Inspired by a piece of artwork I saw on Tumblr this morning, of Saemus and Ashaad. Artwork in question can be seen at fav. me/d4ckfvd on deviantArt (minus the space after the period) and is by ~layClay.
There was someone nearby; he could hear the crunch of their footsteps on the sand. Ashaad stepped into the shadow of a large boulder, looking around cautiously. He'd learned already that encounters with others on the Wounded Coast, as it was called, was something to be avoided, not courted. Whether bandits, smugglers, slavers, or Tal'Vashoth, they invariably reacted with hostility, and sometimes with weapons. So far he'd survived all such encounters, but he knew that had been as much luck as skill; and luck could not last forever.
He could hear a voice now; snatches of incomprehensible words carried to him on the fitful winds from offshore. He picked his way carefully along the rock- and wreckage-strewn slopes, until the next little sandy-shored cove came into view. And stopped, puzzled. He hunkered down in the shadow of a jagged outcrop, watching.
A human - a single, solitary human - dressed in the bright soft clothing that human nobles seemed to favour, that gave them such little protection from harm, and had such little utility in its design. A sign of status among their kind, he supposed, that they usually had others to guard their fragile skins, to carry their burdens and care for them. Only this human had no such guards nearby; he was alone, here in the wilds of the coast.
And talking to himself. Words sometimes spoken low and sometimes shouted into the wind, as the man – the youth, Ashaad corrected, realizing abruptly how young the human was of his kind, on the cusp between youth and adulthood – paced back and forth on the beach, at one point stooping down to grab up a handful of small rocks near the base of a boulder. He threw them one at a time with considerable force at a distant rock, with deplorably bad accuracy, shouting a word with each throw, then abruptly turned and tossed all the remaining rocks out into the surf. They vanished, leaving not even spreading circles on the surging waves.
He was angry, Ashaad thought. Furious about something, and having run off to sulk in solitude about it. He felt his lips curve in a slight smile, remembering his own youth, the tempers that had at times overcome him as well, as he made the difficult transition from childhood to adulthood. Strange, to think the humans might have a like phase of existence; but then he'd had very little to do with humans of any age. Perhaps they really weren't all that different from the kossith, save in their appearance and the lack of proper order of their society.
The youth was stripping off his clothes now, almost tearing the bright fabric in his haste. He yanked off his jacket, letting it drop to the sand, then the silky shirt beneath it, letting the wind take it from his fingers. He turned to watch its brief flight, stopped when a thorny bush tangled in the bright white fabric.
The boy's eyes were as bright, Ashaad could see even from here; a bright blue like the sky, like his abandoned jacket. Where the clothing had covered him, his skin was pale, never touched by the sun; a creamy whiteness only a few shades darker than kossith hair, or the discarded shirt. The youth turned away again, sitting down in the sand as he struggled to remove leggings and stockings, leaving him wearing only a scrap of cloth about his loins when he finally rose again.
He was small, and slender, Ashaad noticed, but fit for all of that. There were muscles under that pale, soft skin; small ones, as he was small, but were he kossith he would be considered a well-made being. Not for a warrior, of course, but he was clearly not a warrior, not when he threw so poorly. He had fallen silent, and was merely standing there, feet planted wide apart in the sand, hands clenched into fists at his sides, face turned up to the sky and sun as he leaned into the wind. Like a bird, paused in the moment before taking flight.
And then he moved, as such a bird would have, feet kicking up sand behind him as he ran forward, arms spreading wide. He leapt upwards, as he reached the wet sand where a wave was retreating. For a moment Ashaad half-believed he would indeed take flight, seeing that form straining upwards, then he landed in the waves with a splash, legs still churning as he ran out into the water, the so-short distance to where the sandy beach dropped off into the rock-studded offshore depths. He disappeared beneath the waves.
Ashaad watched, expecting the boy to reappear momentarily. But nothing happened, the sunlit-waves surging over the spot where he had vanished, showing no sign that he had even existed. Ashaad shot to his feet. Surely the man hadn't...?
