Chapter 2

Caramon had not wanted to go to work the next morning, too interested in the strange boy that the Widow Judith had been kicking up a fuss over. The fiery woman had returned at sunrise, after Gilon had set out to join his crew on the way to their day's site, leaving his eldest son to deal with what as to come. After a long winded, and one sided, shouting match with the Widow Caramon had hesitantly asked her to leave, though he made sure to mind his manners while doing so. He was far too confused about the night before.

Unable to trust his mother on her own, he ashamedly asked Sturm if he could run up to give Farmer Sedge his most sincere apologies for being unable to go to work. His friend had puffed his chest out with pride and eagerly accepted the 'noble quest', assuring Caramon that he would accomplish it swiftly and surely.

Sturm Brightblade had always been a mystery to Caramon, but he had an even bigger one sleeping in his twin's bed to think about. Rosamum however, who had not slept a wink the night before, continued her patching and sewing whilst humming disjointedly almost as though she didn't recall the incident that occurred only a few hours ago. Almost being the key word. Every once in a while she'd send a tender and loving glance toward the room that the boy slept in, giggling to herself and returning to her work.

With little else to do as his mother occupied herself with her needlework, Caramon sat beside the bed and stared down at the boy. At first he wasn't terribly certain because his eyelashes were too long and girly and he was awfully slim. But on further examination he decided there was no way that anyone would hurt a girl, because he knew some of those bruises definitely were not caused by accident, so the child had to be a boy.

While Caramon was by no means the sharpest tool in the shed, in fact he was likely the dullest, he knew that what ever had happened to the boy now resting in his brother's bed had been awful and would likely lead to more problems once he awakened.

As if summoned from his slumber by the larger boy's thoughts, the child's eyes clenched before fluttering open, revealing the brightest shade of green he had ever seen on a person's eyes, even brighter than that scrappy little girl that Otik had taken in.

The boy stared dazedly at Caramon, not fully noting his presence but rather trying to focus. They both blinked at one another.

"Ron?"

Caramon nervously thrust his hand toward the child, the words spilling out of his mouth, "Hello there, my name is Caramon, you arrived so suddenly that you gave us all a scare so who are you?"

When Harry felt himself come back to reality, he expected it to be from his Aunt Petunia rapping feverishly on his door and to find himself lying on the floor of the smallest bedroom in the Dursley household, bloodying up the wooden panels for the shear fun of it. In simpler terms, exactly where his less than pleasant Uncle had left him to rot.

Instead, he found himself surprisingly comfortable, aside from the throbbing head ache and ache that went through to his bones. At first he wondered if Sirius had come to save him and taken him to the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts. That theory was almost immediately discounted because he was sure Madame Pomfrey would have force fed him a potion by now but the only taste in his mouth was the blood from when he'd bit his tongue on the way to the ground.

Not to mention that it smelled far to…woodsy to be a hospital of any kind. While much softer than his own mattress, the bed in which he had been sleeping was definitely not on par with those that lined the walls of Madame Pomfrey's domain and was actually quite itchy to his sensitive skin.

Harry considered not opening his eyes, but found that they had already begun to slip open without his permission, determined to reveal wherever he was. It was incredibly fuzzy, and the slightest movement of his head sent the world spinning so he settled his gave on the large mass right beside him.

It jerked once, bringing Harry's attention to a blur of reddish—something. After a few moments of stupidly attempting to guess what it could be Harry considered the very reasonable possibility that it was his closest friend.

"Ron?" He asked timidly, somewhat surprised to find his voice croaky and his throat painfully raw. The figure jumped forward then, and even in his nearly blinded state Harry could tell that if he hadn't backed up a bit he might have gotten whacked by the large fist being held before him.

The garbled words that followed left his heart to sink. He couldn't understand a word that this person was saying which meant that, as long he wasn't talking with a mouthful of mashed potatoes, he or she could not be Ronald Weasley.

So who the bloody hell was next to him and where in Merlin's name was he? Naturally, it was time for the panic to set in.

