Strifehartwinterweek2k16.
Themes: Winter Sports Or Fireside.
The streets were stone, wet, and cold. Snow pressed or cleared by the hundreds of thousands of footprints of workers, shoppers, travellers, and the holidaymakers which was an unkind forest floor for a child. The gas lamps let out a slight stink, an oiliness in the air, the walls of the brick buildings were hard and rough for little hands as they braced their fall repeatedly.
Among all the busy people was a young orphan with a pale face, thin clothes, bare feet and two armfuls of matches, the little kindling sticks tucked against his skin inside his shirt to try and stop them from dropping to the ground. The wood scratched his thin chest, his little hands and arms had scrapes, the floor hurt his bare feet, and the snow numbed them to the numerous abrasions they'd gotten.
He stumbled through the crowds, the very embodiment of sorrow. He shook from cold and hunger, snow in his hair melting fast and sapping his warmth. His clothes were thin, too thin for the weather, little arms bared and ankles showing with his large light blue eyes silently asking for help. But no one looked too long upon him, poor little thing. Too busy, too poor, too stuck in their own problems to listen to a hungry boy begging a coin for matches.
"Move brat!" Jostled out of the way yet again, the orphan tucked himself into the doorway of a bricked-up house.
"… S-s-sorry," he whispered, shivering, staring at his blue feet.
His wretchedly cold feet. He had shoes this morning, ancient and rickety shoes belonging to a now dead old man, but they were so big one had fallen off and the other had been snatched by a street urchin much bigger than he was. He'd been shoved then too, he recalled, one hand moving to touch his side as the bruise began to throb.
He sat down and croaked to the passers-by his wares. But no one bought. As the crowds diminished, he tucked his head against his knees with his eyes resting on the matches, placed in a pile beside him.
His pockets were empty. No one had bought his matches today, but everyone was out buying something! It wasn't fair. The butcher and the man selling trees were getting lots of customers, the antique dealer too – everyone was leaving with items wrapped colourfully.
"Matches aren't colourful," he mumbled, childishly seeing the flaw in his product but quickly growing woeful again when he realised he had nothing to give them colour neither.
He felt the empty pockets of his trousers, hoping for string, cringing at the thought of going home empty handed again. The Master of the workhouse wouldn't be pleased with him. "Nothing again, Squall? You're clearly not working hard enough, no supper tonight!"
No food was waiting for him, he knew, maybe even a beating for coming home with empty pockets. He sniffed a lone tear. He'd be sent upstairs, aching or not, and it would be cold there too. The roof had holes, the walls rattled, the fireplace never had enough wood to reach the edges of the room, it leaked out through the cracks and was carried away by the wind- always so greedy for warm things.
It leached at the boy's body now.
The boy blinked lethargically, glad his arms weren't shaking so hard anymore. But it was so cold, he couldn't feel his feet, his hands against his mouth or his nose. Darkness was quickly sweeping in through the city, the last of the light coming from the sputtering gas lamps at the end of the street.
Squall buried his head into his knees again, nudging his way into a comforting hold like a lazy kitten, weariness sapping his soul. He coughed slightly and leant into the corner of the brickwork, content to sleep until the morning light out here in the cold rather than face the Master's wrath.
The night got colder still and Squall couldn't sleep.
Sighing and trembling again with the cold his numb fingers sought out a match and brought it under his nose. Maybe … just maybe he could fall asleep with a little heat?
He scratched the tip against the rough brick of the house several times before it fell from his unfeeling digits and disappeared down into the white banks of snow. He sniffed a sad sigh after it and coughed into his hands again. Apathetically, he reached for the next one and tried for a second time.
Thrice more he tried before at last there was a spark!
The little light warmed his fingers and blinded him with a golden glow. He reached out to touch it, hypnotised by the light, but the cold wind gutted it before he had the chance to make a connection.
Letting out a sad cry he dropped the useless match and reached for more. He brought three into his grip and struck them with ease, the light brighter now and the warmth reaching his nose and face.
It washed over his skin like water, sending new shivers down his back. But these were shivers of delight. Squall smiled at the fire radiating from the matches, it was very pretty. Pretty like … like … Ellone … and Mother.
