The boy wakes to find himself in bed again. He doesn't question how he got there. The foreigner obviously had a hand in it. Chances are he's the reason the boy woke here this morning. The grey sky says he hasn't been knocked out for long. Hopefully it's only been a few minutes, just enough time for the bruise under his chin to set. He pokes at the large, blue splotch. It's tender and the swelling presses awkwardly on his mouth. Swallowing feels funny.
The timing of his injuries is astounding. As soon as the necklace of bruises Myr gave him two days ago start to yellow, he gets himself a new set of marks. He prays Alicia won't ask about them. He has no idea what to say if she does. But that's no pressing concern. If he can't navigate the house, it'll be impossible to trek the uneven trail to town. He'll have to skip on his daily trip, but he's not too bothered. There are closer meals to be taken today.
The boy struggles out of bed with the foreigner's pot boiled surprise in mind. At this point, he doesn't care what it is. If it's edible, he'll chew with gusto. This time, he completes more steps than today's first venture into the hall, but it's not long until he needs a break. He grins at the sight of the chair next to the bedroom door. He flops onto it and waits until his legs aren't made of pins and jelly. The jelly's firmed, but the pins are stuck fast. It's as recovered as the he’ll get, so he carries on.
The kitchen is empty. The foreigner's nowhere in sight. There's a plate of half a dozen of those round, speckled things sitting on the table. The pot they were boiled in remains on the stove.
The boy trots to the plate. It's placed where he'd been sitting earlier. He sees the speckled things are, in fact, eggs, albeit the kind he's unfamiliar with. They're small, each about the size of his thumb. He picks one up gingerly, running a thumb over the grainy texture of the shell. It smells faintly of sulfur. Yup. That's an egg.
He takes back every rude thought about the foreigner and his cooking. These eggs are the most beautiful things he's seen. He doesn't get eggs, but the foreigner's cooked six for him. The boy counts them several times. There really are six eggs for him. The plate becomes wet with tears.
He cracks an egg against the plate. The tender white is warm. The yolk is chalky and crumbs at a touch. Hard-boiled and delicious. They leave a rich aftertaste on his tongue and a trail of heat down his throat. He can't decide which part of the meal he likes more. He uses that silver spoon he's been carrying around to pick the shells of any scraps clinging to them. After the feast, the plate is full of empty, speckled husks and his spoon is stuffed back into his pocket. But he’s still hungry. He wants more.
He eyes the pot and stumbles towards it to peer inside, mindful of the stove below radiating raw heat like the sun does light. It's empty. No more eggs, just hot water. He considers the pot for several moments. He’s not had much to drink these last few days…
The kitchen is empty. The foreigner's nowhere in sight. There's a plate of half a dozen of those round, speckled things sitting on the table. The pot they were boiled in remains on the stove.
The boy trots to the plate. It's placed where he'd been sitting earlier. He sees the speckled things are, in fact, eggs, albeit the kind he's unfamiliar with. They're small, each about the size of his thumb. He picks one up gingerly, running a thumb over the grainy texture of the shell. It smells faintly of sulfur. Yup. That's an egg.
He takes back every rude thought about the foreigner and his cooking. These eggs are the most beautiful things he's seen. He doesn't get eggs, but the foreigner's cooked six for him. The boy counts them several times. There really are six eggs for him. The plate becomes wet with tears.
He cracks an egg against the plate. The tender white is warm. The yolk is chalky and crumbs at a touch. Hard-boiled and delicious. They leave a rich aftertaste on his tongue and a trail of heat down his throat. He can't decide which part of the meal he likes more. He uses that silver spoon he's been carrying around to pick the shells of any scraps clinging to them. After the feast, the plate is full of empty, speckled husks and his spoon is stuffed back into his pocket. But he’s still hungry. He wants more.
He eyes the pot and stumbles towards it to peer inside, mindful of the stove below radiating raw heat like the sun does light. It's empty. No more eggs, just hot water. He considers the pot for several moments. He’s not had much to drink these last few days…
He shoots a quick hand towards the pot. Fingertips brush the cast iron. When the brief contact doesn't immediately blister him, he becomes braver. Fingers linger longer on the edge, tempting fate and burns. They eventually lie flat along the side, sponging up the warmth. He grits his teeth. It's almost too hot to hold contact without injury. Almost, but not quite. The heat spiderwebs through his palms, up his arms, forcing the cold out of him. It's an exorcism and it brings duller aches where there was once a chill’s sharp, painful, numbness. He gives an unsteady, satisfied sigh. This new ache is of a good kind.
