Somewhat Clear

Don’t stay out after sundown.

Don’t wander around the docks.

Don’t talk to strangers unless absolutely necessary.

Those were the three simple rules Nita had given Vesta, when she had finally allowed him to start going into town by himself.

Vesta was already committing two out of three infractions, when he found himself in the position of considering breaking the third rule as well.

He had disobeyed the first one on purpose by sneaking out after dinner, when Logue had left him to entertain himself by conking out early like the baby he still was. He had accidentally broken the second by taking a wrong turn at the marketplace. And about the third— getting someone help probably counted as absolutely necessary, right?

The high elf leaning against the wall definitely looked like he could use some help.

He was the palest person Vesta had ever seen, both in the sense that his general colouring tended to light colours, and in the sense that he looked a little clammy, a little shivery. He was bent in half, one arm tightly wrapped around his abdomen, betraying a skinny torso under the flowy shirt, the other hand clinging to the wall like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His expression was pinched, silver-grey eyebrows joined in a pained frown, his nose scrunched up in a grimace, eyes squeezed shut, lips pressed together.

Vesta would have completely missed him, if he hadn’t been looking for a way back to the marketplace behind the crates that lined the edges of the docks. He couldn’t tell if the stranger was actually hiding. He couldn’t tell if the stranger was actually in need.

Don’t talk to strangers unless absolutely necessary.

“Excuse me,” Vesta whispered, gathering all the courage he had. “Do you need help?”

The stranger hadn’t heard him approach. He started badly, his body twitching upright, flattening against the wall like a cornered animal. His eyes were a brilliant, unreal red, the only spot of real colour almost glowing in the grey-scale darkness surrounding them.

Vesta froze under his gaze.

“It’s just a kid,” the stranger muttered to himself, rough and thick. “Just a kid, you old, pathetic fool.” With what looked like great effort, he righted his posture and relaxed his features into a somewhat empty, friendly smile. A still somewhat sharp one, despite no teeth showing.

An odd shiver washed over Vesta. “Why, hello, little one,” the stranger greeted him, in a chipper tone that sounded as hollow and metallic as the tins his sisters sometimes saved for Logue to play constructions with. “What is a young thing like you doing at the docks at this hour? Are you lost? Where are your parents?”

As the stranger tilted his head at him, Vesta noticed that something wet shone on his cheeks—like tears. Had the strange man been crying? His eyes didn’t look puffy or irritated, but Vesta was suddenly sure of it, even if he’d never seen a real grown-up cry.

Vesta didn’t know what to do. “I should call someone to help,” he blurted.

The elf tensed. “What?” he asked, a hint of threat in his flat tone.

“If you need help—I can call someone,” Vesta stammered, but held his ground.

“Ah.” The stranger relaxed minutely. Then he explained, as sugary and empty as before, “No need. I felt a little sick earlier, but now I am okay.”

A lie. Vesta knew instantly, in the same way he knew when Nita was hiding something when she said she was going to the market. “You should be home, if you’re feeling sick,” he pointed out. Annoyance made him bold. “What are you doing at the docks at this hour?”

The elf actually laughed at that, bitter and hollow. “Maybe I hoped to go for a swim.”

Vesta swallowed, uncertain. “The bay is deep and dangerous,” he said, echoing something Nita always said. The docks were unsafe for many reasons. “You would drown.”

“Maybe I was counting on that.” The elf seemed to realise he’d crossed a line. Regret flashed in his red eyes. He rubbed a hand down his face. “I’m sorry, little one. I’m just a silly old man with a bad sense of humour. I’ll be fine.” Another lie. “You needn’t to worry.”

It was definitely too late for that. Once again, Vesta realised how far out of his depth he was. “You shouldn’t be alone,” he told the stranger, giving voice to the gut feeling that still rooted him in place. “I can walk you home, maybe?”

The stranger’s eyes once again filled with tears. He covered his face with trembling hands, slumping back towards the wall as if to hide the sudden break of composure. Vesta could only watch as he shook all over, his thin frame wracked by stifled sobs and shudders. His own chest felt tight, hitching with the very start of purring—aching to soothe, to comfort, to heal. He hovered closer, but he was not brave enough to reach out and touch.

“Aren’t you the sweetest,” the man said finally after a while, after he’d regained control over his voice. When he turned back to Vesta, his eyes were shiny and glossy and still wet, the red glow in them much less startling. “Kind souls like yours…” he trailed off, his gaze turning sad and unfocused. “You really should go home.”

“Promise me,” Vesta insisted, “that you won’t try to swim in the bay, if I go.”

The elf smiled, still sad, but genuine enough. “How I wish I could keep you.” He reached out like he wanted to touch him, then thought better of it. “Go home, little one.” His voice was still sweet, if thick with sadness—but the hollowness in it felt darker, now. “The night is full of dangerous things.”

Vesta shivered. “But—”

The stranger slowly pushed himself off the wall. He wasn’t an especially tall man, but he still could make himself tower over Vesta’s adolescent frame effortlessly—and then he stepped forward, and he became something else.

Don’t talk to strangers unless absolutely necessary.

Rationally, Vesta knew there was nothing different about the man. He was still the same elf as before, pale and clammy and tear-stricken, slightly unsteady on his feet, in a shirt that looked too large for his skinny frame. But the shadows around them were now deeper and darker and filled with unknown threats; the stars dimmed above them; the distant noise of the city died away. The air still smelled of salt and fish, but there was a stronger note of rot now, like things had started to decay faster. The glow in the man’s eyes felt different now.

More than alive. Undead.

The man bared sharp teeth, and snarled, “I said go home.”

Vesta ran.

An instinct stronger than compassion and worry gripped his soul. He was prey, a mouse scuttling away in a crack in the wall, avoiding a cat’s claws by the skin of its teeth. He was a mindless entity made of sinews and fear and survival. He ran and he stumbled and he shoved himself in forgotten back alleys. He ran and he forgot to breathe and he was home.

He barely had the strength to lever himself through the window he’d cracked open to slip out. He hit the wooden floor with a thud, body collapsing in a mess of limbs. His heart rattled into his chest, a buzzing through his veins that threatened to blow his eardrums out.

Something touched him in the dark. Miraculously, he recognised Logue before he could scream bloody murder and shake the whole household awake.

“Fuck,” he gasped, wrapping himself around his little brother’s little frame. Solid, familiar, comforting. Safe. He sank his fingers in the soft strands at the nape of his neck, buried his face in his hair to smell his familiar little-brother smell. He rocked him back and forth, like when they were much younger, vaguely aware that he was acting a little odd and not at all sane. “Fuck, chickie, you scared me half to death.”

“Bad word,” Logue grumbled, his little voice still thick with sleep. He didn’t protest when Vesta laughed and hugged him even closer, relieved tears flooding his face; he just shifted a little in his grip, settled in a more comfortable position, and went to sleep right there.

Vesta was so exhausted he followed suit, without even meaning to.

Red eyes and dark shadows and pale men and sharp teeth haunted him through the night; but by the next day they had melted in the morning sun like a distant nightmare.