The Burned Boy - SCP Foundation

The Burned Boy

Byㅤ MoreMuffins

Published on 31 Mar 2023 00:53

The Burned Boy

Canon Hub » NIGHTFALL Hub » The Burned Boy

The sound of about sixty pairs of low–heeled boots throws about the halls and lingers among vaulted white ceilings as young Witches file out of their last classes of the day. Cyclamene settles a basket of brewing tackle on her arm and sighs, tucking loose hair behind her ear.

Someone calls over the din of chatter and clacking footsteps. She turns to find an acquaintance of hers waving. Cyclamene raises a hand in return. The woman’s name is Bresa, if she recalls correctly. They have two classes together during the morning period, during which Bresa insists on sharing her table with Cyclamene. They exchange greetings and dry pleasantries, and the stream of students passes them by with no urgency. Cyclamene’s eyes stray back and forth from Bresa’s face to the door at the end of the hall. The basket weighs heavy at the crook of her elbow. She shuffles her feet and rests the basket on her hip. She can feel her hair slipping from its bun underneath her cap. Bresa chuckles at something and levels a light punch at Cyclamene’s shoulder. She’s barely aware of her own mouth replying to Bresa’s prompts, seeming to speak on its own.

She looks to the door again. The crowd of students has thinned some. The buzzing of their presence still fills her ears like cotton. Bresa mentions an evening outing with some other classmates. A bead of sweat rolls down the back of Cyclamene’s neck. Her scalp itches. There is a headache starting behind her eyes. She nods, and Bresa’s face lights up as she departs for her dorm. Finally, Cyclamene is alone in the hall. She sighs, unsure if she can even last ten more minutes on her feet.

Her arm aches as she makes it to the door to her dormitory, the basket pulling at her incessantly. She feels the strain in her ankles. She’ll need an herbal tea to sleep tonight; quiltleaf and pitted aster for the pain, perhaps a paste of banksprout for swelling… she has all three in her cupboards, though, she’ll need to visit the market soon for the aster before it falls out of season. She grips the worn brass doorknob in one hand and her thoughts fall silent.

The doorknob is smeared with a thinly colored sticky substance which produces a foul scent when she inspects her stained glove. It’s pus, she realizes– a human’s pus, judging by the color. She strains her ears to listen for noise behind the door. Something shuffles across the floor, there’s a dull thunk as this intruder collides with some furniture.

Cyclamene takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. There’s no sense in panicking. Whoever has invaded her dorm is injured if the pus on the doorknob is any indication, and their movements inside the room sound clumsy. She has the upper hand– she can run from this person and out of the building if they give chase. There would be no way out for them.

She opens her eyes and the door in turn, fully ready to slam it shut in the intruder’s face if needs be. She is met with a room devoid of any trespasser and her cupboard ransacked from the bottom up.

Her heart beats hard in her chest as she searches for signs of the person she’d heard. The cupboard’s door is swung wide to reveal some tilted shelves smeared with dirt, jars and tins spilled over the floor in disarray. Her bed appears untouched, as do the high cabinets she keeps her herbs and other potioncraft in. The table is in its usual place, though the cloth is stained at the edges, and she can see a shape beneath it in the dim light of the room.

Slowly, carefully, she sinks to her knees and peers beneath the tablecloth. The face of a child stares back at her, days-old burns glistening wetly on the bridge of his nose and underneath sunken eyes. His cheeks are hollow, his face and frame are thin, and he’s clad in worn, street-stained clothes… his condition seems to speak of being more than just a refugee of a recent house fire. He clearly hasn’t eaten in some time. The fierce way he clutches a crust of bread to his chest confirms this, though it would have been obvious regardless.

“Hello,” she says plainly, in the best soothing tone she can muster.

The boy stares at her, confusion edging into the caution on his face. He says nothing. Perhaps he’s deaf? She brings one hand behind her back and snaps her fingers. It’s soft, muffled by the glove she wears, but the boy still startles visibly at the sound. Not deaf, then.

“Can you speak?” She asks next. This prompts the boy to raise an eyebrow at her. Clearly something is not making sense to him, but if he would just do something to make clear what that is…

“What are you saying?” The boy finally says, his voice raspy and thick from dehydration, bearing traces of an Ilcanan accent, and now Cyclamene realizes the issue.

She’s speaking Witchtongue. Of course he isn’t responding, he likely doesn’t know what she’s saying. It’s hardly a well-liked language among human populations, and this is a human child.

A child. She hasn’t interacted with any children since she helped a classmate babysit for the Ilcanan Language professor, and the most she’d done then was write a paper for Remedial Spellspeak while the child slept in her bassinet. Before that…

“My name is Cyclamene. This is my room.” She winces at the sound of the words from her mouth– she’s never much enjoyed her language classes, and her Xerophyllic is somewhat shaky at best. “Are you thirsty?” He’s already found food on his own, so the next priority is to get water in him, right? Or should she treat his burns? They do seem quite bad. Her thoughts turn cloudy and sluggish when she looks at them too long. She wills away memories of rotting, blistering skin and tries to focus.