He blinked tiredly, realising he hadn't remembered them for a long time. The workhouse made him forget all kinds of things, but now, in the golden aura of the burning matches, he was remembering very clearly …
He remembered a fireplace with lots of heat, a rug made of straw on the stone floor so it wasn't confused with the stone walls. He remembered a door made of wood, a table with only three legs that he slept under as a den with his big sis. He remembered Mother cooking something warm and plain but good over the open fire stove. Her soft and warm hands as they cleaned his face from soot and muck, Ellone's hands as she lifted him up and swung him around-
The matches blew out just millimetres from his fingers and the memories faded.
"No!" He frantically reached for the rest, striking entire bundles alight at once until there were enough flames around him to rival a church's mass.
He looked into the fire and saw his Mother's smile, heard her laugh and felt her hugs. Big fat tears fell from his eyes as he remembered how much he loved her, it made him feel very warm- almost too hot, but he just kept smiling right back at her. The golden light filled his vision, bobbing, and moving like it was alive, getting closer to him until he didn't have to raise a hand to touch it to bring it close.
"You," he coughed, "You're here?"
She didn't answer, but then Ellone was there too, also smiling and warm. Squall didn't mind if they didn't know where they were, he was lost, he didn't know where 'here' was either. He leant into Ellone's hug and felt her hair tickle his nose and cheek. "Eh, tickles …"
A hand took his, so warm and soft, and he looked up to see gold. Blearily and exhaustedly he murmured over copious tears as he was led away: "Oh, don't go … don't leave me …"
"… Okay."
Dawn heralded a new surprise for the town's Forge-Master. Forge-Master Cid Highwind nearly inhaled his cigar along with his surprise when he came down his stairs on Christmas morning to find a new urchin curled up against Zack and Cloud by the workshop's forge. All three of them piled up around the newcomer for warmth.
"What in blazes?" he grumbled, Zack's scruffy head rising to greet him, wet nose and rough tongue nudging his palm. He barked in greeting.
Cid rubbed the dog's head, looking down at the children clutching each other. The blond-haired urchin he'd taken in over the summer as a scrap metal scavenger had both arms protectively around the head of a pale and young brunet. The brunet's head was pressed into Cloud's chest, his fingers sooty as they held fast to Cloud's coat, his cheeks were rosy in the warmth from the forge as were his bare feet and hands.
He was taller than Cloud, but thinner than him by an alarming amount, another street child most likely. There were scrapes and bruises along his arms and feet, touches of black at the tips of his fingers and he stank of soot. He wore clothes that were paper thin and ragged, and his cheeks were crusted with salt. As he observed, the boy nudged his way closer into the protection of Cloud's arms like his wife's cat did after a meal.
Cloud unconsciously accommodating for the new boy's comfort as he put his head down atop the brunet's.
Cid glanced at Zack and huffed "Some guard dog you are," he pushed Zack's face to one side grumpily. "You're supposed to keep these rugrats out of my forge, not adopt 'em into it."
The big scary looking dog didn't have a mean bone in his body. He was an utterly useless guard dog- too fond of following Cloud around town and sniffing out scraps in the trash than guarding the workshop. It was a good thing the mutt looked so naturally tough.
As he continued to mutter and complain, stuck at what to do with this new arrival, wondering if he would just leave on his own, when Cloud woke up.
He lifted one arm moved from his protective hold on the boy to bat Zack's eager licks away and rub at his eyes, the boy shivered at the lack of touch, stirring fitfully.
Cloud held him back, patting the boy's hair as if he were a frightened kitten. The restless movements ceased, the young boy cosying back against Cloud and his breathing even. Cloud hadn't seen the Forge-Master, yet. The blond-haired boy yawned and absently played with the uneven ends of the brunet's hair as he blinked himself awake.
Cid watched with a headache brewing, and his heart tugging uncomfortably. It was as Cid had grumpily expected. There would be no separating these two now. With a grunt, he got to his feet with Zack at his heels, Cloud noticed him and looked between the new boy and his Master with growing alarm.
"Master Cid?" Cloud asked, sitting up, worry in his voice and arms protectively around the boy he'd found as if he expected to be ripped away from him.
Cid looked back and saw the new boy holding fast to Cloud's side too, still sound asleep and smirked, "Save it, kid. I could do with another worker, anyway."
Cid marched out the door for coal and Cloud felt relieved the moment he realised what his Master's words implied, and grinned, patting his new friend's head as he slumbered on. "Don't worry, you're with me now."
Squall smiled.
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