He ran, then, leaping from rock to grass tuft to sandy patch down the steep hillside, sprinting across the narrow beach where the clothing still lay, the wind toying with the folds of it. He ran out into the water, out to where the youth had vanished, as best as he could remember it. He took three fast deep in-and-out breaths, then a single very large one, and held it. He dove, legs kicking powerfully to propel him downwards, eyes opening to peer through the darkening waters.
There was a forest of seaweed growing beyond the drop-off of the sandbank, outcrops of rock making clearings in it, a scattering of wreckage down there as well. He looked around, seeking for the glint of pale flesh, seeing nothing but dark swaying weeds, dark rocks, and glimpses of sandy bottom. Movement caught his eye – a school of fish fleeing away, their silvery sides flashing. A bubble of air broke out of the depths behind them, rising in a cloud of lesser bubbles. He cursed mentally and dove, down to the source of the bubbles – a pale body tangled in weeds, tough stems and leathery fronds wrapped round and round a feebly thrashing body. He pulled the knife from his belt, wrapping one strong arm around the boy to hold him still while his sharp blade made short work of the stems. He tried not to cut the boy, but freeing him was more important than gentleness. He left the knife to trail behind him on its lanyard as he struck out for the surface again. At risk of cutting himself on that razor-edged blade, but less risky, he judged, than trying to sheath it again.
He exhaled his own air in a roiling bubble just before he himself broke the surface, gasping in fresh air even as he turned over in the water, floating on his back with the limp figure of the young man held close against his broad chest. He kicked to propel himself toward shore even as he wrapped both arms around the boy and squeezed, sending water bubbling out of the boy's open mouth. His skin felt cool to the touch, but Ashaad could feel a heart still beating, felt certain he'd reached him in time.
As soon as he reached the shallows he stood, hefting the slight figure over his shoulders and carrying him toward shore, reassured by the retching sounds the boy made as he coughed and sputtered and threw up the salty water that had filled his lungs and stomach. They reached dry sand at last; Ashaad rolled the boy off of him, collapsing to his own knees beside him in shaky after-reaction.
To his surprise the young man clung to him, like a child to its nurse, holding on tightly, sobbing and babbling in the human tongue in between bouts of coughing and retching that brought up yet more water. Ashaad froze at first, uncertain of how to react, then hesitantly wrapped one arm around the youth, waiting patiently for the tears to pass and the words to slow down to a speed he could understand.
It took a long while, before the youth fell silent at last, still leaning against him, one arm hooked around Ashaad's neck. The wind and sun had dried their skins, Ashaad's hair blowing loose around his shoulders, the unprotected back and shoulders of the young man cradled against him showing the first pink tinge of an incipient burn, before he finally lifted his head, those startling sky-blue eyes looking questioningly up at Ashaad. He cleared his throat, then spoke, voice hoarse from all the coughing and crying. "Why did you save me?" he asked.
Ashaad stared back at him for a long moment. Why? He didn't know. It had been an impulsive act; an intrusive one, too, given that the young man had clearly intended to end himself; that had been no accidental tangle of weeds. He must have swum down, and wrapped the weeds around him, then turned around and around in the water to have so thoroughly enmeshed himself in them. And a foolish act, as well, given that saving the young man had made him responsible for him, an added complication with his existing responsibilities. He answered truthfully, in the end. "I don't know. Why did you not wish to be saved?"
That started the young man crying again, more quietly this time. He tried to speak, but couldn't. Ashaad felt unexpectedly moved by his obvious distress. How hopeless must he feel, to have wanted to end himself? He sighed, and rose to his feet, easily lifting the youth to his feet as well. He had saved him from drowning, but his responsibility was only just begun. Now he must work to save him from whatever this despair was that had driven him to attempt such a terrible act. "Come," he said, as gently as he could. "I have a camp nearby. You can stay with me for a while." He lifted the youth, holding him like a child; like the child he needed to be, however briefly, before he was ready to become a man again.
"What's your name?" the boy asked, wrapping one arm firmly around his neck again as he started away in the direction of his camp. "I'm Saemus," he added, clinging to him with his head resting against Ashaad's shoulder as if seeking reassurance, or warmth, some kind of comfort.
Names were important to the humans, he knew. "You can call me Ashaad," he said.