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They'd changed his clothing so he was dry and clean, hopefully warmer, but still he was pale and tearful. Leaning on the doorframe, I watched the woman work, the doctor nowhere to be seen. She glanced up at me, a small smile playing on her lips, sliding off as she took in my appearance.
"Your father is here, Alistair," she murmured, running her fingers through the boy's hair.
He shrunk back from her touch, shivering against the thin blanket. He was still white as a sheet, and didn't look much better than when I left him.
"You may take him now," she instructed me, flinching as she caught my gaze. "I wish you good luck, sir." Another forced smile, no teeth.
"Thank you. I am forever grateful." My own returning smile was shy, cautious, as I worried over what I would do now. My skills with children were limited. "I will find some way to repay you for your kindness." And I meant it. I would return the favour to this woman and the doctor; without them my small one would be dead. He's not yours, Alistair. Offering my arms to the small boy, I stepped forward, trying to prepare him for my touch.
He still tried to slide from my hands, but was too exhausted to resist me for long. His temperature was warmer now, although his trembling seemed to be worse. I gathered him into my arms, hesitating before gently running my hand up and down his back. His entire body tensed and he moved so his hair blocked my view of his face. Picking up the bag the woman had put the clothes in, I headed back into the weather, trying to shelter the boy inside of my jacket. Within seconds he was shivering from the chill.
This was no place for a child. We were sitting sheltered inside an abandoned house, miles out of any civilisation. It was dark and he was freezing, taking to leaning against me to try and find some form of warmth, warmth that I couldn't offer him. His shaking was so severe his teeth chattered, and within a short time of leaving the healers he developed a cough which seemed to suffocate him.
"What is your name, little one?" I asked, wondering if he could speak or whether he was too young. His answer came out as a cough anyway. I frowned; I needed help. He needed help. I couldn't take him home if he couldn't tell me, and he was too sick to talk to me, let alone be coherent enough to understand what was happening. You've made a mistake. He's too young; he cant actually know where he lives.
I paced backwards and forwards across the empty room, still holding the child. The motion of my movement seemed to calm him, and within minutes he was fitfully asleep. "I'm so sorry," I whispered to him. He did not deserve to be in this situation; it was my fault. I should never have taken him from the healers, I should have just left and not come back. He needed a home and food, warmth and some form of intimacy I couldn't provide for him. Jesus, what was I thinking?
The idea had come to me during the lowest point of the night, when the boy shook the worse and his quiet whimpers broke my heart. Now I stood on the doorstep of my closest friend, although she was more of an acquaintance. Cringing, I knocked softly on her door, partly willing myself to be invisible.
"Alistair," she gasped, surprised. The expression on her face was neither pleasure nor disgust, but my confidence shrivelled.
"Siobhan." My voice came out not much more than a whisper. "I need your help."
She eyed me carefully, her gaze landing on the bundle in my arms. Slowly her eyes widened, her lips thinning out into a disapproving line and she shook her head. "No immortal children under this roof. Never," she hissed.
Was his heart really that faint? "He's not immortal!" I cried quickly. "Please, Siobhan, I need help. I don't know what to do…He is unwell and I can't… I don't know how…" I pleaded, willing her to understand.
She gritted her teeth, contemplating and listening, before holding out her arms. "Come in," she sighed, taking him from me. He let out a soft cry at the jarring motion.
"Be careful," I scolded frantically. "He's human."
"Really? I wouldn't have guess." The sarcasm practically dripped from her voice. She disappeared in the door, leaving it open for me, and moved into the sitting room. As she settled into a chair, she sat the child up in her lap, pulling the cloth away from his face to see him better. A reluctant smile crept onto her face. "You are cute, aren't you?" she murmured to him before meeting my eyes. "What is his name?"
"…I don't know," I admitted stiffly, unable to smile for the fear that she might break his neck.
She rolled her eyes. "Have you not thought to ask?" Her tone was mocking.
"He's too young, Siobhan. Can't you see that? How is he going to tell you his name? I can't believe that I thought he could tell me where he lived! He hasn't said a single word since I found him." I sighed, exasperated. "Maybe he is mute."
She looked at him again. "Well, I think you are just shy, hmm? Are you frightened of us, honey?" Her manner with him was somewhat easier than mine, the awkwardness gone, replaced with some form of mothering instinct.
