I had told my family everything. It would have been impossible to lie about it, anyways, with the sudden influx of wealth. My mother was quick in stopping me from detailing it all, leaving the room at her first opportunity, but my dad wanted more. Asked me for the play by play. He was less conflicted than the village elder, saying something like:

“If our taxes protect us form criminals like you, maybe we ought to stop paying them”.

He was nice, but what he kept to himself was obvious. His son was what those knights in shining armor hunt and despise, and he was not far from feeling the same way, I could tell. Can’t blame him, at least back then it didn’t affect me. I still lived off of that heist’s high. I’d daydream of that morning. Reading each merchant’s face, treading the line between being nice and pushing them to pay. Seeing them calculate their profit. Asking them to show me, to plug in the numbers right in front of me, acting as if I understood the rules they played by. Sometimes even reminding them of laws they hadn’t considered, ones others had just told me of a few shops back. Even gesturing towards guards just to intimidate them, wielding the authority I lacked like a thief’s dagger. I treasured those memories more than any before.

Now I was just a nameless young man from a nameless, poor village. Neither the signet nor the fancy clothes hidden in the only backpack in miles changed that. And so I continued the same life.

Our village lived through that winter and many after. The herd grew larger, the fields and pastures greener, and our ribs for once found a layer of skin thick enough to hide behind.

Matheus and I were forbidden by the elder from ever going to the market again. He spoke to the men who came with us that day. They were ashamed and, most of all, fearful we’d be found out and ruin it for everybody else. If any prying eyes looked our way, they thought, they’d wonder how the village of desperate, rotten men, that last decade had barely been able to feed themselves, grew so prosperous. I wasn’t worried. We are and always have been invisible for the city dwellers. The riches we boasted now were but a meal every day. Not enough to capture anyone’s envy, much less their attention.

But ever since that winter we were treated differently, Matheus and I. At first I did not realize. Yet it became clear when, as an egotistical child would, I proudly spoke about my one accomplishment in public. That night we were celebrating the birth of a girl and the topic of our newfound fortune came up. I mentioned how glad I was that the plan of Matheus and I worked, getting us another year.

“That was more than we deserved.” I was told by a middle-aged man.

The jovial harmony of the festivity turned tense. Shame, that’s what I saw in that man’s eyes. He wasn’t the only one. Most eyes turned away from me, like they were incapable of looking at their sins in living form. They truly believed their families did not deserve those meals. That they had to earn it themselves.

Were they wrong? No. Back then I saw some truth to that ideal. If anything, I think that belief was what pushed the village into that miniature golden age. Not only being gifted another spring, but also the feeling of not deserving it. Everyone pushed themselves further, worked harder, their bodies became toned and tan by spending all day at the fields, even when sowing had long since stopped. How many times did I see them squatting down there, underneath the summer sun, seeking a weed to pull out. "Honest work" they called it. It was not, it was self-inflicted retribution.

Their penitence, although puzzling, I respected. Matheus’ punishment I did not. They simply ignored him, not hearing a word out of his mouth, treating him like everyone’s inferior. The old ones kept telling him to do the most menial work they could find, surely to make him feel even more useless than he already did.

“Nobody needs to clean the cow’s teeth!” I would tell him. “They are just finding reasons to torment you.”

He said nothing. Kept his head down, brushing them with his own clothes. I couldn’t teach him not to care about what they said, although I did try. Growing a spine is something only accomplished by oneself. I couldn't help.

And so I lived a few more years. I was older, grew taller than my parents, because of the amount of food I was eating surely, and also better built to withstand the labor at the rice farms. But there was no joy. That high wore off long ago. Honestly, I don’t think I had ever been happy before that one winter. Or, during those days, since. The only moments I had a “reason to be”, something I was good at, something that stirred my heart with passion, was when I conned that market square. And I wanted to feel alive again.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

I told my parents that I was going to leave, mentioned some close-by town. That I was “looking for opportunities” to “make someone of myself”. They caved in with no opposition, excited I finally had some goal in mind. If there was anyone that had seen a little past that smiling mask of mine, it was them. I’m sure they were relieved by the initiative. I acted excited too, by now I was too used to it. The way I had read the merchants all those years ago became intrinsic. That skill of insight, reading what other people wanted and expected, became unconscious. At first, it was a teen practicing to sound like a taxman but, by the time I was an adult, those perfectly crafted smiles were a habit I couldn’t break. I had gotten better at telling what others wanted and, because of it, I became it. Speaking to others my age, forcing others to enjoy a company that wasn’t really there, it was once practice. Now it was who I was. They’d invite me to eat at their home, sneak to drink the fermenting grapes they kept hidden in a tree. One of them told me I was their “best friend” and I can’t even remember their face or their name.

