The young boy couldn't have been dead more than an hour.
She found him bobbing in the river, face down, limbs limp. She fished him out as tenderly as possible with a sturdy tree branch, which she managed to hook around his shirt. She maneuvered his body as carefully as she could to the riverbanks and flipped him onto his back. Unfortunately for the young lad, the water had taken its toll. He was gone.
Some warmth was still retained within his body, and occasionally his fingers would twitch, leading her to believe she'd been just a little too late. Water dribbled out from the corner of his mouth.
It reminded Ethel of the time her husband managed to pump the water out of the lungs of one of their children's kittens when they were youngsters, a small black-and-white thing they named Paradox because no matter how many times it seemed he should have died, he miraculously ended up walking away with little more than a scratch. She surveyed the young boy - he didn't look much older than thirteen, perhaps - splayed across the sand. After a silent tug-of-war that raged in her mind, she finally decided to give him one more shot at revival.
Ethel slowly settled down on the wet sand beside the young lad and placed her hands on his chest, doing her best to mimic her late husband's movements purely from memory. The arthritis in her wrists made the task that much more difficult. She certainly wasn't much of a nurse, nor was she certain how exactly this procedure was meant to work. It was an offhanded miracle, something that shouldn't have happened the first time. Why did she even bother now?
Just as her wrists were about to cramp up and she about to think about where she could bury him, the boy rolled over on his own - eliciting a scream and the cry of "the cursed undead!" from Ethel - and hacked up the water from his lungs.
Then his eyes - blue, with lighter blue intermingled in the cortex of his irises, like icicles guarding his soul from wandering thoughts - clashed against her own, murky hazel ones. "'M not undead." He snipped. Then, without another word, his eyes rolled back into his head and he slumped against the riverbed.
.x.
Ethel tried to be careful, she truly did. She hefted him up as carefully as she could, treating him like the porcelain doll he resembled (the cold dampness of the river water snaking through his bones and giving him a case of hypothermia, no doubt), but he was heavy compared to the wheelbarrows and watering cans she was used to carrying. Her old bones creaked in resentment, but she managed to drag him through the undergrowth of the woods and to the clearing that was her farm, nestled just outside of Corona.
He may have fallen victim to several twigs and rocks, trailing bruises up his back and arms, but at least she managed to plop him safely onto the couch in her meager cottage. She had to scoot it closer to the fireplace, change his clothes, and give him a blanket before he began to thaw and a faint, rosy color returned to his lips.
Ethel allowed herself to examine the boy more carefully. His hair was unkempt, and unusually long in the front compared to its length around the rest of his head. His fringe concealed one eye from view. There was something about the way the fire illuminated his ivory complexion that reminded her of the midnight moon on a clear night, and the black and blue coloration of his hair which reminded her of the twilight sky (although the blue was more of a teal, her point stood regardless). She had to take off his gloves, revealing small hands for a thirteen year old boy, and one in particular caught her attention. A strange symbol was adorned on the back of his right.
He'd been branded.
Her lips pursed in puzzlement. She knew of only two kinds that received branding: criminals, typically those convicted of treason, although his age and slight figure rendered that highly unlikely if not impossible, leaving only the latter option. He was a slave. Corona had forbade slaves several generations ago - Ethel hadn't been born yet, and that should mean something - so she figured he must have followed the river across the border and some unfortunate circumstances either lead him to jump in, or fall in.
Just then, his eyes cracked open. When the nameless lad noticed that Ethel had his hand clasped in her own, examining the protruding mark (which, she noted, looked fresh enough to still be forming a scab and scar tissue), he jerked his hand back and cradled it to his chest like a newborn babe.
"Where -" He coughed again, his voice as gruff as gravel. "Where's my gloves? Wait - where's my clothes? Did you change me?"
"All the way down to yer knickers." The old woman confirmed with a willy grin. While the boy hurriedly tried to tighten the blanket around his figure, as if she hadn't already given him a spare change of clothes from her son's youth, Ethel poured him a warm cup of tea. "Now drink up lad, this will help warm ya right up."
For a long moment, he seemed to consider his options. His gaze flickered towards the sparse windows, then back to the little cup in her hands. Finally, Blue (which she decided to dub him until further notice) took the teacup gingerly into his hands, his eyes nearly rolling back up into his head with sheer bliss when the warmth curled around the palms of his hands. It was all the incentive he needed to guzzle the drink. Ethel had to warn him several times to take it easy, lest he puke it all up before he could really enjoy it. He heeded her warnings only after he coughed and gagged halfway through.
