It sparkled seductively in the sun’s warm light, calling to him. The incredible sapphire seemed to glow from within and the silver in which the gem was inlaid was so polished he could have seen his reflection in it. What a delightful example of beauty and high culture, not to mention the crafter’s skill! It was worth a small fortune.
  
He must have it.

The necklace that adorned the woman’s neck could be sold—he could get a free meal, perhaps a small dagger, a blanket could be useful—or he could horde the pretty trinket for himself. He loved other people’s things.

With cat-like grace the young man (hardly out of boyhood) followed the woman through the crowded, bustling market place. When he neared her, his lightning-fast hands darted into the small bag his victim carried and withdrew a coin purse. No one noticed the swift capture. He let her get ahead of him once again and, when she was a safe distance from him, he called out to her.

“Miss, excuse me! Miss, you dropped something!”

The woman turned to face a handsome youth, with striking blue eyes and long chocolate hair that was pulled back and tied. A charming smile adorned his face, which put the woman at ease. His hand was extended and her purse was nestled in his palm.

“Oh--! Sir, thank you! I knew it was foolish to carry coin on my person, but I needed it today. Thank you sir, thank you!”

The thief had to bite his tongue to keep from bursting out in a laugh. She worried about carrying coins, but was completely unconcerned by the foolish display of the treasure hanging about her neck. Oh, the comical rich!  

“Think nothing of it, it was the least I could do for a woman such as yourself.” He purred, returning her money, “Are you always such a vision?”

Flattered by the gesture of kindness and his words she put her hand to her lips, the lacy ends of her sleeves falling back reveling her wrist. (The young man noted that she wore a lovely bracelet, but didn’t let it distract him further.)

“Tell me your name sir. What is it? I must know!”

“Well, I suppose if you must know then I must tell you. Edwin: my name is Edwin.”

This was in fact a lie. The thief’s name was Kitling. He didn’t know his surname, he couldn’t remember his mother’s family name and he didn’t care to remember his father’s.  

“Edwin, you are quite the gentleman.” The woman said, batting her lashes at him.
Inwardly Kitling wanted to retch, but he smiled warmly at her all the while thinking of his prize. “How could I not be with such an angel? Surely you must have come
straight from the gods.”

As he spoke, he casually put his arm over her shoulder and then, as though realizing his apparent boldness, he drew his arm back. However, as he slid his hand back across her neck, he broke the delicate chain and tucked it into his long hair, nestling it in under the strip of cloth he tied his hair with. It seemed he had merely scratched his head.

The woman, oblivious to what he had done, giggled girlishly at his flattery, “My Edwin—you are far too kind!”

“But I am convinced that you, an obvious lady, would be much kinder than I, and more generous as well!”

“HEY! Who are you?” A new, gruff voice snarled at the chocolate haired young man.  The woman was swept into the arms of another man. The man sported fine clothing and was taller than Kitling. However that wasn’t too hard to do, for Kitling was a bit short by a man’s standards. Most women enjoyed fawning up into the eyes of their lovers. Kitling was eye level with most women.

“His name is Edwin,” the woman interjected, “he returned my purse to me. I had dropped it. Bartholomew, you are so suspicious!”

Kitling took this as an opportunity to make his escape, “I’ll be on my way then. Farewell to you, my lady, perhaps I will see you about?” Then he disappeared into the crowd.

As he weaved between bodies, he couldn’t help gloating. The woman was more foolish then he had hoped! She had made it far too easy. The best part was that when she realized her necklace was gone the last person on her list of suspects would be Edwin, the kind young gentleman who had returned her coins. The thief laughed victoriously. ‘All kings are thieves, they do nothing but steal from their people, and I am the greatest thief of all; the king of thieves. I am the king of kings! I need no one. I can have anything I want, I’ll steal it away and make it mine. The world is mine!’ He smirked proudly to himself.

Loudly his stomach growled, reminding him that it had been a long while since he had last eaten. Kitling was perpetually hungry. He could never have enough food, he loved it. Food was wonderful, glorious, delicious. He was obsessed with taste, and the contented feeling of a full belly.  When the opportunity arose, he ate as much as he could because he never knew when his next meal would be. There had been times during his travels that he had gone for days without sustenance.

