Chapter 1 - Charging In

Tossing a coin into a well for good luck was a long-standing tradition in town—a superstition passed down through generations.

Watching the shine of the coin as it spun up into the air, and then back down again into the dark below was pleasing on the eyes.

Watching a poor, scrawny young boy scream his lungs out as he fell into the well...is significantly less pleasing on the eyes.

And even less so on the ears.

Yet there Mel was, his shoulder length black hair whipping about his head, his green eyes wide with fear.

His frail limbs waved uncontrollably, seeking purchase on the walls just out of arms reach.

His grey, threadbare clothes fluttered around him, accentuating the gauntness of his form.

Truly, an unpleasant sight.

His appearance wasn't the only unsightly thing about him though.

He wasn't like the lucky children, as Mel called them—the ones with warm homes, food at every meal, a proper education, and parents to fawn over their every want or need.

Mel's "home" was not freezing at best in the winter.

His current, and only residence to date, was an old chapel at the edge of town, serving as an orphanage.

It wasn't as grand as the few other churches in town, but it had four walls and a roof without too many leaks.

Food wise…well, it was scarce; and it had been his whole life.

It was a pretty obvious thing to tell when looking at him, or the other orphans.

Nobody would believe he had ever been fed well in his life.

His education had mostly come from the church priest, Father Mathias, who watched over him and the few other unlucky orphans who lived with him.

He was always lecturing Mel to "be courageous" and "stand up for those who are weak". To trust that the Gods would provide what he needed.

Anything else Mel needed to know; he learned on the fly. Taking in experiences and judging the world for himself.

And parents? Who needs them, Mel surely didn't.

On this occasion, it seemed the 'courage' the priest always hyped up in his stories, had led him straight into a free fall towards certain death.

'Well, I won't be listening to him again' 

Mel thought ruefully as he plummeted down, the stone walls of the well rushing past him with alarming speed.

He couldn't help but find grim amusement in his situation.

Maybe he was like one of the cheap coins people tossed in—destined to sink to the bottom and be forgotten, a byproduct of a forgotten wish.

Oh what he would give to have just a few of those coins. Maybe then he could be like the other children in town. Lucky.

As the rush of air around him turned his thoughts to vertigo, a bitter feeling rose up within him.

Or was it just the adrenaline of falling so fast? It hardly mattered now.

All he had wanted to do was help his friend.

Instead, he found himself in a dizzying descent, uncertainty and regret not far behind.

Just when panic threatened to overwhelm him, Mel hit the water with a bone-jarring impact, knocking the wind out of him.

Darkness quickly enveloped his vision as he was swept into the current of the icy water.

Unconsciousness claimed him.

***

Mel had not lived for that long.

He was currently at the ripe old age of 7.

Or was it 8? Who knew? Who cared.

According to the father Mathias, he was abandoned at the old chapel on a dark and moonless night.

Hence he had given the baby the name Mel, meaning darkness.

Not very original, but he was fine with it.

The priest had then added the prefix of 'Bea' to his name, meaning 'lucky', as an afterthought.

Now that, Mel didn't agree with, or particularly like.

Lucky was something Mel knew he was anything but.

Just look at his life, there was no luck to be found. Everything he had was earned through hard, honest work...

The Priest was the only one who called him by his full name Beamel {Bay-uh-mehl}. Few knew or cared to remember it though.

Everyone else called him Mel, and he preferred it that way.

Mel had been on the verge of starvation all those years ago (not that he could remember), and the priest had told him that he had been suprised Mal had lived at all.

Was there a name for stubborn? That would have been better than lucky.

The priest tried to help Mel and the other orphans as best he could, but with so little funding and other kids in greater need to take care of, there was little to go around.

Thus, the obvious choice had been for Mel to take to petty crime!

Something most of the orphans were decently adept at.

Was it a crime to try and survive? To steal from the 'lucky ones' who seemingly had all they needed?

Apparently, in this town and all the other places he had heard stories about, it was.

At first, when Mel attempted to steal food, he was swiftly caught, resulting in cuts and bruises along with many stern lectures from the nagging priest.

However, after ten…twenty…maybe fifty attempts, who cares to remember, enduring considerable pain, and even losing a tooth, Mel became adept at pilfering food from the local stalls—and escaping.

At least most of the time.

You would think that this relative success would garner the attention of the other orphans, but they didn't have time to pay him any attention.

They had their own miserable lives to attend to.

Only one of the other children seemed to invest any of her time with him at all.

Her name was Leora, an eight(ish)-year-old girl with dull grey eyes and a seemingly constant frown of worry on her face.

She was a sprite of a girl with a rat's nest of dirty blonde hair and a smile that could light up a room.

She was never found without her small, misshapen doll, an old memento from her life before her family had passed away in a house fire.

The doll was stained with soot and missing both its hair and left arm, but it held deep meaning for her.

Together with her doll, Leora would often ask him about his day.

She would clean up his injuries after a theft gone wrong, and lecture him on how to she thought he should properly behave around others.

She must have felt responsible for him, as she was one of the only children who diligently listened to the priest's lectures.

Compared to him, she was basically a saint.

Mel was rather proud of the fact that he could call her a friend, probably his only real friend in this town.

'Maybe I'm not so bad,' he often found himself thinking, 'if she can be friends with the likes of me.'

So, when Mel had seen Leora being pushed around by some of the more privileged children in the center of the town square, he stupidly charged forward to help.