Ripper kept his head down.

That was probably the best wording for it. He followed rules, avoided crowds, and made sure not to stray into the center of attention. If something was going on, well, it had nothing to do with him. Nothing ventured, nothing gained--nor lost. He was your model prisoner. Didn't make trouble and didn't stick his nose where it didn't belong.

Which was why, when some of the other inmates banded together and blasted holes all over the compound, not a single guard thought to keep an eye on him.

And that in turn was why he now ran unhindered through a field of forget-me-nots while smoke rose in thick, winding columns toward the endless night sky.

How long he'd been running--he'd lost track by now. He clutched a burlap sack against his chest with both arms. Inside that sack were what precious few possessions he had left. His father's hook, and his eyepatch. A pair of real pearl earrings that had belonged to his aunt. A bare handful of gold shillings and a message in a bottle.

His feet bled. His legs ached. His lungs felt like they might collapse any moment.

He kept running.

The forget-me-nots became waist-high grasses. No--wheat? Wheat, it was wheat. The stalks rustled against his legs. He slowed now, stopped, and felt carefully with one foot for the aisle between rows. He found and followed it, and when he found it was dependably straight, began to jog, and then to run again.

Doubtlessly they knew he was gone by now. How long before the first search parties set out? An hour, maybe two? Or were they already out? Would they bring hounds to sniff him out, guns to quell any escape?

His body screamed. Darkness lurked in the edges of his vision--not of the night, but of exhaustion. The only sounds he heard with any reliability were his breaths and his heart, thump thump thumping behind his ribs.

One more step. One more step.

Just one more.

Somewhere, however far, the ocean still called to him. Had called to him for seven years. Even if it killed him, even if it was the last thing he ever did, he would see her again. He would stand on the sand in her surf and mourn for the people who should've stood with him.

And then--if he didn't die--he'd pick himself up and carry on their legacy.

One more step.

Black clotted over his eyes and the world winked out.

When he came around, he was lying on his back, and above the sky was still full of stars.

There was also a rather beautiful young woman looking down at him with concern. Under the light of the moon, she looked almost like a spirit. Her blonde hair was leached white, in double braids that hung over her shoulders, and eyes that could've been grey, blue, or green. Freckles dotted her cheeks and nose, as though whatever god pieced her together had haphazardly tossed them across her skin.

She was smacking his cheek lightly with a frown. "Hey. Hey, are you alive?"

". . .Are you an angel?"

"No."

"Oh, good. Then yes."

The frown deepened, with perplexity and faint amusement. "Can you stand?"

"Give me a minute."

Ripper closed his eyes. His head hurt like it might just split open and disgorge its contents. That of course was absolute heaven compared to the horror that was his leg muscles. His lungs were so tired, he might've been trapped beneath a boulder for how much effort each breath cost him. It was actually unlikely he could move at all.

The young lady put her hands on his chest and muttered a rapid-fire incantation. Warmth bloomed under his skin and spread like fire through dry leaves. Just like that, the aches and pains disappeared--although he strangely had a strong craving for milk all of a sudden.

Ripper sat up and got a better look at her. She was probably about his age, sixteen or so. Maybe younger. She wore a simple cotton dress.

She got a better look at him as well, then said, "You're a prisoner."

"Yep."

"Why?"

"I'm a pirate."

One brow furrowed, and the other crept higher on her face. That look expressed doubt better than the word itself.

Ripper amended himself, "I'm descended from pirates."

"Well, I'm descended from farmers. Why were you passed out in our wheat fields?"

He tried to remember how many hours he'd run without rest. It had been early morning--just before dawn--when he escaped the prison. And it was probably midnight, roughly, when he'd blacked out. So, seven? Ish? "Exhaustion."

He seemed to have tested her patience. "Yes, but why are you here? In this place? It's just empty countryside out here."

"Ah." He grimaced. "I figured I'd run first, map routes later. How far is it to Vesperia?"

"About a month's travel, by foot. Two weeks maybe, if you have a cart."

A rudimentary, foolish idea formed. Ripper thought it might work, though, if this really was just empty countryside.

He faced the girl and solemnly asked, "How would you feel about pretending to be my hostage?"

She looked dumbfounded, so he explained his plan--she'd pretend to be his hostage and he would commandeer a cart and donkey to get to Vesperia. And maybe some food. Yeah, he'd definitely need food.

She swallowed this plan pretty easily. He expected a rebuff, maybe 'you're crazy'. Instead she said, "One condition."

"Which would be?"

"You take me with you."

He blinked. "Uh--why?"

"Because." Aggrieved, she said, "I hate farming. I want to learn magic, but my parents won't let me--and everyone in this godforsaken village thinks I'm a girl."

Ripper digested this. He went back to his earlier opinion and revised it.

A rather beautiful young man had been looking down at him with concern.

"Wait," he said. "That's fine, but what's your name?"

". . ." The young man's expression was blank at first, then became irate. "I actually don't have one. Not unless you count Jenna, and I don't."

"Jericho."

"Fine, whatever. You?"

"It's Ripper."

"Nice to meet you, Ripper. Follow me, I know just where to get what we need."

It was that simple.