Quickening his pace he made for the first thing he saw: a bakery. Inside it was hot from the large ovens; a man put a tray of dough balls (soon to be rolls) into one of them to bake. Three women (probably the man’s wife and daughters) scurried behind a counter, mixing things in bowls and attending to the small line of customers.

The smell of warm bread filled his nose and mind. Back through the years, he was pulled to a small hovel on the outskirts of a cozy little mountain village. His mother, a beautiful woman with deep eyes, sold bread to provide for herself and her son. Their house always smelled of fresh loaves.

They had been quite poor but Kitling didn’t know it because she was always happy and made sure he had what he needed (even if that meant giving up her own things for him).  The memories he had of that time were like curls of smoke, thin and hard to hold onto but, he could clearly recall the feelings that he had from his early childhood. He had felt safe, warm, content, and loved. That was when he had been no more than four, before the night his father had—

“What do you want to buy?” One of the women behind the counter asked.

Wrenched from his thoughts, Kitling jerked up, “Oh! Um, yes. How much is a loaf?”
The woman seemed a bit annoyed and said, “Prices are on the wall.”

Hastily, Kitling pulled a draw-string pouch from the red sash around his waist and gave the last few coins he had to pay for a loaf. “Of course, forgive me.”
The woman wrapped his bread in paper and handed it over the counter to him.

“Thank you.”

The young man stepped out of the bakery and walked down the cobbled street, tearing off pieces of his bread and munching as he strolled. The bread wasn’t the highest quality the thief had eaten but, to his empty stomach it was pure ambrosia. His spirits were lifted higher and higher with each bite.  A terrible craving boiled in his mouth, and as he walked past a small produce stall, he saw a bundle of the thing that he desired hanging from the rafters: Leeks. Kitling loved leeks; they were his favorite food, favorite flavor, and favorite texture. He would eat them whenever he could get his sticky fingers on them.

His hand shot out as he went by. There wasn’t a way for him to get away with the vegetable without being seen by someone, so he just pelted through the crowd away from angry shouts of the stall’s owners. He couldn’t hold in his laughter. Every time he stole it proved how much better he was. It was proof that he wasn’t worthless or helpless as he had been told over and over.  

In a lively mood, he strolled through the city’s narrow streets and twisting allies. He had only been in the city for a few days and still knew little of its secrets. A childish desire for adventure set in and he felt a dire need to explore.

Kitling had spent the last seven years of his life on his own, aimlessly traveling the country. He had been everywhere, and seen amazing and beautiful things.  Each city, town and village he came to had at least something to offer him, but he would (without fail) grow antsy and need to move on. No place could hold his fancy for long. He traveled exclusively on foot. He hated horses, and they made it clear they were not fond of him. The thought of climbing onto an animal eight times his size that would jump at the slightest thing did not appeal to him. Kitling wasn’t fond of most animals, actually. He detested dogs (for obvious reasons), didn’t see the sense in birds as pets, cats were only good if they were good mousers and anything else seemed like a waste of time or was just strange to him.    

Smiling to himself, Kitling left the crowded market place and found a nice little plaza, complete with tables and chairs, to sit at. His bread was mostly gone by then but he enjoyed the last of it all the same. He took greedy bites from the white end of his leeks, chewing on them until only the green tips were left. They had a satisfying crunch and filled his mouth with bitter-sweet juice. He savored every bite. The sun shone happily and he was very pleased.

As soon as he finished eating (which took next to no time) he was up on his feet again, boundless energy coursing through his veins. He’d stolen a map upon his arrival to the city and he withdrew it from his calf-skin boot to look at it. “The most important matter at hand,” He muttered to the map as though willing it to give him the answers, “Is where I am going to stay in this city…”

Really all the thief needed was a blanket. He had adapted to terrible shelters in the past (holes in the ground, trees in someone’s garden and dirty, awful allies to name a few) but given the choice, he preferred someplace dry. There were few things more miserable than being wet. Independent of his need for a shelter, it was also vital for Kitling to know all the niches and recesses of the city. ‘I must be able to disappear and I can’t do so if I am unfamiliar with my surroundings.’ In a brilliant mood Kitling folded up his map, stuffing it back in his boot, and set off at a stride.

