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Maybe he should simply slip away, before a second wave of panic should find him and drown him brutally. Nothing wanted him anymore, and this country was too cold for him.
He closed his eyes, the water pressing in around him.
Suddenly, something fell into the water sharply, rippling the surface and creating an alarming splash.
Unaware that he was making a decision to remain above the surface, he used the last strength in his arms to grab blindly at what had been dropped. Blinking, he realized it was a loop of a rope.
The rope traveled up and out of the well, up to the voices that were still clamoring above.
“Grab on!” a booming, masculine voice shouted in Susconian. A voice he had never heard before.
Salas, his mind and body numb to any detail that could await his own fate, slipped into the loop, pulling it around his waist.
“Ready?!” the voice questioned above.
Salas didn’t respond, only waited.
Then his body was being lifted up, the sky growing wider; either welcoming him or laughing at him.
He felt his body lift in a daze, finding his lids drifting shut and the only indicator that he’d breached the well opening was a crisp burst of wind that hardened the moisture around his eyes into ice.
Someone pulled him from the rope, and then he was being carried in solid, masculine arms, pressed against a chest covered in rough, yet warm, wool. “It’s okay, now,” soothed the voice from above him, warm and bright. The same one that had shouted down at him into the well a moment ago.
Salas peeled his eyes open enough to stare up at the unfamiliar man, with honey-brown hair pulled back into a tie at his nape and a somewhat-handsome, long face.
When his ear caught the burgeoning disruption of shouting voices, he weakly directed his attention to the two witches who were by the well. Victoria and the other witch, the one with the richer complexion and slightly-broader build, were in the middle of an obviously-heated exchange. Though from body language, it looked as though Victoria was standing down and receiving reprimand. When she caught Salas’ eye, her look was full of daggers.
And then he was being taken away, back into the castle. He didn’t know what would happen next, if he would live or die in the next moment. He didn’t ask. Any moment of gifted life now felt like a temporary, taxing burden.
And he was past caring for that burden.
The man carrying him was still talking—in Susconian—Salas was late to realize. His attention had been wandering as his mind seemed to haze over the details of his shifting environment. But when he realized that he could understand the man, he made the little effort that he could to do so.
“What?” he asked hoarsely, for he had missed most everything the man had said upon entering the castle.
“Lio,” the man repeated, “Your Susconian friend? Wanted me to look for you. It’s a good thing I did. You weren’t in your cell, where you were supposed to be...Victoria was acting unauthorized. I’m sorry, but that shouldn’t have happened.”
Salas was quiet, having nothing to say to that. The man most likely had very little idea of who and what Salas was: that his death had been the King’s intention, along with his extended torture in the frozen cell beneath the ground. That this cruelty had all been orchestrated. Ruining Salas was a primary objective of this kingdom, and it would be a deranged, darkly satirical statement to claim otherwise.
All Salas could do was hope that, when the man was no longer ignorant, he would not be brutal in his handling of him.
Salas was shaken abruptly by the man and he realized he must have closed his eyes to rest, for just a bit.
“Don’t fall asleep. You’re going into hypothermia. Wait until I’ve warmed you up.” The man abruptly moved to the side of a corridor towards a stone bench, setting Salas down carefully in his maneuvering. The world spun and went dark once more, only clarifying when a weight dropped onto his shoulders. A coat, he realized. The man had given him his coat.
Before Salas could ask why, he was being bundled up.
With the weight of it, his broken leg buckled and he whined pitifully in more pain. Before he could fall, though, he was lifted once more. He didn’t object to the handling. That was, not until a low, resounding call carried to them from down the echoing corridor. He recognized the voice immediately, and began to attempt to squirm without accomplishment.
The voice spoke in Diagorian, and Salas turned his head to see the King, his expression vivid and intense, as he strode purposefully towards them, his eyes on Salas. It was only when he had stopped in front of them did his gaze shift to the man holding Salas, a gleam in his eye.
“I’m taking him to mend his broken leg,” the man said, continuing his use of Salas’ known tongue. Salas couldn’t make out why, especially when the King responded in his own native language, his agitation obviously growing by the man’s stubborn use of Susconian.
“Ah, yes, that would be wise,” the man groaned sarcastically, rolling his eyes at whatever King Jareth had said. “The Susconians are already frightened as it is. Should I just barge into their current keep, lay down a broken brethren at their feet with a ‘Hello, deeply sorry about your friend. By the way, don’t leave your rooms tonight. You could get mauled.’ Sorry, old friend, I have a bit more tack than that, thank you.”
The King growled, his eyes flashing red before stepping forward.
Salas felt his heartbeat quicken in panic. Instantly, he began squirming harder, wrapping his arms around the man’s neck and burying himself into the stranger’s neck, as though if he clung hard enough, he could disappear.
