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red as strawberries
and, michael, you would fall
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In the two weeks before, there are signs and wonders.

A cat gives birth to a two-headed kitten. A river runs backwards; children playing in the ocean taste the water and find it sweet. For half an hour in the night, the moon stands still in the sky.

On Thursday evening, there's a streak of light -- like a shooting star, and then like a road flare, burning potassium-bright in the center of an acre of blood-red snow.

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Well that ain't right. Better go check on whatever the heavens have coughed up this time.

They equip themselves with a canteen, a satchel marked with a black cross full of bandages and MREs, and a long gun strapped across their back. Best to be prepared in this kind of situation, they explain, and pocket a small vial of faintly glowing liquid as well. They tell Linaea to make sure the stove's on with some tea for when they get back, and trudge out to answer the call.

The wind whips through the barren trees, knives of cold piercing through their long down coat and tickling their skin. They shiver as they crest a ridge, and then they see what the beacon has wrought.

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In the bloody snow -- in the center of wing-marks which span a glade -- in the epicenter of whatever this is --

 

-- there's a young man, naked and pale and scorched and bloodied but with no visible wound on him, his eyes closed, unshivering.

He's halfway curled around a bundle, something large cradled protectively in his arms.

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How the hell did he get here? It must be 20 below out here, he'll freeze if something isn't done about it.

They rush over, calling out to the prone finger and pulling an emergency blanket and chemical heaters from the kit. They are not letting the cold take this one - not before they've had a chance to ask them a few questions, at least.

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It opens its eyes, slowly. There are snowflakes clustering on the lashes.

The bundle in its arms, on closer inspection--

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—is a bloodied, bruised and unconscious young man.

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Of course there are two of them. They shrug off their coat - seems like these travellers will need it more then they will hustling home.

"You there! Can you walk? My place isn't far from here, and we can try to stop you bleeding out or freezing if you can make it there!" (They hope.)

"I get the feeling paramedics might want to ask you some inconvenient questions about who you are and how you got those wi- wounds, so you'd best come with me." (Why did they almost say wings? The strangers have no wings.)

"Linaea's got the kettle on, let's not keep her waiting too long."

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A slow blink.

 

"...dark."

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Well that can't be good. Maybe the flare took his vision? They look down at him, trying to assess his condition without touching him.

"Do you need carrying?" He looks hurt, but if he can stagger along with support, then they won't have to choose which stranger has to stay out here alone in the cold while they carry the other to safety.

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He's looking at them, but at their lips more than their eyes.

"....wars .... and rumors of wars."

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They were very clear about this, possibly this man has some form of shock or delirium. Unsurprising, after being out in the cold this long. Oh well, time and heat's wasting. They can apologize later if this one shouldn't be touched.

They reach down and try pulling the bird-light body upright.

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He clings desperately tight to the other body, but it slips through his weak fingers.

It appears that he can more or less stand, swaying alarmingly.

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(The other body slips away and lies prone and still on the ground.)

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Long as they don't have to tie a rope to this one to get him to follow, they'll be happy. They drape their coat over his skinny shoulders and bend to examine the dropped one.

"You need to come with me. It's too cold for you to sleep outside."

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He doesn’t seem especially responsive. He does shiver, a little.

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"Rumors of wars ... pearl of great price."

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"Rumors of wars to you too, buddy." They don't spare them a second glance before scooping up the boy on the ground, holding his heartbreakingly light form close to their body for warmth, and beginning the trudge back home. Enough time's been wasted already, no more exposure, they think to themself as their breath fogs the air ahead.

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He reaches his arms out after them, like a child.

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"Follow."

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He reaches his arms out a little farther, stretching his fingertips, feet still rooted to the ground.

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So they are going to need to tie a rope to him. They turn back for a moment and careful not to drop their cargo, they gently clasp his hand. Then they turn towards home and begin dragging him along.

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He doesn't exactly walk -- he tips forward, stumbles, catches himself, tips again -- but it moves him forward, if slowly.

More than once, he falls to his hands and knees in the snow.

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The unconscious boy huddles slightly closer, searching for warmth.

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It's a slow journey home with their twin burdens, but at last they stumble and drag their way to their back door.

"Linaea? We've got company, best you stoke the fire. These folks have seen better days."

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"Nice and warm here, and would our guests like a hot drink?"

She catches a glimpse of them and flushes pink.

"And perhaps some clothes and a warm bath?"

 

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"I think all three."

They gently deposit their cargo onto a couch and begin fiddling with their medical kit, pulling out a roll of gauze.

"So, names, strangers? I'm Bel."

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"...stands before God."

His eyes keep searching the room for something that isn't there, pupils hugely dilated.