The city unraveled before him like an old scroll, revealing to him its mysteries.  He ran over roofs, slinked into back store rooms, crawled into other’s attics, and slipped in and out of a few promising looking old buildings. He walked through a tavern just to get a feel for the town gossip, not to mention take advantage of the wide open pockets, unwatched by drunken eyes. Kitling left the tavern jingling more than he had when he entered.   

The place that most caught his interest was an abandoned opera house, or at least what he assumed was an opera house, it was a theater at any rate.  The door had been guarded by a large lock on a chain and all the windows were barred. Kitling had to laugh. In his opinion, the only good protection was a living guard. Locks were too easy: they sounded no alarm and gave no witness. Locks were simple enough mechanisms to understand, all run on the same system. Little tumblers kept said lock closed in this position and open in that position. The more tumblers, the more expensive a lock but if a thief can open a lock with four tumblers, it is no challenge to open one with eight or ten—just a matter of time.    

“Come, my friend.”  The thief said in a sing-song voice to a leather roll he pulled from his shirt. The roll contained all of his tools, everything from pins, to wire, to a pair of sharp little scissors. He took out a slender piece of iron and went to work on the lock. He was inside after a few minutes.

Water had destroyed many of the chairs, thanks to a hole in the ceiling where the elements could sneak in but this was not a concern. The cause for the opera’s close was obvious, almost all of the stage was burned and upon further investigation he found that the set and much of backstage had caught fire as well. The curtains were molding and full of moth-eaten holes. Mice boldly ran over the ruined carpeting and the whole place reeked of mildew.      

“Well… You aren’t my first choice,” Kitling said to the empty building, “but if it is a decision between you and the rain, I will take you. I detest being wet.”  The room’s response was the scratching of a mouse in the floorboards.  

He explored the place a bit more until his stomach protested. With nothing else to do, Kitling came to the conclusion that there was no reason to starve in a city so full of plump purses. He left the theater the same way he had entered, being sure to lock it again behind him.

Through chattering crowds he weaved, keeping to himself. Desiring a bit more privacy than the open plaza offered, Kitling headed for the alley.

As the chocolate-haired youth rounded a bend a larger man walking with a wooden staff appeared. The man had a course beard and thick eyebrows that matched the shock of black hair on his head. The man deliberately bumped into him, and Kitling felt the man’s hand slip into his sash. Kitling elbowed the man in the gut, and kept walking, not giving him a backward glance.  

Kitling never could keep an insult in when it wanted to come out.

“Sir, if you insist on stealing, I hope you do not do it often, you make the rest of us look bad, such poor form. Though, I suppose you are doing the rest of us a courtesy. Authorities will be satisfied with your neck in a noose because you were easy to catch.”

The man was obviously angry, both for being caught by someone who appeared so young, and for the mockery. “Who do you think you are?!”

“I am a much better thief then yourself.”

“You’ve got some nerve! You talk as if you own the world. ”

“I can steal anything, so I do own the world. Better your neck then mine, I suppose.”   

“You scrawny whelp, I’ll teach you to keep that tongue in your head, weakling!”

Kitling ground his teeth. He had been merciful; he was going to let the man go without retribution…not anymore. There was nothing Kitling hated more in himself then weakness, and he tenaciously made a point to rid himself of it. If this man thought him weak, then Kitling would prove him wrong at all costs.  The man lunged at him raising his staff and aiming for Kitling’s midsection.   

Kitling took the blow. It knocked the breath from his lungs, but he knew what he was doing. The thief had lived with a band of gypsies for a good year or more. The Rom had saved his life, fed him, took him in and let him stay with them—but he was never one of them, they made that clear. There was a feeling of discontent over him with many of the group and they eventually chased him off. Despite their rejection of him, Kitling was grateful for the things he had learned while with them.   They had taught him how to hunt, use a knife, appraise jewelry, make his own shelters and blankets, but most important at the moment, how to fight.