I felt awful, like I was lying to them. I’ve thought about it, and I’m sure I was scared of them knowing what I’d done. Acting all high and mighty with Matheus was easy but forgiving myself was something else. The words of those old men swayed me, even when I kept telling myself they had not. But, honestly? I wondered if, had I known how happy it would make me feel, had my parents and my friends enough food to last that winter. I wondered if I would have done that hit regardless.

Sorry, I’m rambling. Where was I…

My parents agreed and I left the week after. Promising I’d return if things went bad or once a year if things went well.

My family gave me some of the copper coins they had saved up, enough to eat for a few days on the road. I had some savings of my own, still, so I decided to wander. Having a reputation preceding me both in my village and, possibly, the nearby town would tamper my plans, or even a simple and honest life. So, on a whim, I decided to go towards the sea. Troubadours had sung of its beauty back at the market square, of the way the dazzling setting sun reflects on the horizon. May as well check it out, I thought, never seen it before.

Eventually, I found my way walking by a tremendous road, bigger than any I’d seen before. By the time my legs were giving out for the day a passing cart gave me a ride, saving me time and pain. I offered the wrinkly man a couple of copper for his trouble, but he declined. His patched up clothes and worn out face made it clear to he wasn't shitting gold, so I just tossed the coins on the cart, by the bags of peas and bundles of sugarcane I sat next to.

“I’m on my way to Havenport, kid. You?” The man asked with an accent I couldn't recognize.

“Is that where the sea is?” I asked.

“Yes indeed, son.”

“Then sure.”

For some reason I cannot fathom still, his short response comforted me. The rest of the ride was silent, but I was enthused like never before. I looked up, following the blue clouds crossing the firmament, hooves rhythmically hitting the dirt road as the only background. I felt calm, a calmness I didn’t know was possible. Content. I was not attempting to strategize so my mother ate that night, or trying stop my dad from fighting any old fart who had a snarky comment towards me. I was simply there, back against the floor, and eyes to the skies. That was enough, for now.

Eventually, we arrived to the city gates. The entrance was small, and the guards gave us little trouble. The old man did mention I was simply a traveler he picked up from the road, just in case I brought in some problems. I didn’t mind, if anything now I know to do the same if I ever give a traveler a ride. Good guy.

It was the end of the afternoon when I saw the sea for the first time, sunset and all. To be honest, it wasn’t as great as I thought. If I was to sing about anything, it would be the starry night just after. I sat down, looking at it, thinking of the life I’ve lived, until the guards told me to get moving and find somewhere to sleep.

I settled quickly, inside the room of a small tavern by the port. Any work I found was good enough for now, even manual labor. My body was hardened somewhat thanks to my peasant roots, so few things stopped me from carrying heavy objects or whatever else would be of use. Fishermen and sailors saw in me a suitable assistant. They’d pay me to unload barrels and crates from boats and ships for the entire day.

That honest life... It isn't for me.

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Now I sit in the small room I call mine, at least until I can't pay the fee. Business is booming and my back hurts like hell because of it, but it means I’ve found everything I needed: A place to live and an honest job. It’s nowhere near enough to pay for my stay here indefinitely. My savings will dwindle in a month or so if things go on this way. But that is not the plan, so it’s alright.

I wanted something mindless, something I could do whilst keeping an eye out and an ear ready to listen. Unloading cargo is exactly that, a work where gossip and trade is all around you. Here I could start listening when people think I’m suffering, and do both instead of just the latter.

And so I bide my time. Any day now, another opportunity will arise. I don’t even care where it takes me, or what the risks are, I will take the first good one that comes my way and go for it with all I’ve got. I’ve done it once before, what’s another time?

All of these thoughts happen as I rummage through my backpack, my only belongings, looking to drop the few copper pieces I saved today.

Ah. I can't find those good looking clothes... The ones from that winter...

Ah. I'm missing some money…

An exasperated sigh escapes me. The loaded words of those old farts back home echo in my mind. So this is how it feels, huh?

Now I only have enough silver for a little more than a week. I meant to sell those noble looking clothes too, maybe get a gold for them. Guess the next opportunity doesn’t have to be a good one. Anything will work.

Time to sleep.