Dragon Knights Fan Fiction ❯ Twenty Themes ❯ Haunting Past ( Chapter 14 )

Warnings: no pairings, your past is what moulds you

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The ghosts of everything I've ever done stand over my left shoulder. They watch, sometimes commenting, sometimes only making their presence known with their looming disapproval. They're stupid; rooted in the past, their viewpoints can never change. They can't understand, even when I explain slowly, that what I've done isn't that bad.

They think he cared. They think that I broke his little heart the day I ran off and left him penniless. That ghost is closest whenever he's around. That ghost freezes my heart when I ever think of joking around with him again. It can't see that my actions were only a game: time proved it, he bounced back.

I sold his stuff for a tenth of the price that he could have gotten and one hundredth of its true value, but the point remains that I ended up with the loot and what a haul it was. Him and his loser friends; I beat them, lived like a queen and could have retired and made a good home for myself, but I had to return to the game and play again. That proves that I stole for kicks. I didn't mean it and no-one got badly hurt.

I lost all my friends. My friends were his friends and even the ones that didn't like him stopped talking to me. They stopped trusting me. If I stole from him, then I could easily steal from them without remorse and I could too: I'm the best, the best thief in Draqueen, probably the best in the world. I could steal the knickers from the Dragonlord if I wanted to. Anyway, friends aren't of any use to me. You can't steal friends, so they can't be counted. Loot is what matters. Loot is what loves me. Money can solve every problem.

Except for those ghosts.

I must have been cursed by gypsies. Maybe if I gave back the crystal ball and apologised, these spectres would leave. I would have to say "sorry" to their graves, though. Bandits attacked the camp and they were unprepared. Just as well; who knows where the ball ended up after it was fenced. It's best not to ask these questions, just count the money and leave quickly.

Cash is cold and disloyal. It can be easily lifted and it has no marker to show who it belongs to. Possessions, goods and heirlooms, their value lies as much in the memories they hold and sentimental notions attached to them as the money you can get for them. Of course, you don't get recompense for those sentiments. When something you love is sold by a low-life, the fence doesn't care how much you loved it, or how important it was to you. He won't give it back. It's useless to rely on things: they don't last. If you can't hold on to something then it isn't really yours.

I learned early and I learned well.

There are ghosts that pushed me to steal. They're ghosts that taught me to be wary of people and that you're a sucker if you're not out only for yourself. They have familiar faces, ones that I don't want to look at too closely. No matter how fast I spin around, I couldn't see them anyway. I just kept my head down and did what was best for me. I grew up. Those ghosts faded or maybe they're crowded out by the others: the old widow's nest egg and the poor family's hidden treasure, the wails and keenings of unlucky people made poorer.

Some thieves say that drink quietens them. Others say that it only makes them louder and it makes the thief stupid. Anyone who tries to steal while drunk gets caught. I check out the competition whenever I can. These people around me - the scum and the low-lives - between them they've stolen several lord's ransoms, so why do they drink in the darkest, smelliest parts of town, near the sewage exits? Perhaps that's where I can find a stash or two.

I should have a house or a mansion by now. I've earned enough several times over, this year alone. Only a bad workman blames his tools, but the tools of my trade are expensive and they break a lot. Why pay so much for ultra thin and ultra strong wire, for gadgets and masterwork tools? I lived better when a hairpin was my only lockpick. It'll take another job to finish paying for the tiny manipulator, now lying proud in my pocket and the reason why I'm drinking boiled water tonight instead of the finest wine.

The game, that's why. The game, the high, the thrills, the stories, the envy of my peers; that's the excuse. The game validates me. The game is what I'm good at. Without it, what would I be? A failed fishmonger? A broken barmaid? A talentless tailor? Give me the life of a master thief and while you're at it, give me a new pair of non-slip shoes so that I don't have to pay premium prices to the real crooks in this business.