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comfy-whumpee · 1 year

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Village Vagrant

@crash-bump-bring-the-whump treated me today, so I thought I should share some more Northlight.

@bloodybrambles, @wildfaewhump, @ishouldblogmore, @lektric-whump, @raigash, @paingineering, @whumpywhumper, and special thanks to @that-one-thespian for Northlight’s story.

There's no colour here, and it's terrible. Everything is grey and white, a slowly descending cloud of monochrome eating up the landscape that would once have been so vibrant. There is no bright grass, no sparkling wildflowers, nothing so nice. All Northlight can see are some wizened, bare-boned trees, and the grey expanse of the sky where the sun is never seen.

The snow drifts like tiny bites of cold fluttered over skin, gentle enough for the first few minutes, and much worse if left for more. Northlight scrunches their nose as a flake lands in their eyebrow and melts against it, sliding down into the socket of their eye, the cold trace of a finger as smooth as a soprano note.

The first of many. The snow crawls into their hair and soaks into their clothing. It trickles down their neck and over their scalp. Their fingers start to numb off, the very tips of them going hard and dead. It's not frostbite, not yet, but it doesn't feel good. It feels like their body is shrinking down.

But their leg has twisted under them and landed them in a ditch, and they can't get out.

The nice thing about the snow is that it numbs the pain with cold ropes around their limbs. It tightens the blood under the skin until it barely flows, like water under a sheet of ice. Northlight tries to lift their head from the ground, but it is too heavy, soaked through with tired thoughts of how long they've been walking. They don't mind the cold if they can get a shelter, but this fall has dealt those plans a fatal blow. All they can do right now is lie still and wait, and hope their freedom could still be negotiated, if someone from the cult was to find them.

Does the cult even exist in this time? They don't know when it is, only that there is nothing in the sky; none of those new-fangled satellites that flash green and red. No, there are more stars, natural stars. Northlight could see everything, if they were able to turn their head to look.

It's a shame it's night. Someone might have found them in the day. They can't hear a road or a city, though. They can't hear anything but the wind. Maybe there's nobody around to find them. How long will they be here, if that's the case?

Winter is the worst season. Everywhere is cold, and nobody wants to come out and see a stranger. Sometimes people are kinder, but only if they're in a good mood, with some holiday to look forward to. More often, they're moving quick, and they're not looking down at where Northlight might be sitting and hoping for kindness. They're too occupied with getting warm again.

The world starts to fuzz out as more white and grey pile around them. Their hair must be mostly white by now. They can't feel the tip of their nose or their toes. The ground feels like it is soaking them up as a frozen part of the landscape. From outside in, Northlight feels the freeze try to take them.

They don't have the energy to fight it off. They can only lie, feeling it absorb them into its deathly embrace, and let their mind drift to happier times.

"Get the cart! Caidy, the cloak. Alright, stranger, here we go."

The sound of someone's voice tugs at Northlight's sleeve, a confident male voice, directing others around him. Moments later, a real set of arms wrap around Northlight's stiff body and bundle it into a sturdy, thick fabric. Wool brushes against their skin and they feel themself settled against a cold wooden surface. Footsteps sound around them, hard, not on the snow-covered ground. Then the tug of movement, real movement, alerts them to what's happening.

The cult has found them.

Big hands feel their gentle way up Northlight's leg, finding the swollen joint. "Get me some snow to pack around this," the man in charge calls, and Northlight wonders if it's Kurt Swindon. "Don't worry friend, you're in good hands. We'll get you warm and rested before long."

He sounds like Kurt, mellow and kind. Northlight thinks about the blood moving sluggishly back into their fingers and toes. At least they're not in the cold anymore, and their wet clothes are gone, replaced by the wrapper of something warm and furred. They should move, throw themself through to another era, but… If this is a Kurt before he met Northlight - calling them stranger - perhaps they can learn something.

A dreadful chill packs around their knee, and they try to breathe through the pain, knowing they're only going to have to wait. They don't know where or when they are, and for the time being at least, they need the cultists to think they're unconscious so they don't get marked.

"You picking up strangers again, Sam?"

"Aye."

Sam. Oh, they loved someone called Sam once. This isn't that Sam.

"Looks half dead."

"He ain't though."

"S'pose."

