You're another day colder [Open]

[amir]

Amir gave a hoarse cough as he forced himself to sit up. He was trying to ignore the dampness of his clothing, muttering various curses to himself in Arabic. He’d thought that this would have been a safe enough place to sleep over night, at least dry. He’d had a cough coming for weeks, but the dampness of a rain shower overnight had only brought it well and truly to a head. Still, he couldn’t afford to rest. Quietly he made the motions of washing himself for morning prayer, even if he had no water to hand. It had to cope. With that done though he tried to drag himself to his feet shaking from the effort, having to put a grubby hand on the wall for balance. No carving or selling today.

He honestly felt flushed, too warm. Another cough escaped as he stumbled on determinedly. Once he’d reached the main square he slumped down, letting his eyes close briefly as he rested his sweat soaked back against a grubby but relatively cool wall, trying to cool himself off. Sweat pricked his brow and as he forced his eyes open again he was sure he looked hell. Still he knew he couldn’t worry about that as he felt another coughing fit take over him. He was shivering in his ragged grubby clothes but he couldn’t afford owt warmer. They were damp and certainly weren’t providing much protection. Indeed with the weight he’d lost the clothes were hanging off his too boney shoulders.

A brief vision came across his eyes as he was sure he was back in the beating sun of the desert, trying to find a missing mare. Pure white she was, glowing in the sun that was beating down. He felt like he was choking on sand. He couldn’t clear his vision either, sure he should be doing something else, but that seemed hardly to matter. His eyes closed as his head fell sideways, for now claimed by a feverish dream. He was in those deserts, stumbling lost, leading the mare that he’d found, desperate to find some shelter, his mouth dry.

He was totally unaware of his mutterings quietly in Arabic. Unaware of his actual surroundings, just knew what he was seeing in a fevered dream. That his eyes were sore from sand blowing into them, that his throat and mouth felt like he’d swallowed sand so dry were they, his tongue feeling like it was stuck where it was. His head and body felt too heavy. That was all he was aware of, as well as a desperate need to find shade, and water. To cool down. Why was the mare so important? Oh yes she was carrying the foal that would be his if the foal was a filly. His own war mare. He’d have to train her...

[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

The overnight rain had leaked in through the roof of the room Feuilly shared, leaving some of his belongings damp and smelling unpleasantly mildewy. He didn't like it, but there was very little he could do about it. At least his bed was in a corner with fewer holes in the roof, and he'd remained healthy. Others, it seemed, weren't so lucky.

He'd heard the coughing fit as he crossed the square and, although he told himself that he should pass by for the sake of his own health and ignore it, he couldn't bring himself to keep walking. He glanced around, locating the source of the sound. He was young and healthy, and offering casual assistance to a sick boy in the street—for he located the source of the coughing and found a ragged-looking, dark complexioned boy muttering to himself—was unlikely to infect him with anything deadly.

He approached cautiously, hoping not to startle the boy and, similarly, to avoid being robbed. Feuilly was an orphan himself; he'd learned long ago to watch out for pickpockets. He could be generous, but he preferred to be the one making the decision to give—and neither was the young fanmaker wealthy himself. Still, he did at least have a place to sleep and money to fill his stomach, if not richly.

The boy was ill, badly enough that Feuilly felt suddenly concerned for him beyond the more general concern he held for the oppressed and downtrodden. The boy was hallucinating, Feuilly realized—the muttering in a foreign tongue he didn't recognize, the distant look... He hoped that he wouldn't attack him when he heard him approach, if he even would hear him approach—sometimes people that far gone would be entirely unaware of what was happening around them.

And sometimes it meant they really were at death's door.

“Boy...” He spoke gently, trying not to provoke him or frighten him. He hoped they shared a language—but the foreign muttering wasn't a hopeful sign. He wasn't sure what he would do if he couldn't understand him; perhaps try to take him to some kind of charity house. He would be a little late for work, but he knew sickness could be fatal on the street—and another's life was worth more than being on time. “Do you speak French?”