A visitor

The cell is as you remember: dark and small. You lie on the cot, pondering your next move, when you hear steps and the sloshing of liquid.

"I...I've brought you some water." You recognize the guards voice.

"Thank you, Theor."

"I," he starts, "I never seen anything like that, miss."

"And you were worried." In truth, you were worried yourself. Not nearly as much as Theor—he thought it was hopeless—but you had your doubts. You know that if it weren't for Ser Terrowin's recklessness, you likely would have lost. If the battle were fair, you would have pierced his heart and cut his achilles. But he had plate. Then again though, he was a large man capable of wearing it. Truly, plate armor would have weighed you down. It's not that you were thankful for the leather, you'd much of preferred chainmail, but if you had been wearing plate, you would have certainly been beaten.

Theor stood patiently as you reflected, too nervous to speak up.
"You were there?" you ask him.

"Ye—yes. I was there for the combat. I...you were amazing."

"You're too kind. If I had fought so amazingly I wouldn't have a sore back now, would I?"

"Ser Terrowin had never lost a battle. The gods truly have found you innocent."

"Theor," you begin, "I'm not innocent." The boy should see the world for what it is. "I did all those things. Trial by combat is just a way to get out of it."

"That only means that the gods have forgiven you for your crimes."

"That's probably because it wasn't the gods I robbed," you joke. "There is no justice of the gods," you lecture him after a pause. "There is only the justice of man. If someone wrongs you, it is you that needs to take action. You cannot rely on others to make things right."

Theor appears to be in thought: his head slightly lowered and his face tightened. "I believe in the gods," he declares.

"I do too," you tell him. "They're why we all exist, but they do not change how we act. You're not nobility Theor—you're a guard. You must have seen countless prayers go unanswered in the slums."

"Well, I wasn't really poor—my father was a guard, and we had a home and food. But," he starts then goes quiet.

"But what, Theor? You can tell me—I will speak of it to no one. You can trust me," you assure him.

"Well...when my father died I was only eleven. It was hard then. My mum found work as a tavern wench. I'd always wait for her to come home each night. Sometimes she'd talk with me, and sometimes she'd just listen. And...other times she wouldn't do either. There was one time she didn't come home at all. I got no sleep that night. She came back the next morning with a blackened eye. I said nothing as she made me breakfast, and when she was done cooking, she went straight to her bed. A while later she gave birth to my sister. She told me it was from my father, but he had been dead for a year since." Theor audibly sniffs as he pauses, and you can see water on the tips of his lashes. "I knew what happened to her, and I knew it was my fault."

"It wasn't your fault, Theor. Do you think your mother would have wanted you to starve?"

"If I were older, I could've worked, she would have never been ****." He wipes at his eyes. "She'd still be alive."

"She died giving birth?"

"Aye—a few days after," he answers.

"And what happened to your sister?"

"Oh, she's fine. She lives with me. Some priest here, Mathis his name. He's actually teaching her to read. Imagine that." Theor smiles now; he clearly cares for his younger sister.

"What's her name?"

"Anne—I named her myself."

"She sounds lovely," you tell him.

"Yeah. She's an adorable little thing.

"If you don't mind me asking," you start after a pause, "how'd your father die?"

"Bandits," he answers.

"And what did you do?"

"I wanted to kill 'em, but my mother stopped me. They hanged later—caught by guards."

"Is that why you became a guard?"

"No, I became a guard because my father was, and I needed money. I do love the job though. I get to help people."

"Have you always helped people as a guard?"

"Yeah—that's what guards do."

"Wasn't it guards that gave me leather instead of iron?"

"That was the judge though," he answers.

"Yes, but who carried out his orders?" Theor doesn't reply, stuck in his pondering. "When I was a little girl," you begin to tell him—he listens intently, "I was very poor. Poor and hungry. You see, my brother got himself killed in war, and mother was a whore with a drinking problem. I had very little in food or guidance. One day, when the pain of a few nights of starvation was at its worst, I decided to steal some bread. A guard caught me. He threatened to cut my hand off, but at the baker's pleas, the guard decided to be lenient. He pulled down my trousers and whipped me until I couldn't move. Then he left me, motionless on the dirt-covered ground. If I wasn't lying on my stomach, I could of caught an infection. I was only six years old, and a guard nearly beat me to **** because I was hungry and ****."

"I'm sorry he did that to you," Theor says, breaking the silence. "That was too cruel a punishment."

"It was," you agree. "It didn't stop me from trying again. I hadn't any idea where my mother had went, and I needed food. The second time, the baker caught me, only he didn't beat me, he fed me. A day later, a guard sat me down and told me my mother had died. He was very gentle, even let me cry into his chest."

"Theor, I tell you this for your own benefit: there is no good job—only good people. A baker can help people by baking them bread as you help them by protecting them from harm. Just as easily though, a baker could poison his goods, or a guard could **** a child. A bandit could kill a father, or steal for those who need it. Do you understand what I'm saying?" He nods.

"The world isn't a simple place," you tell him. "Those who appear good on the surface could be bad, as could a good person seem the opposite. And things will not just happen—the gods will not carry out justice—you have to."

"I think I understand, miss."

"You can call me Morgan."

"Thank you, Morgan. I've never told these things to anyone before. I..."

"Thank you for listening as well. Most would have threatened to shut me up. I'm glad you're my guard—you're a kind man." Theor blushes as he looks away, nervous. "Do you have water for me?"

"Oh, yeah, I forgot. Here," he says as he hands you the jug.

"Any news from the judge?"

"None," he answers. "Judge left right after you were taken away. You likely haven't heard the last of him though." Theor begins to back away. "I got to return to my post. I enjoyed talking with you."

"Please let me know if any news comes," you call out as Theor leaves.

You sit down in the cot and take a drink of water; there isn't much else for you to do but wait.