Rain and Drought by Cirth

Chapter 2

An unexpected meeting.

Warnings: none

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Uldor puts down his empty buckets, wipes the sweat from his upper lip, and shades his eyes with his hand. Some distance ahead, there is something lying on the ground; it looks like a pile of clothes.

He draws closer, brow furrowed in curiosity, feet dragging along yellowed grass. His jaw slackens when he realises there is a boy in the clothes. Dropping his bucket, Uldor rushes over to him and squats down. The boy seems to be around his own age, his limbs just becoming gangly and long. He is clad in a simple but well-made cream tunic, loose trousers, and leather sandals; his coal-black plait is strung with painted wooden beads. Likely, Uldor thinks, he is part of the wealthier lot – which doesn't mean as much as it used to, if his grandfather is right.

He turns the boy's face up; his skin is darkened from the blistering sun, and his lips are cracked and bleeding. That is not a good sign. In his loose, brittle fingers, there is a metal pail, and there is another one lying nearby. So he had been fetching water, too.

Uldor notes with relief that his chest is still moving, albeit slowly. He puts the boy's head on his lap and lightly slaps his cheeks a few times. "Hey," he says. "Hey, you. Wake up." Nothing. Uldor purses his lips and blows on his face, hoping some cool air will help. "Gods above, I don't want to carry you along," he mutters. He chews his lower lip and looks into the distance. The well is still a couple of miles ahead, and he has to get back home; his brother is ill, and needs plenty of water, fast.

He ponders for a while, and then smacks his fist in his palm, deciding that he will fill both their buckets. Getting to his knees, he dusts his trousers. He feels a prick of guilt for leaving the boy alone, even if only for a while, but he cannot think of a better idea.

By the time he returns, panting and drenched in sweat, the boy looks sicklier than before, the colour drained from his face. Uldor sets down the buckets and splashes some water on the boy's cheeks and neck. The boy stirs, but does not wake. Uldor digs in his pocket for a handkerchief, drenches it in water, and presses it to the boy's open mouth. "This had better work," he says under his breath, more than a little peeved and worried.

The boy chokes, turning on his side and heaving. He almost hacks out a lung, and then, shaking, gets to his knees and faces Uldor. His grey-green eyes are unfocused and blood-shot, and he takes great gulps of air.

Uldor dithers, feeling horribly awkward. "You fainted," he babbles, unable to think of anything else to say. "I filled your buckets and gave you some water."

The boy blinks, and sways a little. "What?" He massages his temples and groans. "Oh, my head..." He tries to stand up, gritting his teeth. He glares at his ankle, which is swollen and pink. "I twisted it," he whispers, as if he cannot believe his ill luck. Then he looks at Uldor with an odd expression. It is as if he's snapped out of a stupor. "Pardon me," he says, and inclines his head in a small bow. "I'm being rude. I am Borlach, of the House of Bór."

"Uldor, of the House of Ulfang. I was wondering at your accent."

Borlach smiles at him at last, dimples dipping in his cheeks. "I thank you, Uldor. I would love to spend time with you, as a friend, but I'm afraid I must hurry on." He picks up his buckets, grimacing. Uldor looks at his ankle, concerned. "Will you be all right? Should I help you along?" Mentally, he curses himself. He needs to go home; he cannot afford to waste more time.

Luckily, Borlach shakes his head. "I cannot ask you for any more aid. Also, you look worried. Is everything all right?"

"My brother is ill. But he'll be fine, if the gods will it."

Borlach's eyebrows rise, and his jaw drops. "I am so sorry I've taken up your time. I cannot help your brother, but you and your family are always welcome at my house."

Uldor cannot help but feel amused. "Is that not for your parents to decide?"

"Well," says Borlach, with a shamefaced laugh, "they will listen to me, hopefully. And I will be chieftain one day. I hope to bring prosperity to my people." He looks up then, steel in his gaze. "I will be a good chief."

Uldor smiles, picking up his own buckets. "You take care of yourself first. I wish you luck. Farewell, son of Bór."