Cast into the drenched night by the poorhouse mob, consumed with wickedness and wrath, Ander found no refuge in the wild storm. The hammering winds and rain kept him from sleep, stringing out whatever endurance he had left. By sunrise, he was left weary and wet, betrayed by his fellow man, and by the ‘omen’ forged by the gods. Whether they had any part in his misery, or not, he cared little for it. Contempt took hold of him through the night, leaving him bitter and cold at dawn. The boy needed someone to offload the blame for his torment, someone he could point to to understand all that had burdened him. While, at the moment, he had no target, the seeds of his disdain for the gods were planted that horrid night.

The following day, he again approached the poorhouse but found himself keenly rejected. Word had spread to the staff and overseers about his origins in Sylrel, who proceeded to slam the doors in his face, bellowing similar phrases about ‘omens’ and ‘gods’. Being such a small trading village, the people were quick to recognize and reject the boy, offering him no business, work, or sanctuary in the town. With no other option, Ander was forced to flee Ver Del, taking up travel with whoever flowed through the village. If Sylrel insisted on being such a plague to him, he would do everything in his power to distance himself from its ruins. And so he traveled south, hitching rides and hikes with all likes of men, and even other sapient species. A peculiar day found him traveling with a band of Dark Alffs - the Svartálffa - who, out of entertainment, agreed to ferry the boy further on his way. It was the first time he had ever come in contact with Dark Alffs, but he found them a merry band, a mix between strange remarks, yet undeniable elegance. 

As the weeks progressed, so did the young man's journey. Starting from Ver Del, he came across a great assortment of villages and hamlets, but all were too small for him to take an interest in. His sights were set on a larger town, one with a variety of work opportunities, somewhere he could legitimately survive. Each passing day bore the building fangs of Autumn, with Summer fading into the recent past. The trees, once green and mighty, now flourished with pallets of red and yellow, flanking the woodland roads with boundless beauty. It tore the boy apart. How could the world be so beautiful - so grand and wondrous - while also being so vicious and ruthless? Vivid images of the past became commonplace in his dreams, torturing him even in his sleep. Truly, there was no escape.

Eventually, after much wayfaring, there came a day when Ander found himself faced with the northern branch of the river Brux, a mighty waterway flowing out from the Sea of Enkaai situated in the east. It ran all the way from the Peaks of Aeon to the Gulf of The Centre. Being a wide channel, it was often exploited by ships and merchant crafts, gliding up and down its length to reach all of Sylvee. Along the river, only a few miles downstream from his position, was the bustling town of Vimbaultir. Being the major port of the upper Brux, it maintained quite an active population, composed of fishers, farmers, tradesmen, and the like. Filled with an excess of folks of all kinds, it was the largest settlement in the region, bar the capital some odd hundred miles east. 

Even from a distance, Ander’s weary eyes could spot multiple labor stations, all marked with the telltale sign of the rune of Essa. Essa, being the goddess of growth and prosperity, as well as the consort of Aldrr the all-knowing, was often the champion of the poor and underprivileged. A class he found himself cast into. And so he journeyed to Vimbaultir, accepting his status as a castaway in the gutter, shunned by the upper echelons of the city.

He found occupation rather easily during Autumn, working alongside men and Feylings as they harvested field after field. It wasn’t all agriculture he found toil in; he took up as many lumber-related jobs as he could. Through it all, he made sure to keep his lips sealed, and his gaze turned downward. He couldn’t risk anyone discovering who he was. He couldn’t risk anyone discovering where he was from. Tales of Sylrel’s destruction, and its relation to being a work of the gods, had spread far throughout Sylvee. Thin ice paved every step he took, and he made it a note to not get too close or too open with anyone, regardless of how kind or caring they appeared.

Yet, fortune is a rather fickle beast, and as the trees began to shed their many shades of red and yellow, so did the air turn cold, and the sky dark and barren. It culminated one day with a single snowflake, falling to meet the warm cobblestone where it promptly melted. But then, another fell, as did another, and when Vimbaultir found itself under the coat of falling snow, all in the gutter realized what had come. Winter had arrived, and with it came a new severity in the young Idris’ fight for survival. Those who had once been kind and caring became cold and cunning, ready to take whatever wasn’t hidden or rob even those who had nothing to their name. The poorhouses stopped accepting workers, and the small, occasional flurries had morphed into almost constant snowfall. 

