Whitby was so much different than the town Edmund grew up in.

It almost felt like a dream.  Somehow, everything was just a little too gray, too washed out.  It made the town seem just a little dead.  Back in Pennsylvania, everything felt alive, for better or for worse.  The trees, the people, the rumors.  There was a breath somewhere in all of it.

The only breath Edmund has recognized so far in Whitby is the ocean, where he is loathe to go.  Back home, there was more flora and fauna than people knew how to deal with, but it was harmless if you weren't dense.  Just don't climb too thin trees too high, don't feed animals you don't want coming back, don't cause problems with people bigger than you are.  Simple.  But the ocean is all too eager to kill you, swallow you whole.  It was endless.

Even the air was different.  It was thick and heavy with salt, a constant reminder of the death that was just beyond the sand.  It was cloying.  In Pennsylvania, the air was rich and green and fresh even after travelling miles and miles of grasslands, or cold and soothing and tranquil from the mountains.

Maybe he was homesick.

The one thing that was the same, thankfully, was the people.  Wonderful, oblivious, bumbling people.

Rare were the days Edmund had a spare minute away from his sister, and he wasn't going to let this chance pass him by with nostalgia and nothing else.  He was hungry, so Mable must be starving, but stealing straight from market stalls felt too risky.  Therefore, some unfortunate person's pocket was the target today.

Maybe he was visiting the church too often, but Edmund found himself praying halfheartedly as he scanned the crowd.  He would only use the money he acquired to buy absolute necessities, he reasoned to whoever was listening, and he'd make sure it would last as long as possible.

Edmund imagined whoever was hearing this laugh at him, staring right through his black and tainted soul.  Forgiveness for such a small sin was not nearly enough to save him.  Why even bother?  Why not just add it to the weight on his shoulders?  He'll never be able to feel the difference.

No, the boy scolded himself, now was not the time for that.  What good was  pity when he and his sister were hungry?  What good was it to the dead?  What good was it to a sinner?  None, that's what.  Determined anew, Edmund fixed his hair as casual as he could manage and scanned the street around him once again.

The market was crowded. Loud voices, loud carts, loud haggling over bruised fruit. The sky was overcast and gray, and so were most of the men in the crowd. There were bursts of color – mostly women’s dresses, sometimes tents and banners, but it was a different creature than Pennsylvania’s lush forests. The brightest aspect of nature there was the sea, calm but sharp with craggy teeth under her waves.

Out of sight yet hardly out of mind, still the sea’s salty brine hung heavy on the breeze.

Across from Edmund, a pale man in an immaculate suit with too-long hair bickered with a tall, dark and bespectacled merchant in a top hat over wine. The pale man seemed to be making a bit of a scene, voice cutting over even some of the fishmongers (who seemed to cast that direction derisive looks); the merchant’s voice was visible more than audible at Edmund’s distance, brief open-mouthed attempts to get a word in which seemed to end substituted by gesticulated shrugs as he was talked over instead.

A tall yet rather young looking constable was strolling through the street, a mean look in his eyes. He slowed at the stall, hand stroking his baton with an overly eager look. The pale man carried on, oblivious to the predatory look they were beset by. The merchant was too caught up in pretending to look like he was listening, though his gaze had glazed over behind his spectacles.

A small man with a grown out black beard passed in front of Edmund, an open notebook in his right hand and capped fountain pen in his left. There was a chain dangling from his pocket, glittering with promise …

Attentive green eyes flickered from person to person, naturally drawn to the loudest noises in the crowd.  Perhaps near that obnoxious man would be a good target.  People would be too occupied with their annoyance to feel a tug at their pocket... right?

On the other hand, if they did and the loud man caught wind, the entire crowd and the intimidating constable would be on him like flies.

Edmund cringed at the thought, turning his head away just as the constable passed and feigning interest in the stall next to him.  A shimmer caught his attention a moment later, belonging to a chain of some sort emerging from a man's pocket.  Even better, the man appeared to be thoroughly distracted with a notebook in his hand.

Perfect.

The man passed and Edmund followed a step and a half behind, strolling casually.  Making sure to walk quietly as they moved through the crowd, the boy slowly came closer and closer to his target.  Once he was close enough, he reached out to the alluring chain and hooked his pinkie finger around it, and tugged.

