Forgotten Histories

The stench of unwashed bodies and damp earth clung to the narrow alleyways, winding through the slums like veins of a dying beast. The city beyond its crumbling walls thrived in golden lights and laughter, but here, in the gutter of the world, hunger gnawed at bellies like a starving rat. 

Rowan tightened his grip on his brother's frail wrist, guiding him through the filth-strewn streets, past scavengers picking through waste, past the hollow-eyed men who had long since given up.

The wind howled between the crooked shacks, stealing away what little warmth remained. It was always cold here. Not just in the air, but in the way people looked at them—if they bothered to look at all. The slums had no mercy. The strong took what they wanted. The weak were forgotten.

"We need to find something to eat," Rowan muttered, more to himself than to his younger brother. He was only three years older, but to a child of the slums, those years stretched like a lifetime. At ten, he already knew that kindness was a luxury no one could afford. At seven, his brother, Elias, had yet to learn that lesson.

"I'm not that hungry," Elias lied, his voice barely above a whisper. His ribs jutted out beneath his tattered shirt, his cheeks hollow and pale. His lips were cracked, and his breath came in shallow gasps.

Rowan forced down his frustration. Starvation had a sound, a dry rasp in the throat, a slow fading of strength. He heard it every night in Elias's breath. If he didn't find food soon, his brother wouldn't last the winter.

They passed a group of older boys huddled around a burning barrel, their eyes glinting with the kind of cruelty Rowan had learned to avoid. He pulled Elias closer, lowering his gaze, but one of them noticed. A boy, maybe fifteen, his face scarred and lips curled in amusement.

"You, runt," he called. "What you got?"

Rowan didn't stop. He kept walking, heart hammering. He knew better than to engage. The pouch at his belt was empty, but the older boys wouldn't care. They'd take it anyway, and maybe worse.

"I said—"

The older boy lunged. Rowan shoved Elias aside just in time, the boy's fist grazing his shoulder instead of his face. Rowan stumbled but stayed on his feet, his body tense and ready. Hunger had slowed him, but he was still quick—quick enough to dodge the first strike. The second one caught him in the ribs, sending him sprawling into the mud. Laughter erupted around him.

Rowan clenched his teeth, pushing himself up despite the ache in his side. He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't beg. He had to be strong. For Elias. For himself. He stood, fists clenched, ready to fight for what little he had left.

Even if it wasn't much.

Even if it wasn't enough.

The older boy loomed over him, his shadow stretching long and jagged across the muddy ground. His grin was all teeth and malice, his breath reeking of rot and cheap liquor. Behind him, the other boys jeered, their voices sharp and mocking, like the cawing of crows over carrion.

"What's this?" the boy sneered, kicking at the small pouch tied to Rowan's belt. "You hiding something, rat?"

Rowan didn't answer. He kept his eyes low, his body tense. Words were weapons here, and his silence was the only shield he had. But the boy wasn't satisfied. He grabbed Rowan by the collar, yanking him forward until their faces were inches apart.

"I asked you a question," the boy hissed, his voice low and dangerous. "What's in the bag?"

Rowan's jaw tightened. He knew the pouch was empty, but the boy wouldn't believe him. Trust was as rare as a full belly in the slums. Still, he had no choice but to tell the truth. "Nothing," he said, his voice steady despite the fear clawing at his chest. "It's empty."

The boy's eyes narrowed. He didn't believe him. Of course he didn't. He ripped the pouch from Rowan's belt, tearing it open with a grunt. When he found nothing inside, his face twisted in rage.

"Waste of my time," he spat, tossing the pouch into the mud. He shoved Rowan hard, sending him stumbling back into Elias. The younger boy let out a small cry as they both fell, the cold mud seeping through their threadbare clothes.

The older boys laughed, their voices echoing through the alley like the tolling of a funeral bell. Rowan clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He wanted to scream. He wanted to fight. But he couldn't. Not here. Not now. He had to be smarter than that. He had to survive.

"Come on," he muttered, pulling Elias to his feet. The younger boy's face was streaked with tears, but he didn't make a sound. He had learned, just like Rowan, that crying only made things worse.

They stumbled away from the group, their steps slow and unsteady. The slums stretched out around them, a labyrinth of despair. The shacks leaned precariously against one another, their walls patched with scraps of wood and rusted metal. The air was thick with the stench of decay—rotting food, unwashed bodies, and the ever-present tang of desperation. Somewhere in the distance, a baby wailed, its cries sharp and piercing. No one came to comfort it.

Rowan kept his head down, his eyes scanning the ground for anything they could use. A scrap of cloth, a piece of metal, even a half-eaten crust of bread. But the slums had been picked clean long ago. The scavengers had taken everything of value, leaving only the dregs for the rats and the desperate.

"Rowan," Elias whispered, his voice trembling. "I'm cold."

Rowan didn't answer. He didn't know what to say. The cold was a constant here, seeping into your bones and never letting go. He tightened his grip on Elias's hand, pulling him closer. They would find shelter soon. They had to.

But the slums offered no refuge. The few places that might have provided warmth—the abandoned warehouses, the crumbling church—were already claimed by gangs or worse. Rowan had learned the hard way that there was no safety in numbers. Not here. Not when every hand was turned against you.

As they turned a corner, they passed a group of men huddled around a fire. The flames were small, barely more than embers, but the men guarded them fiercely. Their eyes followed Rowan and Elias as they passed, dark and calculating. Rowan quickened his pace, pulling Elias along. He didn't look back. He didn't dare.

The Sun was setting now, its weak light fading behind the jagged skyline. The shadows grew longer, swallowing the alleyways in darkness. Rowan's stomach growled, a hollow ache that never seemed to go away. He glanced at Elias, his heart twisting at the sight of his brother's sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. They needed food. Soon. But the slums offered no mercy.

"We'll find something," Rowan said, his voice low. "I promise."

Elias nodded, but his eyes were empty. He had heard that promise before. They both had. And they both knew how rarely it was kept.

The wind picked up, carrying with it the faint sound of laughter from the city beyond the walls. It was a cruel reminder of the world they would never know—a world of warmth and light, of full bellies and safe beds. Rowan clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. He hated that sound. He hated the city. He hated the slums. But most of all, he hated the helplessness that clung to him like a second skin.

He would survive. He had to. For Elias. For himself. But as the darkness closed in around them, even that thought felt like a fragile hope, slipping through his fingers like smoke.