"You needn't be what they make of us."
Ma’s words were warm, as they oft were. An ever-burning hearth in the midst of the Row’s cruel winters, Aurora’s mother stood as the sturdy hull that kept the Osorio ship afloat. A lone seamstress, feeding a litter of six with nothing but faith and a needle. This was all Aurora had. This was all Aurora knew.
Memories of her father were fleeting – nothing more but a distorted reflection upon the sea, his features obscured in the ripples of passing time. An elf, for certain. A craven, upon assumption. Ma never spoke of him. The Row-folk never asked of him. Yes, one could suppose they all knew. But, mayhaps, Ma was enough on her own.
This one particular year was harsh. The cracks in the hovel’s roof stood no chance against the Amnian downpour. It was nearing the end of Marpenoth: far too early for the snow to form. Yet, the cold would not be so easily staved within the slums of the Row. Rusted pots and pans did very little to save the floorboards from the rot of rain. Ansel, the youngest of the litter, was forced to sleep at the foot of Aurora’s cot – a cot already shared betwixt her and her sisters. His bed could not shed itself from the water that had seeped deep within the fabric.
“Can ye drown in yer own ‘ome?” she wondered.
It came as no surprise when one of them fell sick. Food refused to be kept down. Fevers ran hot. Pitiful lungs struggled for air. The Almshouse was full–a flood in its own right, spilling outwards with the poor and the destitute. No matter how much Ma begged and pleaded, there would be no room for her ailing child. The desperate were numerous, and even still, the Osorios fared better than the lot of them. Ma had a roof over her head. Many did not.
So there came a choice. Taran was spread thin enough as it were. Medicine was costly. Magic even more-so. What coin that may have barely bought them supper, now were pooled towards medicinal tonics brewed by the questionable witch-doctors of the slums. It was then, Aurora came to know an empty stomach well – the irrefutable pangs of hunger that roared and clawed at her insides. For every meal they shirked, there was a promise of recovery. One more tonic. One more night. One more meal.
Yet, the nights grew colder. The roof withered and split. There became little use to emptying the copper pots and splitting mugs. Out Ma’s litter of six, only Aurora and Ansel saw the end of that winter.
Aurora took to dockwork as soon as she was able. Despite Ma’s guidance beneath the needle, the youngster lacked the finesse needed for such a delicate craft. She loved the bustle of the port – the sailors yelling over their crates, the pelicans squawking overhead, the varied travellers that made their way to and from the city. The coin earned was measly and the labour was gruelling, but it gave her purpose.
Yet, it wasn’t enough. Ma’s health was ailing, and the sailors that pulled into port made nearly thrice what Aurora earned. She had no wanderlust, nor a calling to leave her home – but if a sailor’s wages could keep her family afloat, then why not do just so? What a shame, it was then, that a lass upon a brig was considered an ill omen amongst the mariners. There would be no chance in the Hells she would be hired amongst the Muranni crews. So, Aurora did what any daughter of the Row would do – she split her hair with a rusty dagger, donned her brother's attire, and masqueraded as a lad.
The sailor lad, Rory.
Years passed upon the seas. Coin made its way back home to Ma’s hovel, keeping the remnants of her family alive. Rory learned what it meant to keep a brig afloat – to do one’s share, to put one’s back into it, and to throw a proper fist when heads came to blows. And so, as the seafaring lass grew into herself, and her brother’s tunics refused to fit any longer, she revealed herself as she was.
And they accepted her.
The cold was biting the morn she came back to port. A sack of silver rested upon her belt as she trudged past the docks and back into Arbas Square. How ready she was to tell Ma and Ansel of all she had seen this go around: the sandy shores of Calimshan, the peddlers she had out-haggled for the chain that rests upon her chest, the great storm that had caught their backs.
It was there, not a block away from The Low Dog, that she saw her.
Ma was cut to pieces. Long since passed, left to rot on the cobblestone, all for what little remained in her bloodstained coinpurse. Winter was approaching, and the Row-folk would grow desperate, as they would each year. How foolish she was to think that coin alone would suffice in keeping her kin alive. No one was there to protect the nest. Once more, she had failed them.
It was not as if she didn’t understand. Had she been a bit older, a bit fuller, she would’ve most likely have done the same. It did not take much to smash a refugee’s head against a wall, pick at their belongings, and flee. If it had meant that her siblings would have survived, all those years ago, Aurora would have done it in a heartbeat. Desperation is naught but a symptom of Murann’s greed. The Row remained as it was because it was allowed to be. The denizens of the Upper Districts did not need their exotic fabrics, the excess of food, nor whatever pageantries they deemed necessary upon each passing moon. How ridiculous to believe that there was not enough wealth to go around in the heart of Amn. Aurora understood why her mother had to die. In the world she was thrust upon, her mother’s death was a necessity.
And yet, his death was indeed a necessity too. The wretched cycle that plagued The Row continued to turn, that eve. One swing after another, straddled atop the poor boy, Aurora caved his head in. There was no pride in this. No justice. This itself was a necessity.
"You needn't be what they make of us," Ma said once.
But she had to be. And she was.
