Kaz Brekker, fourteen, scrappy and hardened, looks down at the cane held in his gloved hands. It has a solid weight to it, not too light and not too heavy, the first one a runner could find for him, and he can’t seem to figure out how to use it. It should be simple enough, just shifting some of his weight onto the cane at every step, but his timing is off and his weight placement is off and everything is wrong. He can’t figure out how to do it right.
Kaz, grimacing, places the end of the cane on the floor, his left hand on the head, and slowly gets up from his narrow, uncomfortable bed.
He doesn’t fall immediately as he stands. That should feel better than it does—like more of a success than it does. He just wobbles instead, leaning a little more on his cane, and the pain shooting up his right leg lessens minutely. He takes a step with his right leg, lifting it carefully as he balances on his left leg and his cane, and sets it down. He doesn’t fall. Kaz stills, making sure he really won’t topple to the floor, and breathes a sigh of relief.
He tries the same with his left leg and—
—And then he’s on the floor, molten pain searing at his knee, a new spot of pain on his hip that’s sure to be another colorful bruise to add to the collection he’s started. Damned wooden floor. Better than stone, at least, but everyone knows only merchers get stone floors. Kaz might dress like one of those wealthy snobs as much as he can, more and more every day as he folds his bastardous visage around him like a cloak, but he sure as hell doesn’t live in a mansion in the Financial District or out in the countryside.
Kaz pushes himself back to his feet.
He wasn’t putting enough weight on his cane. That’s fine, he can put more weight on it this time around instead of making his bad leg take the weight of a step. He knows how to learn from his mistakes, how to be better than he was.
He would be dead already if he didn’t.
He tries again, stepping on his right leg. He ignores the ache in his hip from his fall and the way his leg still pains him. The step is successful, but every step with his right has been successful. It’s the step with his left where the real trouble always shows.
Once again his prediction proves right as rain, and once again he tumbles to the hard wooden floor.
Kaz lets loose a swear that Jordie would’ve never let out of his mouth if he had been there to hear it. But it feels fitting in response to what he knows is going to be another nasty bruise on his hip.
He tries again, because what else is he supposed to fucking do when he can’t walk without this goddamned cane? He falls, chest heaving, the back of his neck damp from exertion, his leg aching and his eyes shut tight because he refuses to cry.
He won’t cry over a cane. Not now, not for this, not ever.
It’s a useless sentiment. He does, and the hot tears spill down his face like the shame spilling into his gut, down his neck when he tilts his head to gaze with closed eyes at the ceiling. If he can’t do this, everything he’s worked for these past few years is useless.
He just wants to walk again, something he knows he can do if he just tries harder. If he just solves his impossible puzzle, alone in his room.
If all else truly fails, he just wants to be okay.