During the days when work was in ample supply, Ander had taken precautions for the coming of winter. He had a small amount of capital saved up, as well as a trove of warm clothes and preserved foods. It would be just enough to keep him alive until late winter, when the poorhouses would reopen for all those still living. Until then, he found himself quite often huddled up in small alcoves across the city, buried beneath a heavy blanket as he kept himself breathing. It was wise to stay away from others during the winter, as many had ill intent, wishing to kill and plunder those who had items that could be of some use. Just like the others, Ander found himself cold and heartless, born out of self-preservation.

O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O

In the later hours of a cold mid-winter day, the blonde lad found himself snug beneath his winter coverings, flanked on every side by mighty snowdrifts. The air was host to a moderate amount of snowfall, which added to the hardened layers covering the stone grounds of Vimbaultir. Ander, having learned quite a bit about surviving in the elements, discovered early on that food shops and bakeries had vents leading from their ovens into the outside air, often situated in alleyways and backstreets. They were the perfect source of life-sustaining heat for all wise enough to use them, and thus he hunkered down before one, using his layerings to maintain as much warmth as possible. Sleep, despite being a great vice to pass the time, was used very sparingly by the boy. If one wasn’t careful and lost consciousness in a poor position, one could find himself succumbing to the cold, never to wake to a new day. Not only that, but one could be liable to wake up to find their possessions had been stolen, thus there was apprehension to rest with others around. With that in mind, Ander made sure to stave off rest until after the sun had fallen.

“Matches! Come get your matches! Always ready, never dry, never old. Matches for sale!”

The faint voice of a girl floated through the air, catching Ander’s attention. He looked to his left, shrugging off a small pile of snow at his side. Standing at the beginning of his alleyway was a girl, wrapped in brown clothes, waving above her head a small box. Going by what she said, he imagined the box contained matches. Not that anyone held any interest in them or her business proposition. All those who walked by the alley spared her no interest, pacing by as they hurried through the falling snow.

“Matches, come get your matches!”

In comparison to what he had, she was lacking a solid amount of clothing. Her hair, long and silver, flowed down her back, reined in by nothing more than a cotton hat. She did have a coat and a hefty pair of trousers, which were tucked into an old pair of snow boots, but besides that, she had rather little. Based on what he had witnessed, it was foolish to trust or keep company with those without much, as they were the first to take up burglary. He couldn’t blame them, it was a choice between larceny, and a cold, cruel death.

“Hey!” Ander called, making room in his layers to call out to her. Putting aside his pity, he did his best to shoo her off. “This is my alley! Go find your own!”

“It’s big enough for the two of us,” she turned around to throw him a scornful look, before facing back to the moving crowds. “Matches! Get your matches!”

“Foolish girl,” he sighed, pulling up his layers to cover his face. If she refused to leave, he would just have to stay alert around her. Regardless of the fact that both of them were malnourished, he still had the advantage of size over her. If he kept himself sharp, he wouldn’t fall prey to being robbed. That being said, handling women was exceptionally painful for him. No matter who they were, no matter how different they looked, he saw Elara in every one of them. The discovery that being cold to others kept them away was essential to his survival up until that point, no matter how much it stole from his soul.

Time had passed, but he found himself no better suited to mourn those who he lost. His memories of Sylrel were buried deep in the snow, locked away by the need to survive. So much of him had been lost in the cold, cruel world he found himself in.

“Matches! Come get your matches!”

Time ticked by, and with each passing minute, the energy of the girl’s cries fell fainter and fainter. The streets had cleared for the most part as the denizens of Vimbaultir returned to their warm abodes, certainly preparing to consume a hot, hearty meal. No such fortune was afforded to those of the gutter, and when the sun passed behind the stone buildings of the town, the girl’s voice dried up in its entirety. Ander, still trying to stave off sleep, jolted up as he heard something collapse into the snow, sounding off from near him in the alley.