He caught hold of the pole and spun it, twisting the other thief’s arm painfully.  The action disarmed his attacker and Kitling smacked the pole hard against the other’s legs. The man stumbled but maintained his balance, hitting Kitling square in the jaw with his balled fist. Kitling spit blood but returned his own punch, landing with force against the man’s temple with a crack. Wooden pole forgotten, the two became a kicking, grappling mass of arms and legs. The other seized Kitling by the hair and smashed his head against the ground. Kitling’s vision exploded with stars and he bit his tongue painfully. Relentlessly the other pounded his chest. The chocolate-haired youth lashed out with his foot, kicking him repeatedly in the throat. His opponent gagged, and fell back gasping desperately for air.

Unwilling to let go of any opportunity, Kitling used the other’s opening to full advantage. He leapt to his feet and continued to kick him in quick succession, not giving him the chance to recover.

“Pick your fights more wisely!” He howled, a fire inside him exploding. “You chose the wrong person to cross! I am not weak!!”

He grabbed the staff from the ground and hit the other until he stopped moving. When he stilled, Kitling dropped it and went down on his knees checking the man’s pulse. He was alive, which was good enough for Kitling ‘…And as long as he’s unconscious…’ Kitling’s hands searched the man’s clothes for anything of worth or value. A broken pocket watch, an awl and a few loose coins: Kitling took them all.  

The young man left the other man where he had fallen. Kitling walked for what felt like a long time, avoiding people and sticking to dark allies. He came to a barrel of still water standing under a water spout. Kitling padded over to it and gave it an inspection. The water was clean enough.  The thief took the black glove (that he wouldn’t be caught dead without) off of his right hand and revealed a large red burn scar on the back of his hand that extended from his knuckles to his wrist. Further up his arm, covered by his sleeve, more burn scars snaked up and crawled over his shoulder. The young man’s back was by far the worst, covered with angry burns.

The sight of the rose shaped scar on his hand caused a shudder to race through his body. He had attained the scars while living with a blacksmith named Ciron.

His father had kidnapped him from his home, from his mother, and sold him to the blacksmith to pay off a debt before Kitling had even reached the age of five. His sire loathed him. His father hadn’t even known that Kitling existed until he had come to see Kitling’s mother, and when he found out he had been furious.  It had just turned out to be a lucky coincidence for his father that his debt was owed to a man who happened to be looking for an apprentice. His father made it perfectly clear to Kitling exactly how useless, pathetic and weak he was; nothing more than a mistake.

Then he callously handed his son off to the blacksmith without so much as a goodbye. Ciron was nice enough when he was sober. He did take care of Kitling: gave him a warm bed and food. Kitling’s jobs were anything from pumping the bellows, to taking horse shoes to customers, to running errands in town and getting the black smith’s mail. Unfortunately for the small boy the blacksmith was very fond of his bottle. Kitling would be beaten for any mistakes he made (usually with hot branding irons) which only served to reinforce his desperate need for approval and near-fatal desire to prove himself.

Kitling hated the scars. They were a physical manifestation of weakness he could never remove from his body. If it would have worked, Kitling would have peeled his skin off to get them away from him.

“To hell with you!” He snarled at his reflection, plunging his arm into the water.  He splashed cool water onto the scrapes on his arms and face, careful not to stir up the sediment at the bottom of the barrel.

When he had sufficiently cleaned himself, Kitling left the barrel and ambled down the alley. Not overly bothered by the muck around him, he found a wooden crate and curled up in it. Exhaustion held him before he even realized, and he was a prisoner of sleep.

Kitling wasn’t sure how long he slept; a couple of hours was all he could tell.  He woke feeling uncomfortable and sore. The sky was beginning to change to a rusty hue, announcing the approaching night. “What a bother.” He said to his shadow listlessly.

The air outside was cool and fresh, opposed to the stale air of the opera house. It was a nice evening, and the lean young man had no desire to be cooped up now. He decided to find someplace outside. It would be a clear night, no rain to speak of.       