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"I'm just gonna call you Stan. And you, my other mysterious stranger?" They wonder what, exactly, Stan is looking for.

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Unfortunately, mysterious stranger #2 is still a little too passed out to offer much in the way of information.

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"...pearl ... of great price."

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They get the smelling salts out, because they're not going to strip this stranger to check for wounds in need of dressing without consent if they can help it.

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His eyes are still roving.

 

 

 

"....cold. .......dark."

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He startles awake, gasping —

 

—and promptly coughs up a mess of blood.

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They grab a trash can and hold it under the boy's face, patting him gently on the back. Better out than in, they think.

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"...precious wine..."

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It’s out, to the extent that it will be, in a minute.

He groans, and curls in on himself a little.

“Wh…hi. ‘S this hell?”

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"Not as far as I know." You belong there?, they think to their self. "You good for fluids? We've got some tea on, and I could rustle up something stiffer if it would help."

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“…am I alive.

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"...yes. Fluids, yes or no?"

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“…yeah — yeah, sure —”

He pauses, struggling to gather his thoughts.

“—did a…did somebody come in with me?”

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"More of a something right now - he seems about as delirious as one can be without actually falling over. I had to hold his hand all the way here."

A silent and wide-eyed Linaea hands them a mug of some gently steaming liquid, and they pass the chamomile on to Z, wrapping his hands gently around the cup to warm them.

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C…ute.

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He looks around, cradling his cup of tea in slightly trembling hands—

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—and as soon as he sights the other one, he does his level best to scoot in his direction.

(This is…not great. He keeps almost spilling tea on himself.)

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"Heartsong -- sweet soul -- treasure in the field--"

He's reaching out, although he still doesn't seem to know how to move.

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"You're safe here. Promise. And your friend just won't sit down, there's plenty of room. You can relax, both of you can stay here as long as you need to."

They pause, trying to figure out a polite way to put this before deciding as usual to go with the direct route.

"I'm going to need you to take off your clothes, though."

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“Oh — uh — sure…”

He wriggles out of the bundle of cloth, a little bit, letting it fall around his elbows.

There are jagged, thick scars down the insides of both forearms, and his body is a mess of bruises — there’s a spot on his chest that looks unfortunately caved-in, where the ribs have snapped — but the rest of the skin is near-perfect.

 

“…I think I’m maybe not wearing any?”

(He’s still watching the other stranger.)

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Oh. They're regretting suddenly having not checked him for injury before moving him, despite how ridiculous playing nurse in the snow might have been.

"Are you having any trouble breathing?" They'd be surprised if he wasn't, but a punctured lung is nothing to fuck around with.

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“Uh…a little? Like, medium. Kinda distracted by how I’m, like — alive. On Earth. —Dude, you can come sit down.”

That last is directed at the other stranger.

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"I cannot."

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“…uh — why not?”

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"Spacetime."

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“What…part?”

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He considers this.

 

 

"...space."

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“Well — uh — I can come over there.”

He sets down his tea very carefully and begins the process of disentangling himself from the cloth wrapping his body.

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They step quickly towards him and stick an arm out, barring him from getting up under any circumstances.

"None of that - you were so excited about life a minute ago, do you really want to bleed out now? And spaceman, do I need to drag you down by your beleaguered boyfriend or are you going to work out the Einstein stuff yourself? I'm not letting him up in his condition, I've seen broken ribs before but his damn sternum's half-floated!"

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"Trying."

He's not moving.

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He will, reluctantly, remain seated.

"...pretty sure he's not an alien."

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They walk over to the purported non-alien and give him a tug like before.

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As before, this succeeds at causing him to stumble in the right direction.

When he's in arm's reach of the beleaguered boyfriend, he immediately has a hand on his wrist.

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This means that a tug should get him down on the couch.

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He attempts to avoid falling onto the pearl of great price.

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They firmly grasp him around the shoulders and guide him down beside their very broken patient.

"Do you have allergies to any medication? I'd like to test your lung capacity, but you need some painkillers first."

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"I don't think I know that. Should I know that?"

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"Uh — no, I don't...think so? I don't need painkillers."

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"You sure about that there, bud? You're taking some very shallow breaths."

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“Yeah, and when the adrenaline wears off it’s gonna be awesome,” he says, dreamily.

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"...Fine. Take a deep breath for me, slowly now."

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"That's deep enough, hold." They prod the area a little, feeling for breaks.

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They can feel it flex alarmingly. "That's at least two broken ribs."

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"Broken?" he asks, alarmed.

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They shrug. "Reckon it hurt. Ya know, when he fell from heaven."

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"He's broken? Can you fix him?"

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They give him an "are-you-serious" look. "Ribs broken. They'll take their own time."