Chapter 1
She rose far before the sun, waking as if on cue, though no device served as her notification of the time. She seemed possessive of an inherent sense of when to awake, for the very moment that her eyes opened was the very moment she opened her eyes on any other day, as she had for seven years and would continue to do until she no longer ran the Epimedes' Cradle.
Slowly she sat up, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Black hair that fell nearly to her knees—for not once since her birth twenty three years ago had it been cut—was already being gathered into her hands and draped over her shoulder; by the time her chilly bare feet had carried her to the vanity in the far side of the room, it was in perfect position for its morning brush. Once cleared of tangles, nimble fingers drew it back and braided it, allowing it to fall in a singular long plait between her shoulder blades.
The wardrobe was now turned to. Sleepy grey eyes surveyed the act, as calloused hands drew forth a brown linen shirt, and a dark green rough-sewn skirt. These draped over her arm, she turned and headed out the door, down the hall, and into the bathroom.
When she stepped out nearly twenty minutes later, her pale skin sparkled, her hair glimmered, and her eyes were, instead of blurry and bloodshot, gleaming with the prospect of a new day. Her breakfast consisted of an omelet, and a glass of milk; it was devoured in no hurry, for part of the reason she arose so long before true daylight was to allow herself ample time to accomplish all tasks, before heading into town.
The dishes she washed and put away, before stepping into the grey mist that heralds the dawn. A shawl was wrapped protectively around slender shoulders, and gripped with those spidery hands. Booted feet hopped playfully from stepping stone to stepping stone, into the midst of her vast herb and flower garden—supplies were running low at the shop. Being in the middle of town, there was not enough room for the Cradle to have a garden of its own, so she had planted a large one in the back yard of her cottage, almost a half-hour's walk outside of town.
The needed herbs were carefully picked and placed within a basket, which was then hung upon her left forearm. Smiling brightly, she hopped once more from stepping stone to stepping stone, until reaching the gravel road that led into town. As she walked, she began to hum a little tune to herself.
By the time she had reached Carlington Street, the cobblestone road upon which sat the crisp white Epimedes' Cradle, the sun had begun to grace the storefronts with its golden rays. Still humming, she approached the green wooden door, drawing a golden key from her skirt pocket and slipping it into the lock. As the door swung inwards, she was greeted by the happy chime of her bell.
"Good morning!" she sang out to it, grinning to herself as she shut the door again, lit a few lamps, and headed into the work room in the back. There was still much to do before the shop could be opened for business—Anevyren kept in steady supply a daily offering of "free samples" of new attempts at baked goods, made fresh daily; there were still herbs to be crushed, dried, placed on display, arranged in pretty fashions... She shoved it out of mind. Thinking of work only made it seem overwhelming, after all—it was much better to just take the tasks one at a time, she told herself, as she tied on her work apron.
She grabbed the handle of a large tub, and dragged it towards the back door, and out to the well pump. It was dropped down beneath the spigot, and she turned to the pump with a sigh. It was, by far, one of the more irritating morning chores. It had taken nearly a year for her muscles to stop aching from pumping the water, and yet another two before she could do it with any real ease. Memories, more than anything else, kept her from relishing the task.
Barely had her hands wrapped around the handle, when her eyes picked out, lying amongst the trash in the alleyway, the form of a man. Fear was her first instinctual reaction; while the city did not see many of the homeless, those that it did were not prone to kindness. The man certainly looked as if he'd seen a hard time; his clothes were sooty and caked in dirt; his face was smeared with mud... Pity now took firm hold of her heart. Was that blood amongst the grime? Unconsciously, she began to walk towards him.
His leg stirred, and she froze. "S-sir?" she called out, in a small, sweet voice. "Are you.. alright?"
Only a moan served as a reply.
This is foolish, she told herself, as she began to turn away from him. Already she could hear John unlocking his neighbouring floral shop; the morning was slipping away, and she was wasting her time on a degenerate!
Firmly, she turned away from the prone figure, and marched back to the pump. The tub was filled halfway with water, and she carried it back into the shop. She had just begun to fetch soap with which to wash her hands, when her soft heart got the best of her. With a sigh, she returned to Carlington Street, went next door, and knocked on the still-locked yellow door of John's shop.
He opened it, and a smile broke out on his round face. "Annie!" he greeted her. "Do you need something?"
Anevyren pressed her fingers against her temple. "John, this is going to sound utterly ridiculous, but..." Already, he was moving into the street, brows furrowed. "There is a man, in the alley—"
"Is he causing a problem? Do you wish for me to call the—"
"No, no!" she protested quickly. "He's hurt, I think, and..."
A warning tone slipped into the older man's usually cheery voice. "Annie, it is not safe to meddle in the affairs of the type of men who find themselves in alleyways."