He clasps the heavy pot in both hands and lifts. More pins splice through his arms with the strain as he maneuvers around stove, pot, and quaking limbs. Finally, he gets to where he wants to be: seated within the heated radius of the stove with the pot weighing on his lap, branding it's wholesome heat into him through his trousers. He brings the pot’s lip to his mouth. It's a trial, but he manages a sip. The water smacks of egg-sulfur and faintly of dirt from the wellspring it was drawn from. It singes his tongue and scorches the whole way down. It warms him from the inside out and slakes his persistent thirst. It's exactly what he needed.
A few molten drops drip down the wrong pipe in between mouthfuls. He sputters and jerks to cough it up. The pot sloshes. He bumps into the stove, immediately leaning away upon contact before pausing halfway. He cranes around to better examine the stove behind him. It isn't much hotter than the pot is, making it a candidate for another heat source to cradle against.
He sets the pot on his lap, pivots, and places a cautious hand against the metal box. He smiles when he finds that a touch won't burn him. He pivots back and slowly tilts backwards until the stove becomes his heated back rest. The warmth soothes him. He slumps, then scoots closer until he’s propped up comfortably against the surface. He closes his eyes, breathes in the warmth, and basks.
When the stove’s warmth becomes too hot to handle, he sits up from his slouch, away from the stove box, and sips at the pot until his backside cools farther from spontaneous combustion. Then he reclines back into the metal box until the heat overwhelms him again. Rinse and repeat until the pot’s empty and the boy’s accustomed to the temperature and dozing against the stove.
One power nap later, the dull thumps of doors opening one after another rouse him. It's coming from the side hall. No footfalls. The foreigner is searching nearby.
He stretches from his snooze and removes the pot snuggled on his lap. He puts it back on the stove before milling towards the corridor entry. His footing is more trustworthy after his nap. The pins are still in his legs, though they number fewer and pierce him with less force. He feels stronger with a meal and warmth echoing inside him. He's confident enough to approach the foreigner.
Cracking floorboards deny the boy the element of surprise. It occurs to him how delightful it would be to catch the foreigner unawares. Heavens knows how many times the foreigner's done that to him already (three times, he counts). Pay back would be lovely. Then the foreigner notices him and the thought is pushed back to be entertained later.
“There you are.” The boy almost can't hear the foreigner from the other end of the hall, almost can't see his worry lines disappear. “Your uncle wishes to speak with you,” the foreigner says.
The boy pales. The foreigner takes one step towards him and he bolts for his trusted emergency exit, the kitchen’s side door. He takes five paces before he's caught by the back of his shirt. Not snagged on anything, caught by the foreigner. He chokes on surprise and his own momentum and crumples, coughing, to the floor.
How the hell does the foreigner move like that? Not only are his footsteps mute, he’s damn fast to boot. He moves like a ghost. The boy hears that niggling voice in the back of his head singing “what a thief he'd be!”.
The foreigner holds the boy fast while he's gathering his wits. “Hold!” The foreigner's voice is right in his ear. He's too damn close. “Myr wishes to talk, nothing more. This is no appointment with the hangman.”
Liar!
The boy glares at the foreigner over his shoulder. “Why should I believe you? Why should I trust him? He tried to kill me!” He's shaking again.
“Because you are worth more alive than dead, even to Myr.” Or so the foreigner claims. “The observation that he would be unlikely to see that highly anticipated stipend in the case of your unfortunate demise was made to him last evening. That is why you woke at all this morning and that is why Myr wishes to speak with you presently. Now come.” The foreigner releases the back of the boy's shirt, opting to grab his arm instead. “Your uncle calls.”
Hell if I'm related to him!
The boy grits his teeth. The foreigner's strong. The boy feels it in the grip on his forearm. There's no mystery over whether or not the foreigner would be capable of carrying him like a rag doll. He is. Plain and simple. He's already been packing him around the house too. Bastard.