"I suppose I should thank you." He finally said, smacking his lips. "So...thank you."
Ethel thumped Blue lightly on the head with her hand, making sure not to cause any true damage to the already battered boy. "Of course ya ought to thank me, lad! I saved yer life, I did. Had I not gotten the water from those lungs of yers, ya'd been a goner for sure. Now, what's yer name, boy?"
"V-" Suddenly, the boy paused, as if his throat constricted too tightly to allow words to flow out. With the slight tilt of his head, his gaze adjusted to the windows on the left side of the house, as if he wished he could sprout wings and fly right through the cracked glass panes. Without turning back to her, he whispered, "Quirin."
"Alright, Quirin, you best be resting for the right of the night, ya hear? I hear so much as the creakin' of one of these boards and I won't be afraid to tie ya to this here couch. You don't want pneumonia, do ya?" Quirin rapidly shook his head. Ethel grunted, contented with his response, albeit a little offhanded. She took the teacup from him and hobbled back to the kitchen where she put it on the counter (deciding to deal with it later) and then started towards her bedroom. "G'night, boy."
Quirin nodded in silence, his eyes like wings of freedom flightily adverting his gaze between the fireplace and the windows. Something - or someone, an old master perhaps, particularly cruel and strict - had clipped his wings, but she saw it in his eyes. She'd heard it in his voice on the riverbed, even when he was close to death. They hadn't dampened the boys spirit.
With a slight smile, Ethel entered her room for the night.
He'd better stay clear of her valuables if he wanted to keep it that way.
.x.
His heartbeat like spastic sparrow wings against his chest, fluttering so hard that the heart palpitations were deriving his attention from possible means of escape. Varian didn't even know if he could make it very far in his current state - numbness still resonated within his toes, and the dampness in his bones made his entire body feel stiff. He could barely rotate his neck, let alone stand for extended periods of time.
The one time he managed to ease himself up into a near standing position (he, admittedly, found himself leaning over the creaky old seat, his thighs trembling and threatening to buckle at any moment), Ethel limped out of her room only a spilt second after. She was as quick as the thunder accompanying the lightning. Her voice was nearly as loud, which made his already aching brain feel that much worse.
After she tossed him back into bed - keeping true to her promise of tying him up, although she really just tucked him tightly in the sheets, trusting he was too weak to wriggle out of his cocoon - she bid him a hasty goodnight and slammed her door shut.
Varian spent the rest of the night glaring at the ceiling.
The past few days flittered inside of his head in fragmented thoughts and elusive memories. Whatever damage he sustained during his trip down river made his escape hazy. Varian briefly remembered Lady Caine asking him if he accepted her assistance or not. He remembered getting left behind when his legs could no longer keep up with the herds of criminals. He remembered...falling, arms and legs twisting in directions he knew they weren't meant to, his body screeching in agony in the form of muscle spasms and cracking joints.
He didn't remember his initial introduction to the old woman, nor did he remember how he got to her house, but he knew that in spite of his inner turmoils he was grateful to her. She was...kind, although peculiar.
Varian couldn't help but wonder if she knew who he was. Maybe she planned on keeping him here until she could turn him in for whatever ransom the royal family was certainly cooking up. Then again, she seemed genuine when she asked for his name. Her eye remained locked on his, even as he turned his eyes to look to the left, her body remained languid as she called him by his father's name.
No, all the data suggested she was completely clueless. He managed to relax a smidgen after coming to that conclusion.
If he complied with her wishes just until he made a full recovery, he was certain she'd let him go free.
But she'd seen his branding. She could possibly be suspicious of him then. After all, the symbol was the royal family's special mark. Surely she'd recognize it?
Varian huffed out a sigh, trying to close his eyes despite the quick fire thoughts that plagued his mind. Did she know he was a criminal? Whatever happened to Ruddiger - had he befallen a similar fate, perhaps lacking the savior Varian arguably didn't deserve?
Sleep didn't come easy to him, even with the reigns of fatigue guiding him towards rest. And once he finally succumbed to its wishes, like a wild stallion finally conceding to the urgings of its new master, Varian's mind revisited old haunts...
But he had no regrets - everything he'd done, they deserved..