The silver-haired girl, having curled up into a tight ball, sat opposite to him in the alley, surrounded by snow. Not only did she have substantially fewer layers than Ander, but she also had no heat vent to supply her with warm air. Based on his experiences, the young Idris had little faith in her ability to survive in the position she was in. That was until she pulled out her small box, flipped it open, and lit a match on the course surface of the brick wall behind her. It flared to life, but its life was short-lived, as only a moment later did the match die out, leaving the girl open to the cold depths of the alley.

Even with her layers covering most of her face, he could tell that a great depression had taken hold of her. It was common for those cast out by society to be twisted with grief. For him, due to the sheer amount of trauma he had endured, he felt almost nothing, like his mind had clogged up. He was indeed a husk, but the girl was full of emotion, making it obvious as she let out a muted whimper.

Elara.

It almost broke him. Her small, quiet whimper almost broke him. He steeled himself, pushing down every thought, regardless of whether it was good or wicked. I have to feel nothing, I have to feel nothing. He repeated the phrase over and over, closing his eyes to block out the girl’s growing whimpers. The sounds of another match being lit met his ears, melting away his resolve as it sizzled out not a moment later.

Seeing as it was late into the day, he felt a ping of hunger rise from his stomach. His diet, consisting of bread and dried meats he would source with his savings, or from trash bins, was just enough to keep him alive. His weight loss had been substantial, which made it just the more challenging to survive winter. Ready to eat, he found his satchel beneath the insulating layers and sourced from it a small stale cracker which he brought to his lips. As he took a bite of the cracker, he made the mistake of looking across at the silver-haired girl. Despite how quick of a glance it was, the pain and frailty in her eyes made his heart skip a beat. He could tell how sorrowful she was, and how she almost definitely had nothing to eat.

This is your food, you need this to survive! His inner cynicism called out to him, trying to push away his thoughts of the girl. It’s her fault that she doesn’t have anything.

It doesn’t matter if it's your food, the girl must be starving! One cracker might be the difference between life and death. A separate voice, his compassion, made conflict with the other voice, trying to open up his sympathy to the girl. You have some to spare if even a little!

Will a little be enough to keep her going? This is a waste, she’ll be dead by tomorrow’s daylight!

Are you really so devoid of compassion that you would let a young girl starve?

In the midst of his inner turmoil, he noticed that his right hand, once tucked snuggly under his layers, was now open to the world, holding out a piece of cracker to the shivering girl. It seemed his body was much more decisive than he was, and as the girl looked up, he called over to her.

“Here… Eat.”

Her eyes widened, her head cocked to the side as she looked him down. “...M-Me?”

“No, the other freezing girl. Yes, you,” he shook the cracker in his hand, once again restating his offer for food. Despite her rigid response to his initial call for her to leave his alley, it seemed her inner self was much more timid. They were alike in that way.

She put up a show of indecision, unsure of whether to trust Ander. He couldn’t blame her, if he was offered food by a stranger, he would be cautious as well. In her mind, notions of it being a trap were most certainly present, but eventually, she gave in to her hunger and rose from the ground. With heedful steps, she approached Ander, keeping her guard up as she came in arms reach of him. There she stopped, standing above him, the cracker continually held out in her direction.

“Are you going to take it?” Ander asked, feeling the growing cold whip at his arm. 

“T-Thank you,” she stuttered, shivering. With both hands she took the cracker, holding it dearly as if it was bound to jump loose. 

“Sit down, it’s colder up there,” the boy spoke. He moved a bit to his right, revealing the heat vent stationed behind him in the brick wall. He padded at his side, looking straight into her cautious eyes. “Or don’t.”

“O-Okay,” her lips chattered as she spoke, and upon seeing the heat vent, she promptly sat down beside him. Her shivering, once intensive enough to see from the other side of the alley, fell to a faint quaking when the heat of the vent hit her. Unable to fend off her starvation, she was quick to take the cracker in her mouth, gnawing at it hastily. As the interaction continued, the young Idris was hit with a wave of déjà vu, remembering his short time with Mr. Etro many months prior.