The boy would love to fight the foreigner's grasp, would love to escape his escort if it wasn't a terribly stupid plan. With a grip like that, resistance is futile. So the boy grits his teeth and digs in his heels where he can without ploughing splinters from the floors. He makes his token acts of defiance. He lets his displeasure known through his actions instead of his preferred rapid fire swearing. He doesn't want Myr to hear him, doesn't want to give the drunk the satisfaction of knowing he's at his mercy.
The foreigner pulls him along. He coaxes the boy with dry words. Then light threats. Then, when the boy insists on remaining mute, he resorts to levering him along in relative silence until they meet Myr in the upstairs sitting area. The foreigner announces their presence with all the enthusiasm associated with watching paint dry. The announcement was unneeded. Myr is facing the stairs and saw their arrival.
“Took you long enough.”
“Somebody refused to cooperate.” The foreigner stares pointedly at a certain someone dangling in his grasp.
The boy glares back at the foreigner, then at Myr for the hell of it because he's a dead man anyhow. May as well die without regrets.
“Well, wot do you expect from a simpleton?”
The boy blinks at the word 'simpleton’. Is Myr still going on about that? He thought Myr would have set himself straight by now. Apparently not. Nor is he inclined to correct him.
“In case you hadn't noticed, the runt don't speak.” Myr jabs a thumb at the boy. “'E dunno language o’ any kind, an’ you was expectin’ 'im to come all quiet like? Ha!”
The boy's eye twitches. He's been called many things, but never imbecile.
The foreigner takes Myr's ignorance in stride. “Be that as it may, for what purpose did you have me bring him forth?”
Myr stalls at the foreigner's question. The moment of indecision comes and goes. “I wanted ta see if you could catch the nipper.”
“You wanted to see if I could catch him?”
“Yeah… Wot abou’ it?”
“No comment.”
“Tha’s wot I thought! None o’ yer bleedin’ bidness is wot it is. An’ quit pullin’ me astrays while yer at it. Didn’t summons you ta have you flap yer gums at me.” Myr grumbles. “No, I ben thinkin’ 'bout wot you said 'bout puttin’ the pup ta work.”
The boy flinches. He's getting sent to the workhouse again?
The foreigner doesn't reply to Myr's goading. Myr's eye tics. His face begins to twist in on itself. The foreigner's not playing his game. Myr's getting annoyed. “Nat’rally, I'll see ta it tha’ you train 'im up proper."
Say what?
The boy's not the only one who reacts. He feels the foreigner's fingers twitch on his arm.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You 'eard me. It were yer idea. You do it.” Myr leans back in his seat, looking smug.
“Is there an order or no?”
“‘Course there's an order! You train the runt ta do tricks an’ odd jobs an’ the like. There's yer orders. I’ll be expectin’ 'im ta pour drinks by the week’s end.”
Oh, so now the boy is going to do tricks? Like a circus pony? Why he oughta-
The foreigner gives the boy a hard squeeze, a reminder that he won't be going anywhere. The boy swallows his ire. He settles on giving Myr a look that could kill.
“And how would one go about this… ‘training’?”
“Well, tha’s not my problem, now is it? You debil types are a clever sort. You'll figger it out.”
The foreigner twitches again. “I was under the impression we were keeping that under wraps, as it were.”
“Yeah. Fer tha’ stipen’ man, 'cept 'e ain't 'ere no more, now is 'e?” Myr squints down at the boy. “As fer the pup, well now… I'd be surprised if there's anythin’ in tha’ 'ead o’ 'is. Dun see why yer insistin’ on ‘idin’ yerself. Not like yer foolin’ anyone.”
The boy glances between the foreigner and Myr. The foreigner cuts Myr short by leaving, dragging the boy with him. Myr does nothing to stop the foreigner. He lets them leave. He got the reaction he wanted.
The boy gives Myr a final glare as he's going down the stairs. Myr responds in kind. Once he’s out of view, the boy sticks his tongue out in Myr's general direction. He feels somewhat vindicated.
Liar!
The boy glares at the foreigner over his shoulder. “Why should I believe you? Why should I trust him? He tried to kill me!” He's shaking again.
“Because you are worth more alive than dead, even to Myr.” Or so the foreigner claims. “The observation that he would be unlikely to see that highly anticipated stipend in the case of your unfortunate demise was made to him last evening. That is why you woke at all this morning and that is why Myr wishes to speak with you presently. Now come.” The foreigner releases the back of the boy's shirt, opting to grab his arm instead. “Your uncle calls.”
Hell if I'm related to him!
