The Crippled Outlaw
To be honest, he's the cutest crippled outlaw I've ever come across. Though he was really a bit of a... Well, a bit of a prick.
He was arrogant and self-obsessed and when he didn't shut up I felt like slapping him again and again to maybe dent his ego. I never did slap him though. I needed a friend. Well, someone to talk to at the very least. And I knew I could trust him: he was and still is an outlaw after all. Someone most would stay away from at all costs.
If you're seen with an outlaw you become a traitor, a spy. And then, if you're lucky, you yourself will end up as an outlaw, with nothing to your name apart from the clothes on your back. If you're unlucky you'll end up dead. And if Fate just has something really big against you, you'll end up an empty shell, your soul sucked out by dementors.
You'll never reach the after-life that way.
My cute, crippled outlaw had platinum hair. But not when I met him.
When I met him it was the colour stale water in a pot hole next to a green verge, brown and murky, with little creatures living in it. And he smelled like it too, rotting vegetation and essence of unwashed body as his scent of choice. He may have been classy once, but being an outlaw had dissolved his material class. He had a cloak, yes, once it may have been black, but now it was a rusty grey. Old blood stains, I think, and sun bleached wool, with holes irregularly set throughout. At least wool is warmer than silk or satin. Through his class he showed sense.
Under the cloak, I hear you wonder? Rags. Literally. I cannot describe what the garments may have been once upon a time, before he turned outlaw. But when I met him, they were thin scraps stitched together. A bit of everything. A mishmash of colour and pattern and material. Clothing transformed.
The only thing that hadn't changed were his eyes. Grey. They always have been. Sometimes almost silver, other times darker than thunder clouds in the sky at dusk, just as the sun has dipped below the horizon. They still have that nasty spark when he does something disagreeable to anyone around him, when he throws insults and sometimes even a curse. Now that I mention it, he hasn't changed in that way either. He's still a bully, delighting in the torment of others.
I found him on the dirt track outside my shelter. At the time the only thing I could pick out was a body smothered in mud. I thought it was a dead animal at first, killed by some other animal or, most probably, killed by someone, starving, wasting away and thinking it a clever idea to kill something for food, but hearing a noise after the deed and running.
He breeds fear you see. Not my outlaw. Him. The Evil One. The Dark Lord. Any noise and you'd do good to run. Run, run as fast as you can. Because if Fate's not your friend, it will be Him and He will kill you. Slowly. Painfully...
I went a bit off track there, sorry. Anyway, this animal was no animal. It was a body. Encrusted in mud and stinking to high heaven, not moving. I crept over fallen trees, wand up my sleeve, ready to pounce. Because even though there was mud covering the body, anything that could be cleaned would be worth money. And money is a must. Essential even for water at times. Everything is expensive. I reached my hand down. That's when the eye opened.
I jumped so high and my scream was barely concealed behind my hand. A dry, muddy hand was shaking as it reached towards me. And that's when I realised. This person, this man, was no threat. I was more of a threat, being desperate for money and with rewards of up to 100 galleons for an outlaw I could easily turn him in. And get some much needed money, make my shelter warmer, buy some better clothes.
But I don't work for the Dark Side. I'll always be a part of the dwindling Light Side, part of Dumbledore's Army. I'll never betray my family or my friends. So I half dragged, half carried the stranger over fallen and dead trees, through brambles and across tree stumps and in to my shelter.
My shelter is a simple affair, set between two large fallen pine trees, walled by hundereds of smaller trees. The smaller trees covered in a layer of mud and grass to keep heat in and cold out. There is a pit in the middle, where my fire sits twenty-four seven, and dragging the man around it was difficult. I laid him on the only part of the flooring that wasn't mud or twigs or rushes. I once sold one of my inventions - long before the war reached it's current state - and with the money I bought a sleeping bag, some blankets and some squares of carpet for bedding, warmth and hygeine. Money left over went into air tight boxes, warm clothes and materials for my inventing.
With the man now on my bed, I grabbed water I had collected earlier for purifying and started to clean the mud off.
His skin was paler then even mine, but clear from blemishes. I removed his cloak when I could proceed no further and set it aside to clean with the rest of his clothes as I removed layers. It was lucky for him that I had mens clothes hanging around, for the men in my life who visited occassionally. Not romantically of course. Not even with the closest. Once I had him washed and dressed in too big clothes, I wrapped him in blankets and set a cauldron above the fire, with water within to heat. I cleaned my own wear first, before submersing the mans clothes in the hot water. Almost instantly the water turned brown, and when I had the surface dirt off of the garments I hung them from the branches above my head to drip onto the earth of my floor.
I emptied the cauldron outside, the water now useless, and placed a small pot of water and a large empty pot above the fire. I sat on the floor next to it and quickly chopped carrots, turnip and leeks before sweating them in a scrap of butter and hand out vegetable oil. As I added the now boiling water and scraps of chicken I heard a muffled croak. Swinging around I saw that the man was awake. When I saw the crippled outlaw's eyes I almost fell into the fire.
And... End chapter one. I hope you like it, review?