From the Catechism of the Long-Hand, Verse XI
"Bend the neck and be spared; Raise the neck and be measured."
Socks kept his chin down as he came into Gallows Court, a narrow square nestled in the heart of Carrick Cahir, where stone buildings loomed like watchful giants. The air was thick with the sharp scent of burning incense, a tangible reminders of the place's solemn rituals.
The Zealots had a rope tied around the neck of a boy barely old enough to shave. Faces watched with that dull, taught fire, fed on sermons and fear. A Priest in a grey linen read from a plank, his voice echoing like a whip. As Socks glanced at the boy, something stirred in him. He remembered a similar face, that of his own son, lost to the city's grim fate. Each step towards Gallows Court was a reminder of his child.
"Blasphemy. Refusal to kneel."
There were a few breaths of silence before one thin voice croaked, "Death for Lugh." It sounded forced, like someone tortured to read a line, but it was enough. The words caught, rolled, and became a wave of shouts aimed at a child who didn't know better. Socks felt a twinge of bitterness at the irony; the boy was found guilty of blasphemy by a doctrine steeped in fear.
Socks didn't shout. He loathed the city's fever, the fervent zeal that consumed it and called itself holy. He waited as the cart kicked and the rope took, the boy's life fleeting in a moment that felt eternal. From the corner of his eye, he saw a single tear track down the boy's purpling cheek. When the crowd thinned, Socks stepped in. His hand trembled slightly as he slipped a pocket knife from his sash and sawed the knot. A priest barked from the corner, "To move the body before sunrise is blasphemy!"
Socks didn't look at him. "He's suffered for his crimes," he said. "Let me bury him for you." The line went slack. Socks gathered the boy as if weight could be gentled and carried him to Bray, who never locked his door to him and never asked for coin to put a child in clean dirt.
He just wanted to get to the gym, but more than that, he needed to ensure it stayed open. The gym was a haven, a place where boys like him could escape the oppressive grip of the city and find strength in their bodies and spirits. It was a sanctuary that gave them a future beyond the dusty streets and the ever-looming ropes of Gallows Court.
Socks vividly recalled the day when Mouse, who had barely entered his teens, first entered the gym with hollow cheeks and wary eyes. After months of training, Mouse stood taller, his confidence buoyed by his first sparring match win.
At the corner, a crumbling stone statue glared down, its face carved into something inhuman and proud. Below it, a plaque read:
Lugh Lámhfhada
Socks always hated the statues. Their faces were full of glory and pride, staring down like the world was theirs to claim. People prayed to them, built their lives around them. Yet, for all their divine might, they did nothing for the starving boys in Carrick Cahir. It was an old fool like him keeping a roof over their heads. Socks was fed up with it.
There was a notice that hung just above the door, another threat about taxes and eviction. Socks tore it down and shoved it inside. The rust-streaked door groaned as a wash of old leather and rust washed over him. Still, the air felt cleaner than the street. This place was small but honest. Inside was a battered half-ring for the boys, with scuffed ropes and bags hanging from beams that creaked with rust. Their canvas was patched and dark with use. It wasn't much, but it was enough.
Mouse, small and grinning through a busted face, looked at Socks.
"What happened to you, lad? You're already ugly enough," Socks said, rubbing his hands together to warm them up.
"Nothing, Coach, I hit my head on the bag. She's a real hitter, you know," The boy gave a small laugh, his busted lip showing through the grin. The boy had a shaved head and was wearing a shirt that was two sizes too big.
Socks shook his head and looked for Pale. That boy was always too rough on the new kids. If he were in his prime, he'd sort him out himself.
Pale was sitting in the corner beneath a cracked window. His shoulders were narrow, but his muscles were dense enough for fibers to etch through his skin. Old scars littered his body. He was winding fresh tape around his hand as it trembled when he tightened it. For a brief moment, his eyes darted up to meet Socks', His jaw clenched slightly, as if steeling himself for whatever came next.
"Pale! What's a boy gonna learn from being beaten up?" He called.
Sorry, Coach. Just thought he needed to keep his face tucked in, ya know? Didn't mean no harm.' Pale's words tumbled out, his voice a rough blend of sincerity and stubbornness, his face flushed and head bowed.
The old tape was streaked with red, covered in grime. Lying on top of Pales' bag. He quickly threw the tape into the overflowing bin with a quick grunt.
"Another two months and this hand'll be in working order, Coach," Pale shouted to Socks.
"A few more injuries like that one and you won't have your hands left to drink with, you eejit," Socks said from the doorway.
"Then I'll just have to drink with my feet, won't I, Coach?" Pale said, not missing a beat.
"The good stuff, too. I'll drink straight from Sucellus' cask and he'll love it, none of that cheap piss from the next lad down the street."
Socks just watched for a moment. He raised this boy and others who frequented the gym; there wasn't much life on the street for them. Pale had grit, but it was a hell of a thing to watch a boy waste away his life just for a few years of comfort before the street took him. Fists and bruises were the only life waiting for lads from Carrick's slums, most burned out before twenty. Yet, in a quiet corner of his mind, Socks dared to envision a future for Pale and other boys like him.
He could see Pale choosing a path of apprenticeship, maybe learning a trade that could take him far from Carrick Cahir's oppressive streets. Perhaps, one day, Pale might have a family of his own, children running around his feet, free from the shadow of Gallows Court. This was the dream that drove Socks to do what he did—a tangible vision of success that lent purpose to every punch thrown and every bead of sweat shed in the gym.
"You know I need someone to run this place after I'm gone, you eejit, after all I've done for you," Socks shouted back.
"I've only got three months left in me, boy, show me you can run this place, and I can retire in peace," he added, looking at the medals he won in his youth.
"You're too old to be worrying so much," Pale said with a tired grin. "I'll make you proud."
For a moment, Socks' throat tightened. How many boys had said those words to him? How many were already buried, their promises rotting in the dirt? He wanted to believe Pale would be different. He needed to believe it. He thought back to his own little boy, Donn was good, good enough to make Socks believe he had the touch of the gods. One day, after coming back from the city guard, he found his little boy in a closed box. There were no gods he could call out to that would bring back his boy.
Pale had always been his favorite; it felt like getting a piece of his boy back. His temper only held him back. The number of times he had to pull him off an untrained kid that he went too hard on in training was endless. Pale never meant it; a rough life always had its toll. Sometimes it's easy to lose yourself in the ring. When he met Pale, he was on the run after stealing a priest's chain; he had balls that most kids didn't. None of the other kids would talk back to him with the cheek that kid came up with, either.
He opened his mouth to reply, to give the boy something more than banter for once.
As Socks stood there, something seemed odd—a clock on the wall ticked hesitantly, almost skipping a beat, like a heart troubled with foreboding.
"Pale loo—"
Out of nowhere, the air seemed to freeze in place, and dust was stuck in the air, refusing to listen to gravity. The gym started to warp. Socks felt a shiver run down his spine as the air grew cold, an unsettling whisper brushing against his skin. For a moment, it was chaos, then black
[ SYSTEM // PROTOCOL: INITIATE UNIVERSE ONE ]