so they could learn anything from her.

A vague thought pricked and Ash's mind "Tark?"

"Mm?" he replied sleepily.

"Where's Rye?"

Tark furrowed his brow in confusion and opened his eyes. "Oh gods above." Looking around the empty room, he tried to remember exactly when Rye disappeared, but he couldn't be sure. With all the commotion and Rye's subtlety, he couldn't know when it was he left. "I think we'll be hearing about the girl from someone other than Day."

Chapter 1

The streets were crowded at this time of evening. People running errands, merchants and sellers, children playing in the streets. Rye raced past all of them, dodging between them with great balance and an unnatural lightness to his step. He ran straight down to the end of the market, starting to get within the streets of the old abandoned factories. Not slowing down, he turned left, then right, past people carrying fruits and clothing, zigzagging between parents on their way home for the day. With a loaf of bread in one hand a hunting knife in the other, Rye turned to see if he was still being followed.

The man chasing him had kept up. There he was, big and burly, barreling through the crowds, pushing people out of his way. He didn't run with the grace that Rye did, but he didn't fall behind either. Rye made a sharp right into an alley with a dead end. Time to use the gift that gods had bestowed upon him. He backed into the shadows near the entrance of the alley, stood facing the entrance, and waited with his knife poised and ready to fight.

Breathing heavily, the man following Rye stopped at the alley and looked in. He couldn't see Rye anywhere, yet he knew that he had followed him to the right place. "Come on out, you little thief!" shouted the man into the darkness. "I know you're here somewhere." Making his way into the shadows, he looked around, glazing right past Rye. "You gotta pay for what you take from me." Quietly, he added, "And if you can't pay in money, you can pay in blood."

Rye watched the man, his eyes gleaming. As a child, before he learned to control his gift, he resented that his presence was always overlooked. His own parents never seemed to notice when he was in a room. Now, though, he saw the gift it was, and was grateful that though this man was a mere three feet away, he was walking right past. The man walked deeper and deeper into the dead end alley, until he had unwittingly trapped himself. Rye silently stepped out, clutching his knife, and stalked up behind the man.

Growing weary and confused as he reached the end of the walkway, the man stopped. He was sure that Rye had come down this way, but his searching eyes found no trace of anyone with him. With a sigh of indignation, he turned back to the mouth of the alley, and found himself suddenly face to face with Rye. The knife in Rye's hand was coming out straight for the man's neck, and all he had time to do was lift his arms in defense.

The knife, long and sharp, slashed through the man's flesh and muscle with ease. It gave a deep cut from wrist down to elbow of the man's left arm. It would probably never heal properly. Crying out in pain and shock, the man brought his arm in close to his chest and cradled it with his remaining good arm. Looking up into Rye's big dark eyes, he saw his own horror mirrored back at him.

The man swung his good hand out and grabbed at Rye's neck, but Rye had taken a half step back, and escaped with just a scrape on his neck. The man stumbled forward as Rye blended back into the shadows, and the man lost track immediately of where his opponent was. Growing scared, the man searched frantically for Rye. Though he had only moved a step to the man's right, he looked right past him and failed to find any sign of life. Fear mounting, the man realized this would not be a battle he would win; how could he fight someone he couldn't track? Rye stepped forward and made a small slash across the man's right cheek. Bringing his hand up to cover the wound, the man stepped back, until he hit the wall. "Please," the man suddenly pleaded, looking around hopelessly. "Please!"

Rye looked down at the man. He didn't like torturing others; he didn't like causing pain for others. It was just the way of the world. With Ash and Tark back home to take care of, he couldn't afford to die here. He longed for the days of a higher civility, back inside the walls of the city with his real parents. But he was never going to be allowed back in there, and on some level he didn't care to go back. Life was more peaceful in there, but he felt more free out here. Except in moments like these, when the necessities of life lead him to brutality. Kill or be killed, yet he wasn't a murderer. He could not kill this man.

Without hesitating, Rye kneed the man in the gut and watched as he fell over, bracing himself for the death he was sure would come. Confident that he wouldn't be followed back now, Rye backed away, leaving the man injured and scared, but alive. Bread still in hand, he left the alley, walking calmly out onto the streets between the abandoned factories again, joining the hustle of everyone heading back to their homes.

He, however, didn't go home. He made his way back to the market, down past the merchants, and toward the river than ran through the middle of their town. He washed his blade off, and filled up his small water jug, then just sat by the river, watching the innocence of the children playing by the river as their parents worked in the market.

I don't enjoy hurting other, Rye thought to himself. But he wasn't so sure it was actually true. He learned long ago to control the gift that the gods had given him. He learned to walk silently, to blend into crowds, to be like a living ghost. They called his kind of people Shadows. Not impossible to see, but easy to look past, and difficult to notice. It was easy to let himself blend in all the time. He had to actively concentrate to become noticeable by others. Why, then, would he allow himself to be seen by the merchant that he stole the bread from? Why entice him into a fight he could not win?

As the evening grew cooler, the children gradually went inside. The streets started to grow quiet from the days' events, and they would only be quiet for a few moments before the night life started to grow. Rye got up and started to make his way back home as the sun set. He found his way back to the abandoned factories, and into the old sugar mill where he lived with the men who took him in after he was thrown out of the city.

Walking past the other families that lived here, and making his way to the top floor of the sugar mill's tower, Rye studied the bread he had taken. It was a nice loaf, dense and filled with nuts and seeds. They would eat well tonight. Briefly, Rye considered telling Ash and Tark what the price of their meal was. But after all they had done for him--giving him a place to sleep, raising him as if he was their own son, loving him like his real parents never had-- Rye couldn't burden them like that.

His secrets would be his own. His burdens were his alone to carry.