The boy looks no less wary of her, but something about her switch to Xerophyllic seems to steady him.

“I do not know why you are here. You have made my cabinets messy. I do not mind. You are hurt. You need medicine.” She feels almost winded by speaking.

She folds a towel onto the seat of the stool and helps him sit on it. Her hands are cool through the thin gloves she wears– it's not a cold day, but the boy doesn't mind the feeling, so he doesn't ask why her hands are so chilly. The Witch lady– Cyclamene– walks back and forth in the room, opening cupboards and cabinets full of jars and bottles, tucking some of them into the crook of her arm. More towels are slung over her shoulder. A roll of bandages and a sheet of gauze join the bottles. Finally she deems her collection satisfactory and returns to him, setting everything down on the table. She turns to face him, her expression unreadable. He’s coming to think this flatness may be her default.

"…Boy," she begins, hesitantly. Seth realizes he hasn't said a word to her since she started speaking Witchtongue.

"My name is Seth." He croaks, and she nods.

"Seth, yes. I will put medicine and bandages on you, okay? It will sting."

It's disarming, in a way, watching Cyclamene work. She has every opportunity to turn on him- in his state, he could hardly put up much fight. She doesn't do that, though, only continues to work with a single minded energy. The smell of the paste she's making is almost unbearable, a sharp herbal scent so bitter Seth can taste it in the air. She calls it medicine, though, and she appears to know what she's doing. Her entire room is filled with instruments that look at least vaguely medicinal in nature. A few more mortars and pestles, jars and bottles of various sizes, strings of herbs hung up to dry, pens and spoons and books scattered here and there.

She grabs a flat wooden implement and scoops the paste onto one side. "I will put this on your burns.” She dips one of the towels in water from a basin on the table and wrings it out.

"There is dirt in the burns," she states. "If the dirt stays, you will get sick."

She holds out one hand and he gives her his arm. The washcloth is rough against his arm, and Seth flinches despite himself. The woman mutters in Witchtongue as she gentles her cleaning. When his left arm is done, she moves to his right, where the burns are somewhat more extensive, and then to his face, soaking and wringing the cloth between each pass.

For his arms, Cyclamene takes off her gloves and spreads the paste across his burns with frigid hands. She had warned him about the stinging, but still it takes him by surprise, and he hisses through his teeth. The stinging is even worse on his cheeks, and the smell of the salve much stronger. He scowls at the scent and the woman chuckles flatly. "You will get used to the smell," she says.

When everything is sufficiently covered, she grabs the bandages and begins to carefully wrap his arm. She doesn't bandage it too tightly. When she finishes, she takes a soft cloth and cuts three neat squares from it, which she secures to his face with the bandages as well.

"I am finished. You are feeling okay?" Seth nods. "Very good. Stay on the chair. I will clean up."

She gathers the bottles and jars into her arms once more and sets about returning them to their homes in her cabinets. The clutter of the room is not without order, Seth realizes as he watches her. He can’t identify most of her ingredients, but they seem to be grouped by colored labels. The labels with the blue marks are arranged on a counter against the wall, next to a group of green-labeled jars full of what look like dead insects. The roll of bandages is placed next to a stack of folded towels. Her home is cluttered, but the closer Seth looks, he sees meaning in its disarray, so unlike how his father’s room had been when they still had the house.

"Do you want tea?"

She fills a kettle with water from the fountain in her kitchen wall and sets it on the stove. She mumbles a spell and snaps her fingers, sparks flying from her hand and lighting a fire underneath the kettle. Seth watches silently from the table, his eyes trained on her movements as she pulls down a bowl of assorted tea bags. Among them are palm-sized tins, the lids painted in muted colors, various herbs which Seth’s largely never heard of. One tin in particular catches his eye; its lid features a four-spoked leaf with a small blue bud at its center, but the label is in Witchtongue.

"What flavor?" He asks her. She hums and answers without turning to face him as she picks through the bowl.

"I have plenty of rabbit's-ear tea. A little bit sweet, a mild taste. Good for focus. And blue holly. That one is very sour. Warms you up."

“Blue holly,” he tells her. She grabs two cups from her shelf and sets a teabag in each, takes the kettle and pours, occasionally settling the bags as they steep. Slowly, the scents of the tea fill the room, mingling in the humid air with spicy and stinging notes alike.

She brings the tea to the table and sits. Seth breathes in the steam and basks in the feeling of his breath clearing up. He takes a slow sip, careful to keep the edge of the cup away from his bandaged cheeks. It's unfamiliar, it tingles in his mouth and the taste lingers on the back of his tongue, but it's not a bad flavor, and he drinks the rest in comfortable silence, across the table from Cyclamene.

When he finishes the cup, she helps him into the bed. She sits at her desk, head rested on crossed arms. The warmth of the tea still lingers in his throat and hands, a pleasant feeling like petting a friendly cat.