"I know," she insisted urgently, hand already grasping his own and pulling him into the street. "That is why I came to get you, John—I want your help. The poor man is clearly hurt... Please, John." She gave him her best puppy-eyes, and with a sigh, he gave in.
"Very well, show me to him..."
She led him through the Cradle and into the back alley, pointing to the man's form. "Help me carry him inside?" They moved forwards together, she taking the man's feet, John taking his shoulders. Anevyren was amazed to find how light the man was; he looked to be over six feet in height, but his weight could not have been much more than her own.
They heaved him up onto her counter, though he draped off the edges by nearly two feet.
"Do you want me to stay, in case he wakes and is.. violent?" John asked cautiously.
"No," she replied, as she grabbed one of her slicing knives and slipped it into the strap of her apron. "I can look after myself."
He lingered a moment more, before sighing and wandering out. "I'll check back in with you in an hour," he called, moments before the ding announced his departure.
Anevyren grabbed a rag, dipped it within the tub of water, rung it out, and turned back to her new obligation. "Let's clean you up a bit, then." She advanced on him, slowly rubbing away the mud on his face. So thick was its placement, so specific its location, that it seemed to be almost a purposeful application. Only his forehead and the right half of his face had been muddied; the left cheek and jaw remained untouched.
His nose looked nearly shattered; she could only assume that was where the blood had come from. She patted gently at it with the rag, attempting to clear away some of the mud to allow her a better glimpse of the injury. What she discovered was distorted flesh; the right nostril appeared almost to melt into the flesh of his cheek.
With a frown, she began to clear away more of the mud, eyes widening in shock as more and more of the right side of his face was revealed, and then his forehead. The flesh was ruined there, and not by any external source; she had read of the occasional deformation of skin, a birth defect, but this was far beyond what she'd heard of in the past. It was almost ghastly, though as a woman accustomed to working with the badly injured, her stomach for such things was far stronger than the average person's.
His eyelids fluttered, and suddenly opened, to reveal flame-like yellow eyes. He stared at her for only a second, before roaring and scrambling away from her. He immediately tumbled off of the counter, and hit the floor running—or rather, crawling frantically, towards the only doorway he could see. This, of course, led into her shop, where he crashed into a display table and sent several vases of flowering herbs tumbling to the ground.
She rushed after him, hands held up as if calming a wild beast—and, truly, she was beginning to believe that she was doing exactly that. "Be still!" she urged, as gently as she could while being loud enough to be heard. "It is alright! I mean no harm!"
He was cowering in a corner now, one hand covering the asperous flesh of his face—or, as much of it as he could manage to. Slowly, she moved towards him, the rag still held in one hand. "It is alright," she repeated. "I only want to help you..." She neared him, and crouched down beside him. He flinched away from her, but she took his chin firmly in her grasp, and turned it towards her. "Please, let me help you."
His gaze regarded her for a long, questionable moment, before finally he gave a slight nod. The rag was pressed against his upper lip, attempting to catch the new stream of blood flowing from his nostril. "Your nose is broken," she told him in a gentle monotone. "The rest of you appears well enough, except for a few bruises, though you're in need of a bath, new clothes, and several good meals." One shaking hand took the rag from her, and held it beneath his own nose. She smiled a little, and stood. "Looks like the Cradle will be opening late today," she murmured.
He stood as well, watching her expectantly. He looked almost comical, with one hand attempting to cease the flow of blood, and the other pressed helplessly against the side of his face. She suffocated the desire to smile, and gestured him to follow her. "The town's not yet alive," she assured him, as she put out the lamps, took off her apron, and fetched her shawl. "No one will be about to see you." He visibly relaxed at that, and she led him into the street.
It was a long walk home, that morning, having to constantly turn back and convince her mute companion to continue following her. Only a few feet into the street, he had taken her shawl away from her and wrapped it around his head, leaving only the left eye and a bit of the left cheek visible. Each person they encountered, he lowered his gaze and stepped close to her shoulder—or, as if to change up the routine, he would occasionally dash to the side of the road and retreat into the early-morning shadows.
By the time they had reached the cottage, she was very near to allowing him to remain outside in the cold. She led him within—and, by some miracle, he followed—and to the kitchen. "I haven't got any clothes for you," she told him. "I'm afraid there's not much call for men's clothing around here. I'd ask John, but.. well, his clothes would hardly fit a man your size."
He did not seem to be listening. He was staring listlessly at the floor, head cocked slightly to one side.
Anevyren hesitated. Did she dare leave him here alone? There was not even a guarantee that he would remain for five minutes after her departure. Of course, she realized, her presence there seemed to make little difference to him. With a sigh, she turned away from him. "Yes, well then. Help yourself to the pantry—you could certainly use the food. When I come home, I could.. attempt to set your nose, if you wished?"
Silence.
She barely suppressed a second sigh. "Well, I must be off. I'll try to find you some clothes, on the way home." With one final look—met only by further silence from the stranger—she turned and departed from the cottage once more.