When you're born in the shadows and have been there all your life, you tend to not know what the light is like, what most people think 'right' is, or what 'friends' truly are. The absence of 'companionship' is a forgone conclusion, and instead of looking for warmth on cold nights, you spend your time trying to avoid cold steel in your back.

You avoid the law, even if you have done nothing wrong, keep your head down, and trust nobody, except the highest bidder... after they have paid half up-front of a job. Oh, and family, you can often trust family... until you can't... if you had one to start with.

I was lucky. I had a family, part of one at least. I think I still do, somewhere.

My dad was a mercenary, the type of guy who would take "odd" jobs for coin, and by 'odd' I mean the kind that don't get on well with those who call themselves 'law-abiding'. They're the kind of people who can't exactly settle down, not unless they save up and move to a place where there's not a chance of them being known. Most don't live that long, and if you end up with a family of sorts, you can forget saving. 

That being said, my chances of living a life in the light died the instant I was born. Seeing as nobody wants to be a long-term companion of a street urchin, the best they get is usually one-time romps where money or alcohol is involved. According to my father, this is what happened to him, namely the part about the alcohol. He'd found an honest enough woman and they started talking. Then they started drinking, and then... other things.

The better part of a year later comes a knock at his door. It was supposedly the mother of his child. I say supposedly because it's not like anyone with the 'profession' my father has is ever sure of such a thing. This woman, my 'mother', wanted no part in child-rearing, or so I was told. She may have gone around claiming others as the father with little success. In no uncertain terms, my father was told that either he claim his 'son', or the boy, me, would be left in the woods or the river.

In my father's eyes, there was no 'choice' to make. He took up the mantle of 'father'. He said it was hard, those first years, and we wouldn't have made it without help from our neighbors and Esmeralda.

Esmeralda was the closest thing I had to a mother, though as I grew older, she insisted on me calling her 'aunt' or 'auntie' instead of mother. She'd said she was a 'Nightengale', which sounded pretty until I was old enough to find out what a brothel was and that she was employed at one on the days she wasn't with me. 

My father, not wanting a repeat of history, started visiting Esmeralda exclusively. She was barren, so there was no chance of me getting siblings. My father was a frequent customer of hers, so much so that instead of payment, she just lived with us.

She didn't love him, and he knew it, though if I had to guess, he probably loved her, if for no other reason than the fact that she took care of me when she could.

I probably didn't get the same love 'normal' kids did, the ones I'd see laughing and playing in the streets in daylight, but I can say that I was loved. Amongst us children of shadows, those born from prostitution, drunken revelry, to the unsavory members of society. We were the children who played quietly in dark alleys, making sport of thievery and pickpocketing. It wasn't all fun and games for some of us. For some, those days 'playing' were essential for survival. My father and Esmeralda each told me often that I didn't need to 'play those games'. They did tell me to 'watch and learn' though.

They cared in their own ways, about me and each other. They lived their lives separately, from the same house. Even so, most people thought they were married. The number of times women came over yelling at Esmeralda for laying with their husbands was common enough that I stopped keeping count. Their surprise to learn of her profession was always a sight to see.

Esmeralda would take me out to the market in the evenings on her off days, cook for us, and keep house. My father would do the same during the day, as he generally worked nights, also taking me out once he felt I was old enough.

They'd each tell me all sorts of stories. Esmeralda was a fan of fairy tales. My father liked stories with action, and heroes. He and his 'coworkers' would sit around a table at the local hole-in-the-wall and tell their favorite stories, which usually ended when a neighboring table disagreed about something. I was rushed out of the bar more often than not on most afternoons because of this, and had to wait to hear the end of their stories.

Eventually, the day came that I knew all of their stories, and they weren't particularly keen on telling me any other stories they knew.