"H-how," he choked on his words and let them die in his throat. If he didn't understand the language the other was speaking, what were the chances that they would understand English? Harry really did wish he had his glasses so he could, at the very least, be able to read some body language.

A crash from short distance away made him jump and a new blur appeared from around what he could only assume was a door.

"Harry!" Startled, it took a moment for him to realize that it was a woman and that she knew his name.

"You know English?" He croaked hopefully, a spark in his chest. Thank goodness, now maybe things would get sorted out.

But the only response he received was another garble of unfamiliar words and was a bit frightened to find that the woman had moved much closer to him and was now petting him all over, smothering him with kisses and all in all, pawing at him.

"Stop!" He cried hoarsely and tried to shove her away but her thin arms were much stronger than his own in Harry's condition. The other person in the room leapt to his feet and started to whisper that weird language into the woman's ear and tried to pull her away from him. She resisted however and stubbornly clung to Harry, jostling him and his wounds painfully.

"Ouch!" The hands disappeared for a moment and returned, this time gently stroking his face. Harry could only lay still and wait for it to be over, no matter the terror he was feeling.

If not for the sound of the rocking chair hitting the ground, Caramon wouldn't have noticed his mother's arrival. An elated smile was shining on her face and she stumbled over to where Caramon had once again seated himself beside the bed and practically fell on top of the boy resting in it. She murmured a word that Caramon didn't recognize but he soon found himself far busier trying to tug her away from the clearly terrified child to out too much thought to it.

As she proceeded to coat the injured boy with kisses he felt a strange emotion that he hadn't ever really felt before. It was a heavy feeling in his gut and a small clench of his heart. He hadn't felt this way since Raistlin told him he couldn't follow him into that school of his, because his brother was choosing that place over him, his twin. What had Sturm called it?

Jealousy, that was it. While Caramon didn't know much about this 'jealousy' thing he did know it was a bad thing to be feeling towards a beaten up kid. It made him feel quite ashamed for the second time that day.

The boy in question let out a yelp when Rosamum had grabbed him just a little too hard and the already bloodied bandage around his head started to redden even more.

"Mother, you're hurting him. You have to calm down," he whispered soothingly and she finally took a shuddering breath and settled for stroking the petrified boy's face.

"Do you know who he is, Mother?" Caramon asked after a moment.

"He's my Harry," was the immediate response and then she stilled. "Oh, my poor boy you must be so afraid, you don't even have your glasses so you can't see me! Don't you worry everything will be PERFECT."

Caramon found that hard to swallow and sat back, watching as the boy closed off and retreated into himself under his mother's obsessed fingertips. He didn't like it, his mother's attentions on this 'Harry' nor how he was reacting, so he felt incapable of doing anything.

The day passed quickly, Rosamum leaving only to gather her sewing materials to bring back to Raistlin's room and, had Caramon not offered to drag the rocking chair in, she would have sat on the cold wooden floors if only to remain a little closer to Harry.

Harry himself, however had not so much as twitched in the several hours since he had allowed himself to fall limp in Rosamum's arms, not even when Caramon took a stretch or went off to cook some lunch for the three of them. Needless to say, he didn't eat the broth that Caramon had prepared, the only meal he even knew how to make, leaving the much larger boy feeling obligated to eat it for him.

By nightfall Caramon realized he should probably have replaced the bandages around Harry's head wound when he first saw it bleeding and felt absolutely wretched when he found that it left a pool of blood to soak into the boy's hair and all over the back of his neck. No wonder he hadn't moved, he'd likely passed out!

That's what he thought, anyway, before he noticed the boy's eyes were open, just scrunched together funny as if he was trying to see something far, far away.

"Oh," he remembered. "Glasses. I'll have to talk to Father about it…"

Caramon believed that he might recall seeing a pair on a well off merchant once and hoped that they weren't too expensive; while the Majere's were considerably better off than they had been a few years ago, they were still by no means as comfortable as they would dream. Not to mention that if they truly had another mouth to feed…

Well, if he ended up replacing the Widow Judith perhaps it would be all right.