The pawnshop was tiny, dark, and cluttered, with a goblin-like man standing behind the counter. Quatre gulped at the otherworldly grin being flashed at him as he cautiously picked his way through a forest of wildly diverse objects of varying worth, tightly holding on to his mother's necklace to his chest.
"May I help you, young master?" the goblin screeched, sending shivers up and down the boy's spine. The pawnbroker's voice sounded like nails dragging across a blackboard.
"Yes, I've got a necklace I'd like to pawn," Quatre stammered as he reached the counter.
"Let's see now."
The boy handed him the necklace, and the man immediately whipped up a tiny spy-glass of sorts, anchoring it on his right eye by scrunching up his facial muscles into a horrible grimace. He held the necklace a few inches in front of the spy-glass, moving it forward and backward and turning it around, muttering to himself as he did.
Quatre waited nervously, glancing around on occasion to help alleviate the tension he felt and absently tugging at his bag's strap to keep himself from fidgeting too much.
"How much did you expect to get for this, young man?" the pawnbroker finally said, breaking the silence and jarring the boy's senses rather harshly with his characteristic screech.
Quatre noted, though, that the man's expression had changed as well, and he was now glowering at the boy.
"Well--I'm not really sure. I've never done this before. A couple of hundred maybe?"
The man's spy-glass popped out as he gaped at the boy in mute astonishment at first before dissolving into gales of laughter. Quatre watched him, now completely puzzled.
"Sir?"
"A couple of hundred?" the man sputtered, hiccoughing a little as he slowly calmed down. "Oh, my dear boy, had this bauble been real, it would've been worth a thousand pounds at least!"
Quatre stared at him. "What do you mean 'had this been real'? Of course it's real!"
"This thing?" the pawnbroker cried, holding up the necklace. "This is paste!"
"It's not! It's real!"
"My dear boy, don't you think I'd know what's real and what's not?"
The shock was devastating. Quatre stared at the necklace, his mind racing and yet failing to gain some kind of understanding of what was going on. He looked back at the man, confusion now clearly etched on his face.
"But--but it was my mother's," he replied in a small, thin voice. "She gave it to me."
"She gave you rubbish then."
"It's not rubbish," the boy protested, desperately grasping at straws now as the harrowing realization of what this all meant dawned on him. "She gave it to me! She said it stood for how much I…"
His voice faltered and died in his throat.
How much I meant to her.
Looking at the worthless bauble, Quatre slowly and painfully understood. And at the moment full comprehension sank in, he felt something die inside. Then numbly, dazedly, he took the necklace from the pawnbroker's hand and left the shop without another word.
He didn't even know how he managed to return to the coaches. All he remembered was that one minute he was in the pawnshop, the other minute he was standing beside the coach he wanted to board, pleading with the now irate driver.
"I can't take you that far!"
"But that's all I can afford!"
"I'm going to Gloucestershire, and I'm not making any stops along the way for anybody. This is the last trip I'll be making, seeing as how tomorrow's Christmas Eve, and my passegers need to be at Cirencester on time."
The driver made a move to jump on the coach, but Quatre stopped him with a desperate hold on the arm. "Please," he said, "can't you make an exception just this once?"
"I've got paying passengers in the damn coach, you annoying little brat!" the driver cried, angrily jerking his arm away from the boy. "Get you grubby little paws off me! I'm running late as it is, no thanks to you!"
Quatre, who was up until that point half-mad from frustration and despair, finally exploded in a rage. Feeling the sting of the last rebuff, his face contorted in a tearful grimace as he lunged forward and grabbed hold of the man's shirt. With a strength he never knew he had, he pulled the man back down, sending him staggering and falling over backward with a loud cry, dragging the boy down with him.
Quatre, being younger and smaller and therefore the more agile of the two, quickly got to his feet and threw himself against the man and started pummeling him with his fists, screaming invectives against him.
A small crowd gathered around the two mismatched opponents as they tussled, yelling at each other like rabid animals. And it was certainly with no small surprise that the onlookers watched Quatre keep an upper-hand despite his disadvantage in size. Somehow--perhaps because of the extremity of his passion at the moment--he'd managed to stay on the offensive, successfully fending off his opponent's counterattacks through sheer swiftness in dodging the blows.
"How could you?" he screamed. "How dare you keep me from seeing my family? You insensitive brute!"
"Get him off me, goddamnit!"
"You don't care about anything but money!"
A few minutes passed before Quatre, completely under the crippling effects of extreme grief, terror, and anger, felt himself grabbed from behind and effectively pulled away from his opponent. He didn't even know whom it was who spared the coach driver. Momentarily insane, he kicked and flailed wildly about as he was easily carried away, still screaming. The stunned and somewhat battered coach driver shouted back, but what it was he'd said was lost to the wretched boy. In fact, the only thing that Quatre would remember about that moment was the sight of a hulking figure of a man staggering to his feet, his shirt torn, his hair tousled, and the most bewildered look plastered on his face.
The crowd parted to make way for Quatre and his captor. It proved to be a difficult task as the boy continued thrash wildly in the man's hold.
