86.4. Cold.
The little boy without a name is dressed in whatever clothes have been discarded by the road, up and down each of the ways of their crossroads, and huddled, curled up as tight as he can, against the trunk of the gnarled pear tree. Trying to keep it between himself and the sharp wind.
Stupid cold time. Very, very stupid.
The hunchbacked shape beside him doesn't seem quite as chilled. He snarls at her, a little, she's had all those years to get used to it, and thick dark bark to protect her. And she can't really help him right now. In the summer, when there are leaves on the twisted branches, she can help by keeping him in the shade from the scorching sun; or even, when she makes the effort, keep some of the rain away.
Winter, though, is something else
He doesn't want to call things with the words she's told him, taught him. Even if they are the same words that the people passing by or stopping a little and then passing on use. He just doesn't want to. She is so useless, there is no reason why he is here and so is she, and yet he comes back to her tree, no matter how far he goes, running away. And she shows up to him again, even when she's promised she wouldn't.
Even when the presence doesn't make a whit of difference to the wind piercing, it feels like, straight through his body.
The young man who called himself Grigory huddled into the military-issue overcoat, the sunlight spilling brilliantly over the expanse of snow well-nigh blinding. And well-nigh mocking, with the appearance but lack of actual warmth.
It was cold enough for his eyes to stream down, tears not scalding but painfully cold against his skin, and for the snot resulting from that to freeze in his nostrils.
He was out here waiting for a poet. Poets and madmen survived through things, right? Or maybe it was ... something else.
Not that he was with the military, local or any other. He'd charmed the coat from a colonel; it was a better make and warmer and sturdier than anything one could get in this country, and he was sick and tired of being cold.
Not that the thick fabric was enough to keep it away. It somehow slipped in through the cracks. Under the long wings. Through the buttonholes. Down the collar, even when he hunched his head down into it to try to keep it away. It almost felt like it got in through the holes where he'd carefully taken the insignia off the shoulders, although that was ridiculous. It was just cold, standing there, off the ways from the trees in the copse, and yet close enough to be able to spot anyone approaching probably before they'd spot him.
He was getting rather good at preparing things to when events started unfolding, they'd move the way he wanted them to.
The amber-haired man smiles, and he can see the color rising in her cheeks, in her lips.
She is exactly what he's been told she would be. Not very tall, not really pretty, not particularly shy, and not at all confident. And very rich. Not quite aware that alone is charm greater than most of her peers with better looks can not quite match. Too well protected from those who would charm her for her riches.
He has access to her... but then again, he's supposed to have enough that her wealth would leave him indifferent. Which it actually does, although not for precisely those reasons. He's there to use her nonetheless, get under her skin, get her to trust him, and stretch out his feelers and use her connections to suck them dry, well, drier, they are prey pithy enough for many like him. And she's too obvious target.
He'll step over her heart when he's leaving anyway, the smile on his face almost exactly as this one, the warmth of it deceptive, concealing the indifference underneath.
It is all a game, him against the world. He can show small mercies like not depriving this girl of the only real advantage she has; but he's still alone, no allies, so he'd better watch his back and both flanks. And leaving a chill onto those who aren't doing the same... well.
Collateral damage.
The ice was layered thick around him, or as good as. The surface smooth, blinding when light was directed at it, glassy and iridescent in the shadows.
It was how he survived. Through the obligation he could never refuse, through the absence of anything to anchor to.
And the ice wasn't even brittle.
But it was treacherous all the same. While not shattering...
... it could, apparently, melt, with he right touch.
Muse: Greg Pearson
Original character / Black Stone Rising
Word count: 803
Partner: NPC; Astrid blackstonerises
A/N: Come back, comm!