"He is cold," I grumbled. "And sick. Don't touch him too much; you'll give him a chill." My words came out harsher than I meant, envy taking over.
"Oh shush, Alistair." Despite what she said, she moved closer to the fire, exposing him a little more. "What is the cause of this?" she asked, gently running her fingers of the bruising and small wounds on his arms.
He squirmed a little at the contact, not enjoying it. Maybe we weren't so different after all.
"It was there before I found him." My reply was defensive and a hard expression fell across my face.
"It was only a question." She frowned too when he coughed, going somewhat limp. "Poor baby. Has he eaten?"
"I don't know!" I shouted at her, stress starting to boil over.
"Well, have you fed him or not?"
"No! Of course not! How am I supposed to know when to feed him if he doesn't talk!?"
She just looked at me before calling to Liam, her mate, instructing him to go to the market and return with something to eat.
"Maybe he's not hungry," I muttered.
"Or maybe he's a child and he's too traumatised to say something," she snapped back, rubbing her hand up and down his back. "It's okay, little one. We'll get you warm and fed and then we'll get you back to your parents."
He looked up at her timidly, his cheeks flushed with fever now, and but didn't pull away like he did to me.
"Can you walk?" She unwrapped him from my jacket completely and set him on the floor, holding his waist to make sure he didn't fall.
"Should you not do that away from the fire?" I suggested. "He might fall."
She just raised her eyebrows, releasing the child and he shakily remained on his feet. "Walk to Alistair," she instructed, turning him around and pushing him toward me.
I knelt and held out my arms, expecting the worst and almost unwilling to look.
He only stumbled once, not stopping until he was safely in reach and I held him again, looking back at her expectantly. I glanced up at her too, reading her expression.
She was smiling widely, her eyes alive and excited, before rushing forward and stealing him from me. "Well done, sweetheart! I'm so proud of you!" She kissed his cheek and then his forehead, hugging him gently.
He giggled quietly, the sound pretty and sweet like music or bells, before ducking his head to hide his face.
Her smile started to fade. "He has a temperature."
"I know. I told you that he was sick," I muttered flatly, my mood fraying each time she annoyed me.
"Jesus, Alistair, give it a rest, alright? What is this temper you've developed?" Her smile was gone and she hid the child slightly behind her, as if I was an enraged animal crouched to attack. Truthfully I had no intentions to ever harm him; although I was unsure why, I would protect him with my life. My sharp remark was cut off by a small voice.
"…Alistair…" he mumbled softly, trying to word for himself. His pronunciation was perfect, his accent matching my own.
I grinned at Siobhan, triumphant. "He prefers me most. He can say my name."
"My name is Siobhan. Can you say that?" she asked, pushing his hair off his face and holding her hand against his forehead. "He's really hot, Alistair," she whispered, too low for him to hear.
He blushed, hiding his face again when he realised we were both focused on him. "…Sh...Shawn…" he shook his head, making her chuckle quietly.
"That doesn't matter, love. Don't worry-"
"…S-Siobhan…" He fumbled the word a little, but it was still recognisable.
She hugged him again, laughing. "You're adorable. What's your name, little one? Can you tell me?" I suddenly realised that was what she was aiming for; by knowing us he might relax.
"…Carlisle…" he whispered, hiding again.
"And how old are you, Carlisle?" she continued, trying to keep him speaking. He seemed a little more relaxed now, almost as if he enjoyed being close to her. "How many years? Do you know?"
He looked faintly bewildered, stammering before answering. "…One and…one and six…" he seemed confused by his own answer, glancing up at her again as if to see if he was in trouble.
"One and a half?" I suggested softly.
"One year and six months?" she asked him gently.
He became wrigglier, evidently harder to hold without injuring, and his breaths caught in his throat.
"Carlisle, shh, what's wrong, sweetie?" she tried to hold him still but he wouldn't have it, trying to get out of her arms. "Come now, what happened? Are you hurting?"
He shook his head, his eyes wide with fright and his fingers in his mouth. "…don't know…" he whimpered softly, his voice trembling.
"You don't know what, little one?" she pressed, repositioning him more comfortably.
"…The answer," he told her, even more quietly. "I-I'm s-sorry- d-don't t-tell fath-er." The last sentence was broken by soft sobs, the tears that had threatened almost constantly since I found him overflowing.
"Shh, it's okay, it doesn't matter." She spoke to him softly, rubbing circles into his back. "It doesn't matter at all."