"You can't keep me away!" he continued to scream. You can't do this to me! Mom! Dad!"
He punched the air with both fists and kicked madly, nearly decking a stunned bystander who happened to be hovering a bit too closely to him.
"Why'd you throw me out like this? You never loved me! I hate you!"
Red-faced and sweating profusely now, Quatre's energy never diminished by one bit. He was simply functioning on automatic, fueled entirely by the merciless onslaught of thoughts and emotions that had long lain brewing inside him. It was, in every sense of the word, the most miserable and yet cathartic release he'd ever known.
"I hate you!"
**********
Quatre lay on a relatively clean cot in a relatively clean though dim cell, waiting wretchedly for a response to his note. He was taken to jail by a constable, and it was by some grace of God that the sergeant on duty felt a little compassion for the boy. Quatre was brought to a cell where he eventually calmed down, and when the sergeant paid him a visit, he was obliged to tell his story.
"Is there anyone who could take you home?" the man had asked, and Quatre shook his head miserably.
"I've got no one," he replied weakly, his strength finally gone as he sat crouched on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest and burying his face in them.
"Friends? Surely you've got some friends. Here. Look. There's a desk right there. It's got paper and a quill pen and some ink. Write a note to a friend, and I'll have someone deliver it for you."
Quatre didn't reply.
"Young man, I know for a fact that you're not a thug. You're not a criminal. You don't deserve to stay here--not with Christmas just two days away."
"All right then."
With a heavy sigh, he allowed himself to be helped to his feet. And within seconds, he'd dispatched a note to Trowa.
He stared into the gray dimness of the cell, feeling nothing but a strange hollowness in the pit of his stomach. The horrible realization that he was now alone in the world--a pathetic little cast-off--held him in its mind-numbing grip.
Weak with emotional trauma, physical exhaustion and hunger, Quatre curled himself into a virtual ball on the cot, and he slowly drifted off…
…to be half-awakened sometime later by frantic voices in the room.
"What's going on here? Why's he looking so ill? What have you done to him?"
Quatre could barely open his eyes, and when he did, he still couldn't see very well. His sight, along with his mind, was still hazy.
Dorcas? he thought as his eyes closed once more, feeling a little relief sweep over him.
He then felt a hand touch his forehead and then his neck. "He's warm," Dorcas declared a little grimly. "What, in heaven's name…"
"Dorcas, it's all right. Everything's settled. Let's just take him home."
Trowa?
He heard footsteps cross the cell and stop beside the cot. Then he felt himself gently nudged.
"Quatre?" Trowa said, his voice low and soothing. "Quatre, can you get up? It's me."
The shifted and forced his eyes open, weakly rubbing them with his hands. Blinking several times, he finally felt his vision adjust, and he looked at Trowa's hovering figure above him.
"I've made a real mess of things, haven't I?" he murmured with a tiny smile.
Trowa looked at him, concern marking his face. He didn't return the boy's smile and instead lightly stroked his hair.
"Quatre," he said in the same low tone, "how're you feeling?"
The boy tried to brave yet another smile but dissolved into tears instead. Keenly feeling the humiliation of his present situation, he covered his face with his hands as he sobbed his heart out, allowing himself this final release, the poisonous effects of his grief slowly dissipating as he wept.
He heard Trowa say something and Dorcas respond, but he didn't catch the words. He'd simply lost himself in his crying. Hours, maybe even days, must have slipped by before he'd fully exhausted himself and he'd calmed down, his sobbing reduced to hiccoughs and spasmodic sighs. Along with the emotional release came a clearer mind, and he slowly realized that he was no longer lying down. He was sitting up, slumped against Trowa's shoulder as the young man held him tightly, listening to him quiet down, not once uttering a word. His hand continued its gentle stroking of the boy's hair, helping Quatre not only calm down, but also feel the reassurance of his affection, a reassurance the boy needed now more than ever.
Within minutes the silence of the darkening cell was only broken by Quatre's sniffling and an occasional hiccough.
"There's no need to explain," Trowa finally murmured against the boy's hair. "The sergeant gave us a pretty good idea of what happened."
"It was my fault," Quatre replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "I started it…"
"No--ssshh. No more words. No more."
Quatre fell silent, relieved at long last. At this point, the only thing holding him up was Trowa, and he was more than grateful that it was no one else. Then he felt Trowa press his lips against his hair.
"I'm so sorry," the young man said. "For everything. For acting like a bastard. For failing you. For seeing you get driven to these lengths. God, Quatre--what else can I say?"
Trowa paused and hesitated, and Quatre could feel the strain he was going through in simply keeping command of his emotions. There was that slight trembling once more as Trowa continued to hold him tightly against his shoulder.
Then he sighed. "My dear, impetuous Quatre."
His hold finally loosened, and Quatre was simply resting against him. Now free to move around, he lifted his head and scanned the room with bleary eyes.
"Where's Dorcas?" he asked.
"Gone out for a doctor and some food."
"But I'm fine."
"You've got a fever."
"I just need to rest."