The man with the promising chain took one step with Edmund’s pinky still hooked. He gave the offending hand a bruising-hard smack before turning, pen rolling away on the ground but notebook still clutched open. Dark, sharp eyes landed on the young man who stood just a touch above his own height.

Immediately, he felt regret for slapping a child. Stepped back and raised his hands in faux surrender – which should have been the extent of it. This kid looked lost, and Aslan was one of the farthest things he’d find from safe harbor.

“Coburn there,” he said with a nod toward the constable who was intently homing in on the loud man, “will beat you to a pulp if he sees you pull that.”

His accent sounded similar to the rest of the region – very similar, actually, to the people shouting throughout the market – not a fishmonger, but perhaps one of their neighbors in another trade.

Edmund had not been expected the swift strike to his hand, that much was obvious by the way he jumped and cradled his injured hand.  Panicked green eyes shot up to the man's face, and confusion quickly added into the mix when he man stepped back and raised his hands.

Fuck.  The boy turned his head just enough to see where Aslan had nodded, trying to swallow down the fear that was rising in his throat, but everything was suddenly dry.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to," Edmund said quietly.  His own accent was foreign, falling out in strange ways over the vowels.  "Please don't call him over."

He felt pathetic, caught so quickly and now begging a stranger for mercy.  But then, what other choice did he have?

Terror was a good thing for a boy to have. Allah knew it would have wizened him up to a handful of things faster. The rationalization didn’t dampen the shame for being rough with someone as poorly situated as this fellow seemed to be, but it pushed it aside and tucked it neatly away to somewhere he’d probably never bother looking again.

Dark brows raised in open skepticism at the boy’s apology.

“Shite defense,” the not-fisherman riposted. “Keep thee head down.”

He let go, turned his back to the young man, and walked forward into the crowd. There was a gaggle of women – some with plump, visible purses, talking with increasing upset amongst each other. Apparently, Gregory was a cad and went to brothels, but didn’t Gwyneth know that men could not help themselves?

Speaking of men being unable to help themselves, Aslan carefully slid a knife from his pocket. Glanced back to his would-be pickpocket, and then slid past one of the women with the knife in his left hand. He sliced through the purse string … and enough of the skirt that it dropped. Shit.

He tucked the knife back into his pocket, hand resting in it, and hurried onward. Seconds later, the screams started.

A shite defense was right, and shame heated in Edmund's veins and turned to anger.  But he had no one to be angry at but himself, so he did as the man in front of him said and ducked his head, staring at his own shoes until the stranger walked away.

Edmund looked back up at the man's retreating back, glaring and rubbing where his hand had been smacked.  Now he had to wonder if he should continue his effort on this same street or find a place where people were more unaware... and perhaps get a drink himself.

Before he could, something terrible happened.  The man turned back to look at Edmund and a second later, some women in the crowd began screaming.  The noise was so loud and shocking, the boy jumped and then hurried towards the group, thinking someone had been hurt.

That was not the case, Edmund soon realized.  No, a woman's skirt had come undone, and fallen to the ground, and Edmund had rushed over looking very ridiculous now.  Again, he averted his eyes to his own shoes, and saw a a thick purse on the ground near the women when he did.  The strap had broken - no, been cut, it looked.

The woman who the purse must have belonged to had yet to notice with her skirt situation.  Others in the crowd either had their eyes on the loud group, or were steadfastly averting their eyes.  Edmund was too short to see where the constable was over the heads around him, but did not wait another second to check before swooping in.

He grabbed the sliced strap and heaved the purse up.  It hit Edmund's chest and thin arms wrapped around it in a poor attempts to obscure it from the rest of the people around him as he tried to make an escape.

A shadow fell over Edmund.

Behind him, an incredibly high voice shouted:

“Drop that!”

And then a baton came down from quite a height at him!

The strike from the baton was enough to make Edmund's sight go black for a second.  Fuck.  Maybe he should have taken another second to look for the constable after all.

Edmund took another wobbly step forward and turned his head, tilting up and up and up to look at the man who had struck him.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Doing as he was told, Edmund dropped the bag.  More accurately, he threw it to the side and tried to continue his escape, now empty handed and hurt.

Unfortunately for the young man – the cruelty was the point.

The constable gave chase, baton raised for a Round 2!

A small child skittered for the purse Edmund threw.