His stomach gave a violent, painful lurch, reminding him he hadn't eaten in three days. He doubled over, gasping. His eyes watered, and through the blur, he saw it.
The half-eaten loaf of bread, sitting on a pile of refuse.
Arthur stared at it, his throat working. He was a man. He was an educated, civilized man from a world with hygiene and standards. He'd managed corporate accounts. He'd lusted after high-class women. He was not a rat, fighting for scraps in a gutter.
"No," he rasped, his voice cracking. "Not... not yet."
He pushed himself off the damp brick, his legs shaking with weakness. He had one last option. The most degrading one of all. An option he hadn't even considered until this very moment, because his pride, stubbornly, was the last thing to starve.
Begging.
He couldn't work. His body was too weak, his name too cursed. But surely... surely someone would pity a starving man.
He stumbled out of the alley, leaving the piece of garbage bread to the rats. He found a spot on a less-trafficked side street, one that led to a small temple of the Sun God. People going to pray might be in a giving mood.
He sank to the ground, pulling his pathetic blue cloak tight around his thin frame. It was the lowest he had ever been. He felt invisible and simultaneously, horrifyingly exposed.
He sat there, silent, his shame a lead weight in his gut. Finally, he forced his hand out, palm up.
For an hour, nothing. People saw him, their faces pinching in disgust before they hurried past. He was just another piece of filth littering the roadside.
Then, a woman leading a small child paused. She looked at him, her eyes filled with a sad, nervous pity. She clearly didn't know who he was; she just saw a man wasting away.
"Mommy, is he sick?" the child whispered.
"Hush, dear." The woman fumbled in a small belt pouch and tossed a single, small copper coin at his feet. It landed in the dirt with a dull tink. "May the Suns spare you," she murmured, before pulling her child away.
Arthur stared at the coin. It was the first currency he had acquired in this world. It felt like a brand.
His stomach cramped again, overriding the shame. He snatched the coin, his hand trembling.
A little later, an old man leaning on a cane paused and dropped two more coppers near him. "A black day when a young man has to beg," the man wheezed, shaking his head as he hobbled on.
By the time the sun began to dip, casting long, cold shadows, Arthur had collected six copper bits. His back ached, his pride was in ashes, but he had money.
He stumbled to the cheapest baker's stall, the one near the edge of the market that sold day-old goods. He pointed a shaky finger.
"Bread. How much?"
"Two bits for a roll," the baker said, not looking up.
Arthur pushed the coins forward. He received a small, hard roll of dark bread. It wasn't the garbage from the alley. It was his. He had earned it, in a way.
He ducked into an alley to eat it, wolfing it down in three bites, the dry crumbs scraping his throat. It was the best thing he had ever tasted.
This became his life.
For two weeks, he survived. He was a ghost, a fixture on the corner. He made just enough for that one stale roll of bread each day. The shame was constant, but the hunger was kept at bay. He was no one. A beggar.
Then, the woman with the child returned.
Arthur saw her coming and instinctively held out his hand. The woman started to reach for her pouch, her face etched with that same, sad pity.
"Mila, what are you doing?!"
Another woman, her friend, grabbed Mila's arm and yanked her back. Her eyes were wide with terror as she stared at Arthur.
"What, Elara? He's starving—"
"Are you blind?! Do you know who that is?!" Elara hissed, making the holy sign of the sun, her fingers jabbing the air.
"That's the Empty! The Failed Summon from the palace! He's cursed!"
The change in Mila was horrifying. Her pity evaporated, replaced by a pale, breathless terror. She looked at Arthur as if he had just transformed into a demon. She grabbed her child, pulling the girl behind her skirts.
"Gods... I... I gave him coin," she whispered, her voice trembling.
"You've invited ill-fortune!" Elara shrieked, now pulling her friend away. "Get away from him! He'll blight your home! He'll curse your child!"
The two women practically ran, disappearing down the street.
The exchange had been loud. A nearby shopkeeper, who had always ignored Arthur, now stared at him with open hostility. An old woman across the street spat on the ground.
The next day, Arthur returned to his spot. No one dropped a coin.
Instead, he got glares. People crossed the street to avoid his side. The "pitiful beggar" was gone. In his place was the "cursed pariah."
The day after that, the shopkeeper from the corner came out, not with a coin, but with a bucket of slop.
"Get your filth and your bad luck away from my door, you cursed!" he roared, and threw the bucket.
Arthur was too slow, too weak to move. The cold, greasy water and rotting vegetable scraps splashed over him. The stench was unbearable. A few people laughed.
He fled.
He tried another street. But the news had spread. He was that man. The "Empty." The "Cursed."
A group of street kids, dozon in numbers, found him. "Cursed! Cursed!" they chanted, throwing pebbles that bounced off his shoulder and head. He was too weak to fight, too tired to run. He just curled up, protecting his face.
Finally, a city guard, his boot-heels clicking on the cobblestone, kicked him hard in the ribs. The blow sent a starburst of pain through his side.
"I told you vagrants to stay out of the main thoroughfares," the guard sneered. Then he looked closer. "Oh... it's you. The Empty." He spat near Arthur's head. "You're an offense to the gods. Get out of my sight before I decide to earn some divine favor by running you through."
Arthur crawled away, his ribs screaming, the jeers of the children following him.
He couldn't work.
He couldn't beg.
He was starving, he was beaten, and he was soaked in filth. Every avenue of human survival was closed to him.
He found himself back in that first alley, by the tannery and the butcher shop. He collapsed against the wall, the pain in his ribs making it hard to breathe. He was done.
He was going to die here. In a filthy alley, in a world that wasn't his, cursed for a power he never had.
His vision blurred. He looked over at the garbage pile. The half-loaf was gone, but a new piece of refuse was there. A discarded meat pie, half-eaten, its crust green with mold.
He stared at it.
This time, there was no hesitation. The shame was gone. Pride was gone. His humanity had been beaten, starved, and washed out of him.
His hand, skeletal and shaking, reached out. He snatched the moldy pie. A rat squeaked and darted away.
Arthur brought it to his lips, his eyes closing as he bit through the mold. It tasted of rot, and grime, and the absolute, crushing end of everything he had been.
He was an animal. And he would do anything to survive.
*****
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