He lay in bed, shivering under the blanket. His thoughts were stuck racing in a circle, hopelessly. The bookkeeper's words stung him like a lash across the chest. All he had believed in was a lie and not even a useful one. If he had been led to believe his actions would have an impact on his fate, he would have been hurt, but somewhere deep within he would have been able to understand the twisted logic behind it and despise it. He would grumble but it would only be another torture of the keepers. But it seemed it had only been an oversight, words and rumors they had let roam wild. He could only blame himself for believing the whispers of the other kids. In time, they had grown inside him until they turned into certainties, fueled by his hope but with no other anchor in reality. It was a vicious circle. One boy would have been so certain, fooled himself so, that he would transmit that certainty to others, thus strengthening theirs.
Why did they dare hope that they had some control over their lives? Even that comparatively small choice of path. There had been nothing else along the way that they had control over. Maybe it was a stupid belief that it all had to mean something, that their mentors were wise in their ways and wouldn't waste efforts on someone if they thought him not suited for their future roles. Would they waste marking upon marking in teaching a boy who they knew would be rejected, sent back down into nothingness? All based on their fate, written down on a ledger? But how did they determine it, if not by seeing which path suited someone?
He had bounced that question around his head for hours and it always brought him back to the same place: the other Leash number he had found related to his own. There had been two, but he had only had time to check one. It didn't refer to him. So if it was indeed a Leash number, it would have to be someone with some relation to him. One of his makers. And he or she had escaped. Had killed, and stolen. He couldn't understand it or believe it fully. If blood like that flowed through his veins, did that mean he was capable of those things, too? His stomach turned at the thought. But even worse than that, did it mean his fate was tied to that other Leashed? Was he going to be rejected, cast down, because of what that other person had done?
It wasn't fair. He had made his peace with the unfairness of things a while back, but this was different. He had always thought his actions would impact his future somehow. And it turned out he would be judged by another's deeds, even though they had never met?
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
I have to get out of here.
The thought came to him with the force of a hammer. He had to get out. He not only wished it as he had countless nights. He needed to get out, or he would disappear completely. He wouldn't die, but he would cease to exist. There would be no more 'Brand', just a number and a mindless repetition of tasks. The few things he had been allowed to build and cherish would be destroyed. His vague memory of his mother, the voice that spoke to him preaching freedom, Rill...
Rill. I have to get her out too.
He knew it just as he had known his sense of self would die. Rill would too. She was too full of life to be ignored forever. They would strip her of everything that made her unique and turn her into a mindless follower. She had built a tiny shroud of freedom around her. They both had. He had to save her too, or the most vital part of him would vanish. They were bound to each other by a thread that could only be seen by that same dim light he saw now.
He gathered his resolve and made his trembling legs slide to the floor. It was only twenty steps or so to the door. He just had to make his way over there without waking anyone. The darkness was merely accentuated by a single shaft of dim torchlight coming from afar and piercing the room through a small opening high above in the wall. You couldn't see anything by that light, only glimpse volumes of shadows. It was enough to avoid the beds. He couldn't see the sleeping bodies, but he heard their breathing and the rustling of sheets as one or another turned in their cots. He detected the iron door handle by the way it reflected the dim light from above, just a tad brighter than the rest of the room.
The large, ancient wooden door was locked as always. But the trapdoor beneath it never was. It was the door they used to give them their food. As long as he had been there, one of the Chainkeepers had slid bowl after bowl of oats or rice or stew every day. And the way the boys sorted out who ate first and who ate last had been left to them to decide. It had happened organically, but over time the list had shifted regularly as kids fought each other sporadically, and the rest of the time they came to gauge each other's strength and, more importantly, will or desperation. The pecking order changed all the time, but in itself it was immutable. Brand had gone up and down its ladder, reaping the rewards of a fuller bowl or hearing the rumblings in his stomach when he was one of the last. It was another reminder of the unsubtle ways in which they were forced to hate each other.
They didn't bother to close that trapdoor nowadays simply because there was nowhere to go, and most kids were too big to fit through it anyway. Rill was the only one who came through it, but she had shown a way. It's just that the other kids had no place to go or the will to flee.
He slipped through it, into darkness.