Chapter Text
It was the dead of night during the cycle of the eighth moon, the western winds had settled with the sun and while the overhead clouds still sat heavy high above no snow fell.
The cold season had come early that year and Artemus was out enjoying the bitter cold as he paced the streets with a few younger Keepers, cataloguing the dead lining the gutters.
It was a cumbersome task at worst, again, something which Artemus figured himself overqualified to do… But someone with experience needed to guide the newest batch of Keepers through the frozen streets, lest someone take a wrong turn and add themselves to the body count.
Artemus paused at a street junction as he waited for his partner, Keeper Hessia, to uncover yet another body curled up just at the mouth of an alley nearby.
He watched as his breath fogged in the crisp night while he kicked his feet through a snowdrift before him, feeling for yet another unfortunate soul unlucky enough to be caught in the surprise cold with his boots while his hands remained buried in his pockets to ward off the deathly chill.
The Eternal City, for all it’s faults, was a marvel in winter.
The dark stained wood of the homes lining the vacant streets glistened with frost, ice and snow from the winter's fury, the cobblestone hidden beneath the pristine layer of sleet created a rolling texture which reflected the golden firelight of countless windows…
The streets were silent, every creature fortunate enough to find shelter was tucked away. Artemus knew that come spring, rather than fresh southern air and budding sprouts, the sweet scent of decay would permeate the air as the snow melted, revealing the dead, rotting and bloated with winter runoff…
A sudden scream flew into the night, followed by the sound of something shattering against a wall.
The surrounding houses, once silent, murmured with shuddered breaths as figures, old, tall, young, small, sickly appeared at the windows to look down to the street.
The Keepers out in the streets took to the shadows with bated breaths.
A door flew open.
A figure clad in too big, too loose, too little clothing ran from the warmth of the house, down the stairs and into the snow, tripping over the still, brittle form of a dead child hidden beneath.
“Ya vermin!” A woman screamed as she stormed down the stairs after the child, knife in hand.
“Filty, filty vermin! Stealin ma food! Stealin ma stores! ‘Il ‘ave ya gutted! Gutted I say!”
The child staggered back, desperately keeping himself away from the sweeping blade, if only by the mere seconds it took for him to find his footing.
Once, twice, trice the blade found purchase across the boy’s upheld arms, staining the pristine snow red with blood and before Artemus could register his actions or second guess the consequences he flew from the shadowed gallery he had sought refuge in.
He rolled back his sleeve, feeling the bitter cold caress his arm as his fingers traced a delicate rune along the inside of his wrist.
A blade of cold iron, leathered handled, no longer than his forearm, sprung to his palm.
Artemus ran through the snow, ignoring his name, hissed in fury, he was young and strong all those years ago, able bodied.
Still the collision between kitchen knife and dagger reverberated through his bones as he parried the downward arch of the knife which would have settled snugly though the child’s neck if not for his blade.
The kitchen knife would later be found once the snow melted, embedded deep within the cracks between the cobbled street.
The night returned to silence as the woman staggered back, her unsaid words, curses, pleas, screams choking her as she quickly returned to her home, slamming the door behind her, locking it tight.
The boy was gone again by the time Artemus turned around.
But unlike last time, he left an impossible not to see trail in the snow, punctuated by blood.
“Whot da bloodey ‘ELL does ya tink yas be doings!” Keeper Hessia hissed in the silence of the streets.
Artemus offered his companion no response as he began to follow the bloodied trail of footprints, not bothering to check and see if she was following as he set off into the cold, dutifully as a wolf tracking wounded prey.
Artemus rounded corner after corner, constantly expecting to see the child as he was led further and further from the other Keepers out that night.
A knot of anxiety began to settle into Artemus’ gut the longer he trailed the bloodied path... It was cold, so bitterly cold and that child was in nothing but rags…
When at long last the Keeper found the boy again, he was on his knees, curled in on himself, hands pressed to his sides to keep warm, tucked beneath a windowsill, where the snow had gathered poorly, of some skeletal house abandoned for the winter…
There were frantic, disorganised grooves in the snow atop the sill from where the child had attempted to pry open the window… But it was so cold, and the boy had been out so long that his hands must have been numbed…
In some last ditch, desperate attempt to survive, the boy must have hunkered down to try and warm himself. Artemus knew the story well.
‘Just a minute, just a minute, I’ll rest for just a minute and then try again.’
But rarely, rarely, rarely did anyone ever rise after just a minute...
Artemus approached the boy slowly, cautiously, weak or not, cold or not, the boy was borderline feral, and feral animals, backed into a corner, were dangerous…
That was what the young Keeper kept reminding himself as he watched a single tear roll down the painfully red cheeks of the child, freezing before it reached the ground…
That fire Artemus had seen those three moon cycles ago had dimmed to embers behind glassy, fearful eyes… But it was still there…
Still there...
A gentle tug on the Keepers belt alerted Artemus to the boy once again attempting to swipe his coin pouch.
The tips of his fingers were beginning to blacken.
Artemus watched pitifully as the boy’s fingers shook and jittered uselessly, too cold to properly move or grasp the strings holding the coin pouch…
The young Keeper gently took hold of the street rat’s wrist again.
There was a moment of silence between the Keeper and the street rat before the young boy slowly brought his other hand to clasp the hand Artemus’ had around his wrist, loosely grasping the warmth of Artemus’ robes with a silent, shuddering sob.
Artemus took hold of the boy’s hands, slowly drawing them close to his hood to tuck them against his neck, they burned cold against the Keepers skin, twitching nervously as the child fought the urge to run…
But in the end, the boy was too weak, too cold to offer any real protest as Artemus took him from the cold snow and cobble and into his arms, tucking the boy into his cloak to keep him from the chill of winter.
Cataloguing the dead be damned.
Artemus returned to the Haven without second thought.