"You need some medication and some food first."
"I'm really not that bad."
"Quatre, don't argue with me. You're in no shape to think coherently. And don't tell me I'm being bossy, either."
The door suddenly opened, and in walked Dorcas with a container of food. At her heels marched a jolly, pudgy man with the reddest cheeks, hoisting the telltale black medical bag along.
"Ah, finally," Trowa said. "Here's your patient, doctor. Be careful with him. He tends to be a little pig-headed sometimes."
Trowa stood up and, glancing at the boy, gave Quatre a playful wink. The doctor took his place beside the shivering patient. He broke out into a broad, infectious grin as he opened his bag and started rifling through.
"Heavens," the man said in a voice that echoed in the tiny cell. "You look like you've just been mowed down by all the world's ills. But don't you worry. We'll have you fixed in no time."
He paused, staring intently at the contents of his bag. Then he raised his eyes and rested them on Quatre's.
"You aren't afraid of needles now, are you?"
"No, of course not."
"Oh, good. Makes my job easier."
He rummaged through for a few more seconds before crying out, "Aha! Found it!" And, with a triumphant guffaw, he pulled out something that was damn well near the size of a knitting needle.
Quatre's eyes widened as he watched the doctor brandish the hellish instrument before him. The room suddenly spun, and in another second everything went black.
**********
"Not afraid of needles, huh?"
"But that was different."
"I've never seen anyone faint because of a needle before."
"Stop picking on me."
Trowa let out a quiet laugh as he lifted the spoon to Quatre's mouth. The boy eyed him a little peevishly before taking in the flavorful soup his beloved was offering him. He'd recovered from the shock with the doctor some time ago and had been given some medication, but he was too weak to be moved still, and the next hour found Trowa and Dorcas helping him rejuvenate himself with some food the housekeeper had purchased at a nearby inn.
Quatre's head was spinning, and he felt downright lousy. The fever persisted, but at least it was light, and it didn't keep him from being able to sit up and take his food. His hands were trembling a little too much, and he'd spilled some of his soup on himself, forcing Trowa to take over and to feed him as though he were a complete invalid.
Neither the boy nor Trowa minded much, though.
And Dorcas, to her great credit, avoided all references to the day's disasters and chattered happily on about upcoming Christmas preparations.
"My lord, where should I go for the goose?"
"Anywhere's fine. So long as you get a good one."
"Did you have any preferences for the pudding, sir?"
"Whatever it is you make every year's fine with me. I'm sure no one's going to complain."
"Oh, Quatre's going to like my special Christmas pudding."
Quatre looked at her, the spoon Trowa was holding up lightly grazing his chin. "What special pudding's that?"
"Come on, Quatre, eat up."
"Ah--it's a recipe of mine. Nobody else in these parts can make something as stupendous as my Christmas pudding."[1]
"Quatre…"
The boy quickly opened his mouth and took in the soup. Then he glanced back at Dorcas, who sat on a nearby chair, watching the proceedings with a saucy grin.
"Do you wait up on Christmas Eve and greet Christmas at midnight?"
"Why'd we do that?" Trowa asked, looking a little surprised. "Everyone's in bed by about nine."
Quatre cracked a little smile. "Oh, but it's brilliant! You get to wait around and eat what you can, and when the clock hits midnight, you get to wake everyone up and greet them a Merry Christmas…"
"Which probably isn't a good idea, seeing as how people were sound asleep when you harass them…"
"No, they're a lot more accommodating since it's Christmas."
Trowa nodded and then shook his head with a chuckle. He dipped the spoon in the soup and swirled it around before lifting it up to the boy's mouth once more. "Was that a tradition in your family?"
Quatre fell silent for a second or two as he hesitated. "No," he finally replied, his smile fading. "I tried several times, but everyone pretty much locked me out of their rooms after a while. I ended up waiting up for Christmas on my own and then just going to bed."
"Well--it is a little inconvenient."
The boy shrugged. "I suppose so."
They fell silent after a while as Quatre finished his meal, and pretty soon they were on their way out. Trowa had brought an extra cloak and wrapped it around the patient, securing the clasp and pulling the hood over. It was his and as such was a bit too large for the boy, who immediately disappeared inside its thick warmth.
"I think it's going to snow," Trowa said as he guided Quatre out of the cell. "We'd better get you home before it gets too cold for you."
"I wish I could go out when it does, though."
"Well then--hurry up and get better."
They were in the carriage in no time and were flying out of Mead. Bundled up and feeling dizzy and a little feverish still, Quatre settled in beside Trowa, feeling his companion pull him closer against him for extra warmth and listening to the hushed conversation going on between him and Dorcas, who sat across from them.
The rumbling of the carriage didn't keep the boy from slowly drifting off. Despite the rutted road and the bumpy ride, he still felt an overwhelming sense of comfort, and he slowly sank into a peaceful nap.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
[1]Pudding was technically something the lower-classes ate because it was so cheap to make. I thought of emphasizing the unconventional character of Trowa's family by having them indulge in a fare that aristocrats don't normally have.