Everlasting Snow: Chapter 5

Your heart is beating in your throat. You gulp as you step up next to his shins, fright and inquisitiveness swirling throughout you.

One arm against your chest, you lean over slightly to get a better look at him. As you lean in, you begin to be able to see your breath escape your semi-open mouth in little wisps. You close it as if the wisps will make him regain consciousness. You want to see every detail of this stranger who surprised you.

He’s flat on his back, right hand by his head and the left one lying on his stomach. One leg is slightly more bent than the other. He looks like he could just be sleeping.

His clothes are odd…there’s no way he’s from this decade…from this century. His long, thin legs are clothed by brown pants that are faded to a light tan on the front and back of his thighs, strapped snugly to his calves by what appear to be mildly lighter brown leather straps. They cut off mid-shin, the edges tattered, torn, and covered in what appears to be thin spindles of ice that reach up to just below his knees. He has three layers of clothes on his torso. The first is a white long-sleeved shirt with a v-neck and loose-fitting sleeves that end in white buttons on the cuffs. On top of that, he’s wearing a tailored-to-fit brown vest made of a thick cloth that he has left unbuttoned. Around his shoulders, tied by a string at his neck, he wears a two-layered cape made of the same brown material as the vest. The edges are skillfully embroidered in beautiful small white swirls of ice that glisten in the light. You notice that the vest has a similar pattern on its bottom corners and edge.

He groans, and you leap back. After ten or fifteen seconds of no further signs of life, you decide that it’s okay to approach him once again. He’s really out cold. You decide that you had better take him inside and out of the mercy of the elements. Your feet are starting to get cold, too.

You sigh. Why am I such a nice person? Your examination of him will have to continue once inside.

A little mad at yourself for not having common sense and just calling the paramedics—or the police—and for being too curious, you crouch with your back to his torso. You manage to sling his limp arms around your shoulders. You gather up his legs, one in each arm, pick up the staff, and piggyback him into the house. He’s surprisingly light. Light as snow…

You set the staff in the corner and gently lay him down on the couch. He’s a bit too tall for the small thing, so you’re forced to grab a pillow and prop him up a bit. You practically hug him and sit him up ever so slightly placing the pillow behind him for comfort. You get a sudden, subtle whiff of pine tree. He smells like…like Winter.

Flustered, you quickly let go, his head lolling from one side to the other. Calm down, (your name), you command yourself. You pace a little and settle your racing heart, feeling the blush leave your face. You go back to the couch and extend your hand, turning your head away and closing your eyes out of fear the something might happen.

Your hand meets his forehead. He’s ice cold.

You open your eyes. Oh man, he’s dead, is your first thought. I have a dead person in my house. Shoulda called the paramedics. Your hand finds his neck, which is equally cold. It’s strong, though…young…You take another breath to prevent another blush from spreading across your face. You rest two fingers on his neck, feeling for a pulse.

One heartbeat, then another. Rhythmic. He’s alive all right.

You remove your hand and turn your head, one eyebrow raised in confusion.

Frostbite? You wonder. You notice that he’s barefoot. His feet are long and slender to match his height. And pale, tinged slightly blue around the nails. Frostbite.

You immediately cover him with your favorite blanket, the same one you found on you the previous night. His face  scrunches up momentarily as if having a bad dream, but makes no motions after that. You rush over to the fireplace and light up a new log, which soon takes, very excited to have two people to talk to.

You empty a can of soup into a pot and stick it on the stove to warm.

Out of things to do, you sit in the middle of the room, facing your odd guest and patient.
Now, you really get to get a good look at what he looks like.

Your eyebrows shoot up out of shock, your heart in a new flurry. He’s extremely attractive. His pale white skin is smooth and flawless. The tip of his nose, cheeks, and tops of his ears are tinged a very, very slight pink, like someone who’s been out in the cold. The edges of his ears are dusted with an almost unnoticeable black-blue. You attribute the bluish tint of the tips and edges of his fingers to the frostbite. His thin lips are a light pink, almost white, with the same small tint of blue. His eyebrows are brown and his face is a slight oval shape, ending in a perfect chin and jaw for a boy. He’s young, around 17 or 18, you’d say. But those clothes…

Something else really catches your attention. His hair. It’s a completely different color from his eyebrows. It’s white as new-fallen snow, a shiny white-silver towards the roots. The fire’s flames make it glint and glisten oh so slightly. Not an oily shine. No…one like fresh snow in the sunlight.

You’ve never seen anyone have attributes quite like any of these.

Is he even human…? He looks human enough…

A bubbling coming from the kitchen takes you out of the trance and you slowly stand up, eyes still fixed on him. You pause a moment before going to save the soup from overboiling.

Who ARE you?