Northlight keeps still and silent for the journey, and doesn't move more than a little when they're scooped up into carry. Still bundled in the cloak, but with snow falling from their leg, it takes everything they have not to curl up in the safety of strong arms and forget the danger facing them.

They lie tense, but they are set down again on smooth wood. There is no pain or digging knife. No sigil scars them. Instead, people pack in on either side, and they begin to move. The tug and lull of a horse-drawn cart is more soothing than any ambulance. These people are in no hurry to secure them or lock them away. They huddle together with Northlight between their legs, and hunch over them to enclose their body in a tent of warmth.

"I hope they weren't out there for too long," someone says, apparently deciding Northlight is not conscious enough to talk to directly.

"In that snow, it's a good thing you found them, Sam."

"They were hard to see, covered in that snow. But I know my tracks even half-covered in moonlight."

"That you do."

"It'll be good to get them by a fire."

"I'll fetch some of my tea, that'll put him right."

"Must be a traveller or a beggar."

"No beggar's going to go hungry around here."

The simple affirmations and plans are passed between the people above with simple, confident motions. They will have each necessary provision as they are all needed. There is the possibility or more support of they wanted it. These people take on the duty of care to others as simply and matter-of-factly as they took finding them in a ditch in the snow. Plan has been set already. Jobs are volunteered for, not allocated. They are in good hands.

Northlight turns their face into the fur and hides tears. Good hands have picked them up to carry them to safety.

Always, the thought trickles in, that maybe these people haven't seen their face well enough yet. Maybe it's only a matter of time. Their scar always gives them away, and the Alliance made sure all their followers and debtors recognise it. There might be just one person in this group wishing harm upon them. They wouldn't know if it was too late.

But there is a heavy blanket over them and the cart moves at a steady roll, and it's too hard to consider moving when their body is only just returning from its hibernation. Their skin tingles sharply as blood begins to circulate smoothly again, and is this why they were saved? To make the flow flow instead of freezing in their veins? They are a vessel, after all.

"Old Mahon's got a bed he can spare," someone was saying above their head. "He'll be glad of the company."

"Aye so. Should we get a change of clothes also? These ones are soaked through."

"I can lend some. My Daniel's about a fitting size. Warm and dry is better'n this."

"We'll have to bring the firewood in for Old Mahon, he can't do it himself after a day's work."

Their whole conversation was about where to put them. Some old man had space, but was he safe or was he someone paying these innocent villagers to bring him a scarred vagrant? Perhaps he was a politician or pastor or sheriff, something that would command authority so nobody could refuse.

It felt smothering.

They rest of the journey passed quietly. Northlight lay tense, even as shivers started to climb through them. They couldn't relax with these dangerous people all around them. They knew how cowardly it was, but if these villagers meant them harm, they would find out soon. They didn't want to do anything to make the mask slip prematurely.

When the cart rolled to a stop, the sound of footsteps and shuffling warned them before two pairs of arms gently hoisted them upright. "Here, stranger," said a low voice, with every apparent kindness. "We'll take the weight off you. Try to keep your feet under."

"Can he walk, Jane?" someone asked from below, already on the ground.

"Well enough," Jane called back. Northlight was floated to the ground on many helping hands, and then the walk began. "That's it, nice 'n slow. I've got you. I'm Jane, and on your other side, that's my brother Wilbur. You're not going far, we're going to get you into the house here, this is Mrs Steward's. She's got food to spare." A door creaked, and a moment later they were deposited into a cushioned chair.

"Good evening, friend." A new voice. Northlight thought of Kurt, but it couldn't be Kurt, could it? "I'm Doctor Featherstone. I just want to check you over, and then we'll get some food in you. Can you look at me?"

Oh. How long have they had their eyes closed? They peel them back, wincing at the crackle of their iced eyelashes. The doctor is decidedly not Kurt Swindon. He is grey and aged, with a deep-set pair of brown eyes that show kindled warmth.

"Very good," he says, moving his head back and forth slightly, meeting Northlight's eyes until they look away. "Can you drink? It's warm, not too hot."

There's tea on the table. They hadn't heard it arrive. Stiff, aching hands uncurl from their instinctive fists and Northlight winces as tired, cold joints are forced into motion. They were tense on the ground for so long, trying to keep the cold away, that it hurts to relax. Tender swelling pain flares across their muscles as they do it, their shoulders worst of all. They breathe out shakily, and close their hands around the mug.