Blue holly, Seth decides, is his favorite kind of tea.

Seth drifts in shallow wakefulness, nestled in a wool knit blanket on a mattress softer than anything he’s felt in months. Somewhere in the room someone is writing, the distinct sound of a steel-tipped fountain pen on parchment swaying pleasantly in his ear. A voice joins the pen in a low, murmured song. The words escape Seth’s grasp, round and lilting in unfamiliar places. Witchtongue, he thinks.

He’s being sheltered by a Witch, he remembers, recalling the bandages and the tea. He sits up, wincing at the strain on his arms. The burns do feel a bit better than they did before her treatment, he notes, so something about it must have worked. Cyclamene sits at the desk beside his bed, pen in hand, her hair tied in a loose bun. She lays down her pen and turns to look at Seth.

“You have not eaten,” she says, as direct as ever. Seth balks at her tone and does not meet her gaze. Cyclamene eyes his hands; even under a layer of bandages she can see how bony his fingers are.

“I had bread.” Seth stares pointedly away from her, examining a collection of bottles on a far shelf. They are made of colored glass, unlike the ones Cyclamene uses to store ingredients for her medicinal work.

“You did not finish it.” She says. Her gaze sits like an iron weight on Seth’s shoulder. He moves on from studying the jars to inspect the basket of fruit on her kitchen table.

She springs up out of her seat. “You are thin, so you should eat. I will go to the market.” As before, the speed at which she makes decisions baffles Seth. She sure does seem confident in her choices for how little thought she must put into them. “Is there anything you cannot eat?”

Well, if she says she’s going, Seth doubts he’ll be able to stop her. “I’m allergic to radishes.”

“Okay. I will return soon.” With that curt dismissal, she takes her leave, basket in hand, and Seth is left alone, her song echoing in his mind.

Amid the dark crevices and winding paths of the caves which house Ageumna, the City of Witches, the market street flickers and shines like a luminescent spiderweb. Vendors line the roads with bright tarps and lamp-adorned stalls, hawking their wares with whistles and chimes. At the rough center point of the market sits a finely hewn fountain topped with a silver bell. The view of the street from higher up in the central cavern is quite striking, Cyclamene knows, though she’s only made the trip twice before. Her business now is solely with the grocer. Something plain and easy on the stomach would be best for someone in such a delicate condition as Seth. Simple, but it would need some nutritional value as well… he seemed to like the bread from her cupboard, half-stale as it was. A fresh loaf wouldn’t cost too much, would it?

The stall before her presents a myriad of foods. Breads and pastries line the table, fresh fruits and vegetables fill rows of baskets, strings of onion, garlic, and other spices hang from the stall frame. The smell of it all lingers in a mixed but not unpleasant aroma over the vendor, who watches patiently as Cyclamene ponders his selection. A loaf of fresh sourdough would normally be a luxury, but the boy deserves something nice, she thinks. It will be good for him. She grabs a bundle of carrots that look promising, as well a few potatoes. These will make good fixings for a soup. She’s in the middle of inspecting some apples for signs of pest damage when the bell above the fountain rings, its clear chimes silencing the market around it, vendors and customers alike brought to hush.

A man’s voice emanates from the fountain, firm and light. “The time is now nineteen-hundred on the sixteenth day…” Cyclamene tunes him out and returns her focus to the apple in her hand. The hourly bulletin usually offers nothing of any real interest, and she has better things to do than listen to the speaker deliver news of cave-in repairs on the lower helical road. She turns the fruit over once more and adds it to her basket, pleased with its undamaged skin. Perhaps blueberries would be a good choice as well, she wonders quietly.

“Lastly, an announcement from the Xerophylla Fundamentum Division of Hunters via the office of Ophacelia Academy Headmistress Lady Anicette: Xerophylla police forces have reported the escape of a vampiric child onto Academy grounds. Students of the academy and residents of the city are urged to stay alert and contact Academy staff or Fundamentum agents in the case of a sighting. Good evening.”

The stall owner hums thoughtfully as the bulletin ends. “Our Lady preserve us, a Vampire in the academy?” He chuckles and looks at Cyclamene. “You’d best be careful up there, miss. Wouldn’t want to get bit, hey?” She nods. His words pass straight through her. She left Seth alone in her dorm! Seth, a child, a human child. He won’t suspect a thing if the Vampire comes to him. The bulletin is delivered in Witchtongue, he won’t know how much danger he’s in until it’s too late! He’s only a boy…

He’s only a boy. A boy who’d broken into her dormitory room to hide under her table, who has said nothing of his family or home. A boy covered in grievous burns but bearing no signs of a fire. Her head begins to spin. It must be a coincidence. No matter how she looks at it, turns the boy over in her mind, she cannot shake the words of the bulletin from her thoughts.

Cyclamene leaves a pouch of blueberries on the stall owner's table and frowns. "Listen, I'll pay for this later, I need to go… Mother above, I'm an idiot."

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