The boy grits his teeth. The foreigner's strong. The boy feels it in the grip on his forearm. There's no mystery over whether or not the foreigner would be capable of carrying him like a rag doll. He is. Plain and simple. He's already been packing him around the house too. Bastard.
The boy would love to fight the foreigner's grasp, would love to escape his escort if it wasn't a terribly stupid plan. With a grip like that, resistance is futile. So the boy grits his teeth and digs in his heels where he can without ploughing splinters from the floors. He makes his token acts of defiance. He lets his displeasure known through his actions instead of his preferred rapid fire swearing. He doesn't want Myr to hear him, doesn't want to give the drunk the satisfaction of knowing he's at his mercy.
The foreigner pulls him along. He coaxes the boy with dry words. Then light threats. Then, when the boy insists on remaining mute, he resorts to levering him along in relative silence until they meet Myr in the upstairs sitting area. The foreigner announces their presence with all the enthusiasm associated with watching paint dry. The announcement was unneeded. Myr is facing the stairs and saw their arrival.
“Took you long enough.”
“Somebody refused to cooperate.” The foreigner stares pointedly at a certain someone dangling in his grasp.
The boy glares back at the foreigner, then at Myr for the hell of it because he's a dead man anyhow. May as well die without regrets.
“Well, wot do you expect from a simpleton?”
The boy blinks at the word 'simpleton’. Is Myr still going on about that? He thought Myr would have set himself straight by now. Apparently not. Nor is he inclined to correct him.
“In case you hadn't noticed, the runt don't speak.” Myr jabs a thumb at the boy. “'E dunno language o’ any kind, an’ you was expectin’ 'im to come all quiet like? Ha!”
The boy's eye twitches. He's been called many things, but never imbecile.
The foreigner takes Myr's ignorance in stride. “Be that as it may, for what purpose did you have me bring him forth?”
Myr stalls at the foreigner's question. The moment of indecision comes and goes. “I wanted ta see if you could catch the nipper.”
“You wanted to see if I could catch him?”
“Yeah… Wot abou’ it?”
“No comment.”
“Tha’s wot I thought! None o’ yer bleedin’ bidness is wot it is. An’ quit pullin’ me astrays while yer at it. Didn’t summons you ta have you flap yer gums at me.” Myr grumbles. “No, I ben thinkin’ 'bout wot you said 'bout puttin’ the pup ta work.”
The boy flinches. He's getting sent to the workhouse again?
The foreigner doesn't reply to Myr's goading. Myr's eye tics. His face begins to twist in on itself. The foreigner's not playing his game. Myr's getting annoyed. “Nat’rally, I'll see ta it tha’ you train 'im up proper."
Say what?
The boy's not the only one who reacts. He feels the foreigner's fingers twitch on his arm.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You 'eard me. It were yer idea. You do it.” Myr leans back in his seat, looking smug.
“Is there an order or no?”
“‘Course there's an order! You train the runt ta do tricks an’ odd jobs an’ the like. There's yer orders. I’ll be expectin’ 'im ta pour drinks by the week’s end.”
Oh, so now the boy is going to do tricks? Like a circus pony? Why he oughta-
The foreigner gives the boy a hard squeeze, a reminder that he won't be going anywhere. The boy swallows his ire. He settles on giving Myr a look that could kill.
“And how would one go about this… ‘training’?”
“Well, tha’s not my problem, now is it? You debil types are a clever sort. You'll figger it out.”
The foreigner twitches again. “I was under the impression we were keeping that under wraps, as it were.”
“Yeah. Fer tha’ stipen’ man, 'cept 'e ain't 'ere no more, now is 'e?” Myr squints down at the boy. “As fer the pup, well now… I'd be surprised if there's anythin’ in tha’ 'ead o’ 'is. Dun see why yer insistin’ on ‘idin’ yerself. Not like yer foolin’ anyone.”
The boy glances between the foreigner and Myr. The foreigner cuts Myr short by leaving, dragging the boy with him. Myr does nothing to stop the foreigner. He lets them leave. He got the reaction he wanted.
The boy gives Myr a final glare as he's going down the stairs. Myr responds in kind. Once he’s out of view, the boy sticks his tongue out in Myr's general direction. He feels somewhat vindicated.
Now edited! Cut out a bunch of filler stuff, like someone suggested to me, and that's about it.
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