The boy had fought.
Jehan and Keenin were slave traders from Solona, and not low-level ones either. They’d fought a good number of people before. Strong people. But this boy was a mystery. When they’d broken into his room in the dead of night, he’d been awake, but he hadn’t panicked or screamed, or reached for anything. He’d simply hopped out of bed, watching them both with those disconcerting, pale eyes. Slowly, he’d moved towards the door, and that was when they’d pounced. He hadn’t defended himself the way they’d expected him to, either. The pampered only son of a high-ranking diplomat would have some training, of course, but should be inexperienced, ripe to make stupid mistakes. With the first blow, however, all their expectations were shattered. He’d kept his eyes wide open. Most high-born children flinched the first time someone went for the first hit, but he’d watched the swing carefully, and yanked his body out of the way. It was to Keenin’s surprise that his fist didn’t connect with the boy’s stomach. The back of his neck did connect with the boy’s elbow, though. He choked and gasped, collapsing on the ground. From then on, the both of them had exercised a great deal more caution, and had eventually taken him down, but the way he’d fought, everything about it had been unexpected. The entire time, he hadn’t flinched, hadn’t closed his eyes, he’d barely even blinked. He’d just stared with those freakish eyes, dodged as many blows as he could, taken as many blows as had hit, and connected as many as he attempted. He’d fought like a wild animal: fiercely, but with no training apparent. All the while, he’d circled like a caged lion, staring and staring and staring silently, taking everything in. If it had only been one of them, they might not have taken him down before he got help, but he’d never called for help, so it was quite possible that there wasn’t anyone to help at all. What kind of rich kid was he?
Considering the way he’d fought, his reaction the minute he’d been fully pinned down had been equally unexpected. He’d stopped fighting altogether. He’d gone limp as a dead turkey. This entire time he’d been silent, just watching them with something Keenin rather suspected was scorn in those eyes of his. Part of him wondered if the kid was mute, but he hadn’t heard any reports that the son of Mason Ki’ila was disabled in any way. If he was, there for sure would have been secret snickers going around.
They’d hauled him away to a cottage on the outskirts of Freya that they kept specifically for hostages like this. This was not their first ransom job. They’d left the ransom note on the man’s desk, where there was no way an ambitious man like him would miss it, and had set a deadline that would ensure he had time to collect the money they wanted and come to the specified location.
In the weeks during which they held him, he had not spoken a word. This was unusual for Keenin, so at the second week, he’d leaned down in front of the hostage and decided to have a tet-a-tet. They kept a chain on him, because when they’d untied him, he’d tried to bolt. More accurately, he’d gone from staying utterly still to jerking to life, sending a hard punch into Jehan’s stomach and nearly biting his ear off, before kicking Keenin and breaking down the door to make a run for it. He’d have made it, too, if Jehan hadn’t grabbed his ankle in the moment he’d paused to break the door. He was a weird kid.
And so it was, that when Keenin pulled up a chair in front of his ungagged, but nevertheless silent hostage, he was half-expecting the kid not to answer. “Hey. What’s your name?”
“I should think you would know that already, Keenin.” He’d answered without the slightest hesitation. “What answers do you seek that you would finally decide to speak with me? Do professionals such as yourself not first evaluate those they would seek to capture? It seems careless, just as you were careless when you first crawled into my room like cockroaches.”
The answer, not just an answer, but a long-winded, articulate answer that came with a high-born accent, startled Keenin. The attitude with which he spoke somehow didn’t inspire too much surprise for Keenin, however. The kid spoke as insolently as he stared. He grabbed the kid by his fancy long hair and yanked his head back. “Do you not know your position, boy?” He snarled, shoving his face right into the boy’s.
“Aye, I know my position. Now, as I ever have, I know, more than those who look on, what my position is. I also know what your position is, Keenin, though I have yet to fathom why you should pick me, of all the rich little young masters to target in Freya. You fools.” He smirked at Keenin, and the kidnapper couldn’t help feeling that the kid knew exactly what he was talking about, not just trying to goad him. Jehan would’ve been goaded. From the look in the boy’s eyes, he knew that, too. He knew Keenin was smarter than that, calmer than that, or if nothing else was proud enough to think he was.
For a moment, Keenin didn’t say anything, wondering what to do, but then he let go of the kid and sat back again. “Tell me your name.”
“Narien Ki’ila. Now that I have told you my name, and you certainly don’t have your name to offer, as your beloved partner Jehan has been bandying it about, answer a question of mine. To what end have you decided to kidnap me? Ransom, yes, I know, but what is it that you want, and why did you choose me?” He asked the questions coolly, still smirking slightly, as if not expecting an answer, simply asking for the fun of it.
Keenin decided to exceed his expectations and answered back, “Someone wanted us to take you so that your father would step down, but he’s paying us too little for a kid like you, when your father has the assets to pay us so much more.” With the look of smirking satisfaction in his eyes, he knew that he’d been wrong. This boy, this Narien, had known he would answer truthfully.
The truth didn’t seem to surprise him, either. He just snorted derisively. “He will not come. Nor would he have stepped down. How long will you wait?”
Keenin narrowed his eyes at Narien, “Another fortnight.”
Narien just scoffed again, “And what will you do when he does not come? Your decision should be made before the limit is up.” His cool, pale eyes looked away from the man.
Keenin laughed at him, instead, “I have heard many boys just like you say just that, and others say just the opposite. ‘He won’t come,’ ‘he will come,’ they say with pride. Your father will no doubt be no different. You’ll see. They all come, and they all leave poorer than they came.”
The boy shrugged and didn’t bother to correct him. There was no pride in his voice. “I suggest you be prepared, that is all.”
“And why is that?” Keenin sneered.
His captive looked back at him, eyebrows up casually, unconcerned. “Did I not say that I know your place, too? When the money does not come, you will be left with nothing, returning to your master without your promised profits. I have reconciled myself to whatever outcome befalls me, so whether he comes or not, be prepared for the eventuality that he will not, or I may not be the only one whose body floats out to sea with the tide.” He gave a little bark of laughter and refused to say another word, and although Keenin had most definitely seen people pay even when their relatives thought they would not, he got the oddest feeling that this Narien did not have a shadow of a doubt about the outcome. The boy’s certainty proved warranted, and in two weeks’ time, when Mason Ki’ila did not appear, he had made his choice.
(Original date written unknown as it is saved from a blog post now deleted.)