"Steady now," the doctor cautions softly. Much more like Sam than Kurt.

Warm, salty broth floods into their mouth, and they swallow before they can taste it, but it comes. Lean meat stock, maybe rabbit, and something herbal they can't place.

When did this blanket get here? This is nice. Featherstone is apparently satisfied after watching them use their hands. He turns out to have just one more question. "Can you speak, friend? Perhaps ell us your name?"

Northlight swallows another mouthful with a wince. Always, words. Their life is made of words, spoken and unspoken, gathered and lost. They can give one, maybe two, today. Maybe not even that.

They force one out. It flows like melted chocolate in their mouth. "Roa."

"Well met, Roa. Rest now, and I'll be back tomorrow. I'll leave you with Mrs Steward."

They nod heavily. They hope he tells Mrs Steward, otherwise she'll probably ask again. These things are never over easily. She'll be nosy, or rude, or flirtatious and demanding…

In the end, Mrs Steward doesn't say a word. She simply sets a plate down before them with rough slices of bread, some hard cheese and a diced apple. The thoughtfulness makes them smile. The fact she added a small chunk of parkin makes it even better.

She moves away again without speaking or even waiting to listen. Northlight waits until she's not looking, and pockets the cheese before wolfing down the rest. They can never be sure how long they have in one place like his, so kindness is best not wasted in the moment.

Once all the food is gone, and the tea is gone too, Mrs Stewart helps them up and takes them across the street on her surprisingly steady arm. "There we are. You'll sleep with Old Mahon, he's got space since his son is in the war. He'll be glad of the company. Don't be shy."

Northlight checks their step as they process the sweeping implications of that simple word. War. They can't begin to guess which war, but that explains the ready generosity, the loneliness and interest in a stranger, and the need to help. It explains why they've only seen the young and old so far, and married women with no husbands around.

A community gutted by the theft of their healthy men. Northlight hates all kinds of war, but they're glad, selfishly, it's not one of the bigger ones. There's precious little kindness to go around in those times.

Old Mahon lives in a ragged building, but when Mrs Steward opens the door, it becomes clear that the façade is deceiving. Inside is a warm, smoky room with a blazing fire, and the warmth hits like a horse. Northlight stumbles, and Mrs Steward helps them to the bed on one side of the room, where the son perhaps slept while staying with his father. Old Mahon doesn't speak, and seems to be absorbed in his miniature inferno. Someone clearly made good on the suggestion he'd need firewood bringing in for him. He's making great use of it.

"There we are, Mahon," Mrs Steward announces when Northlight is settled on the straw mattress. "I'll leave our friend Roa with you, and be by in the morning with breakfast. You know where to come if you need me, don't you?"

"Thank you," Mahon tells her gravely, his voice a wizened croak of great dignity. "Rest well, stranger."

Northlight pulls the blanket up over their body, but sleep is not easily caught. It scampers away like a snow rabbit. They watch the fire, then Mahon's profile in the dancing flames. He looks sad from over here. Lonely. He must be, knowing his son is in a foreign land, could be already dead or horribly wounded, and he wouldn't know until far later. No wife, likely already gone to the grave before him. Only Mrs Steward to check on him best she can, lonely too without her man.

"Are you comfortable?" Mahon asks, noticing Northlight's stare.

"I am. I have many to thank many times over for how I have been welcomed today."

Mahon grumbles a laugh. "That's as we do, here. As long as you're not Spanish."

"No, sir."

"Hmph. Good. Or French."

"Not at all, sir. I speak a little."

"So does my son, these days. Everyone's a soldier."

"Not me, sir."

"No, you've been and done your time, haven't you?" Mahon nods. "A wicked scar they left you with."

Northlight feels no shame at agreeing. "I'm just glad of my life, and that of my regiment. There were five of them, you see, all from the same town, not mine but they were close-knit friends. The bravest of them was called Elana, and then there was a boy called Fletcher, he was more sensitive but the best cook you could get. The leader…"

Spinning a tale together is an easy resting activity, and as they tell it, the image in their mind only grows clearer and clearer. They weave their vision into words, sinking into it like a warm bath, and relax their eyes, and eventually, their imagination becomes dream, and reality takes a break.

#rescue #comfort #environmental whump #my fic #whump #northlight #time traveller #frostbite #hypothermia

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