Snippet #2488286

(This is the story thus far. It was previously written in a Google Doc)


The day was a typical one in the final week of Heartfire. A typical working day that is, especially adults. But this was not a typical day in the eyes of Phillip. It was the first day that snow had fallen heavily upon Aethlvohl. The excitement of which was much more than he could contain. With a strained grunting, the cold breeze outside met him as the window here in the back of the school house slid open above him. He had taken leave of the building through this avenue a handful of times before, but this time he was doing so in a particular earnest.

After the task of freeing the glass pane from its seal was done, it was only a matter of pulling himself through the opening and onto the approaching branch of the elm tree below. Unlike his escapades previously, his footwork was shaky as he stepped out upon the snow dusted limb. With his trailing shoe only a few inches departed from the security of the windows ledge, the unwilling school boy felt his balance give way and with a single CRUNCH, he landed upon his back in the mound of snow that the groundsman had only just formed an hour prior.

After of moment of blinking and bodily assessment, Phillip lifted his head to spy out any that might have seen the theatrics and foil his wonderful plans for the day.

For yet another year, Bristol’s father had kept her from the social gathering of children who learned from the local scholar. Why would she need to know those significant details that could possibly deter her from her destiny in the graveyard in Wilson’s place?

In any case, Bristol never asked. It was in part because she was too young to realize the significance of such an education, but it was also that she felt - either from stockholm syndrome or fate - she was where she was meant to be. That didn’t require joining the others in schooling.

Thus, naturally Bristol is happily skipping along beneath bundles of furs. Her blonde pigtails bounced at her shoulders with each hop, and the basket in her arms held the purpose of her joywalk. Beneath the blankets was a loaf of bread. It wasn’t fresh. It wasn’t hot. However, it was something and something is always better than nothing.

Upon the crunching of a branch, Bristol let out a quick yelp from surprise. She dropped the basket, the bread rolling out, but this was hardly noticed as she made her way over to the figure who fell. With wide yet dark eyes, she peered at the person, her breath rigid and shaking. “Are you hurt?”

Upon the ground, Phillip felt like crying for a moment -- or perhaps two. He had thought better of it, and it was certainly out of the question now, with a girl about. As most men of nine (and beyond) do, such feelings quickly turned to a visible scowl of anger instead.

“I meant to do that!” he retorted in a huff. The flush of his cheeks was that of a cherry hue as he sat up, blinking a few moments more and continuing to scan the side of the building for grown ups. When the coast seemed clear but a second later, he busied himself with dusting the snow from his short-cut, scruffy, brown hair and fixing his scarf tight around his neck -- all with the same huff of disguising anger.

When the realization that the girl was not going to be content to pass him by set in, he turned to her and his face did poorly at concealing a change to nervous concern. “Wait...who are you, anyway?” The thought was out of his mouth before it even set home in his mind.

"Oh. I'm Bristol, but Fioer calls me Freckles--" In all the commotion, the bread falling out of her basket had fled from her mind; however, looking past the boy now, she fell to her knees in order to collect the few pieces in to the small cloth. Now, they'd be extra cold. That meant her father would be extra grumpy.

With a shake of her head, the thought began to falter. Bristol considered the boy as she slid the basket beneath her furr - a futile attempt at recovering from quite a beating when she got home. For now, there was this boy, and he was certainly up to something. In the small village, there was hardly time for play - let alone others to play with that didn't already know you, your mamas and papas, or if you were on the worse end of gossip, they knew the reasons why they should steer clear. Being the grump of a graveyard caretaker's daughter didn't grant Bristol much of a chance save for the pitiful looks and disgusted glances of all the dirt about her attire. Sure, everyone was poor, but at least they had mothers to do the linens.

"I won't tell." She added, looking past him at the corner he'd just glanced around. "Promise... But you have to take me with you."

She paused a moment for his answer, but then thought better of it, interrupting any opportunity he may have taken to protest -- "I'll meet you right back here before the hour's over."

He had moments to acknowledge his destined fate (decided by hers truly) before Bristol sprinted off to the graveyard, basket in tow.