There were a few good things in his life during this time. The children were good things. There were a lot of kids around every new place he went. Lost waifs kind of like him, living on the streets in whatever free space they could find, nowhere to go, no proper home or family.
With the kids, he could ease down those walls of wariness, walls of distrust. Well sure, he wouldn't trust them not to nick all his stuff the moment his back was turned, but he knew none of the younglings were after his life
So whenever he could, whenever they'd let him, he would help them, play with them, teach them things, give them the kind of attention they craved. Any spare food or money he gave to them, often going hungry himself. He let them have blankets he, ahem, found. Played chase and tag with them, played with sticks or old balls or papers or rocks, whatever was fun. He taught them what he knew about survival; pick pocketing and stealing, the best ways to fight and defend yourself, how to find good hiding spots, both for yourself and so no one can pinch your belongings. He gave them all the positive attention he could; he listened to them if they wanted to talk, laughed at their jokes, praised them for every little thing the achieved or found, he gave them hugs if he knew they would accept it, played with, fought for, and was just there for as long as he was able to be.
He loved watching their faces light up when they were having fun or learnt something new.
And he hates those that tried to hurt them.
He tried to protect the kids from any bad people, from anyone who wanted to hurt them or take advantage of them. He glared and threatened and fought for their sakes. If anyone hurt his kids then he hurt them back. He only regretted that he couldn't do more, couldn't protect them when he had to leave.
Another good thing. There was an old man who sat in the park every afternoon, feeding the ducks on the lake, telling old war stories to the ducks and anyone else who cared to listen.
For two and a half weeks, until he had to move on again, he loved to sit there in the park with the old man; sit on the bench by the lake under the big oak tree and just listen and soak in all the tales the old man would tell while helping him feed his ducks. Sometimes he would ask lots of questions and try to garner all the details he could. Other times he'd just sit and listen with a silence he seemed unable to break. A few times the old man would him questions and he regretted bitterly that he had no answers, no tales of his own to tell in exchange. He explained, one time, why he had no tales of his own to bring. The old man just nodded like one of those wise, old mystic sages and told him it was alright, that he had the opportunity to make new tales of his life.
Yes, he loved his afternoons with the old man in the park.
Good things. Good memories to build into new tales. Tales he might tell himself when he has his own park with ducks on the pond and someone to listen.
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