Loud as a shadow, Kitling was off down the alley. He disturbed a pair of mangy, fight-scarred cats as he went past. They hissed in surprise and he hissed right back. The alley opened into another plaza. People were about, bustling here and there with last minute things before they went home for the evening.  

“Sixty-two gold pieces.”

“You paid how much!?”

Kitling’s ears perked at the talk of money. He looked about for the speakers in the crowd. He spied two obviously wealthy men standing within earshot.     

“The finest lutherer I’ve ever found! He prices high but, his work well then makes up for the cost!” The gentleman said excitedly to his fellow, holding his violin case up to emphasize his point.

The second gentleman was slightly more interested, “Really? The finest you say? Where is the place—what’s it called?”

“Vincent’s Violins: it’s over on the northeast side of town, far from the market—more towards the housing district. The owner is a bit odd, he is very reclusive but I’d pay even more for his quality!”

‘If you’d pay more, fat man, then there must be others who do pay more!’ Kitling thought, shamelessly eavesdropping. ‘This Vincent must be rich!’ A violin shop was not the first place that came to Kitling’s mind when he thought of stores to rob but if people paid through the nose… at the very least Kitling could steal a nice instrument and sell it for a hefty price. The young man made a mental note to look into this violin shop later.

He headed for the narrow alleyway, and ducked into its shadows. Kitling always felt safest in shadows. In the walls of the buildings the mortar between the bricks was chipped and broken. Expert from experience, he began to climb the wall, finding finger and toe-holds in the spaces between the brick. In a matter of moments, he had scaled it and pulled himself onto the roof of the structure. When he stood up the height disoriented him but not for long. Kitling respected heights and the unforgiving force of gravity, but he was not afraid. Heights were a part of his job; he had become accustomed to them.  He waited for a bit longer, giving himself a chance to adjust, and then he was off.      

Lithe and as sure-footed as a mountain goat, Kitling ran across the roof tops. The buildings were positioned very close together, close enough that the thief could clear the gap with a leap.  He raced over the tops, the people below hearing nothing more than a momentary thud. Up ahead he could see the town’s cathedral. It was the most impressive work in the town, but it was still modest in comparison with what he had seen in his life.  He headed for it across the roofs.  

He came to a street and slid down the eave, carefully holding the edge and landing on his feet gracefully. He crossed the street and was ascending the side of the church with greater ease then he had when he scaled the houses. The piers and flying buttresses made his ascent simple. He climbed until he was almost to the top of the steeple. There was a decorative wrap-around that was flat, serving as a thrown for a row of seven snarling gargoyles. A nook that was just perfect for him. He shooed the pigeons and pulled himself onto it.

From his hair he took the sapphire necklace he had stolen and admired it. It sparkled just as it had when his sharp eyes had first caught it, but the sense of validation he had felt was dissipating.

Kitling looked out over the city, as the sun set behind him painting the buildings in brilliant oranges, pinks and reds. “It’s beautiful, what a perfect evening to spend with friends ...” he whispered to himself.  A bitter melancholy filled his chest. He clutched the sapphire necklace tightly in his hand, his only friend in the world. He had no home, no family to love, nowhere to go, nothing… Not even a kind word. He angrily hit the hard stone with his fist, growling.

“Why do you care?” he demanded of his emotions, “I don’t! People only mean pain. Words make no difference, no matter what they say they would stab you once the opportunity is given. Not a soul can be trusted to do what they say; only by actions can one judge a man.”

He was a thief: a pestilence, no one wanted him around and no one ever would.

Determined to assert his solidarity, Kitling continued his rant to the pigeons that pecked at the stones, “I am the king of kings! I need no one. I can have anything I want; I can steal it away and make it mine. The world is mine!” He tried to smirk proudly, but he couldn’t make himself do it. Even as he tried to convince himself he liked it better on his own, he longed for anyone’s company. One of the gargoyles stood nearby, its face frozen in stone, completely silent.    

Numb inside, Kitling watched the last people scurry to their homes for the evening. His hands lay still at his sides and his cobalt eyes dulled. His stomach growled dismally. He would just sleep on the nook tonight.