Disclaimer: I own the story and the non Trek characters here but nothing else is mine. Sharing completely for free.

I'm trying something a bit different with this one to stretch my writing muscles – a new voice/character and a new writing style. It's OOC and Gen with some hurt/comfort thrown in. And the Enterprise will feature… just be patient.

-oOo-

The Stranger

When they brought him in I assumed that he was dead.

I barely glanced across the cell to where he lay corpse-pale, his face a mask of blood. I'd seen enough dead bodies in recent times; one more was neither here nor there.

It was only when they chained him to the cot that I realised he still breathed and stirred, and I crept behind the crowd to take a look.

He was a stranger. That much I knew. That much we all knew. No-one recognised him.

Mind you, the state he was in, I reckon his own mother would have had trouble giving him a name. The hunting party had done him in good, had taken it in turns to show the spy who was alpha.

He wasn't just a stranger, he was strange - that's to say strange enough to turn some heads if he'd walked our city's streets (which, thanks to the hunters' fists, he was far from capable of doing).

The clothes he wore... I'd call them odd. At first sight you would have taken them for farmer's clothes, of a style from my childhood. Now that's not so very long ago, but the clothes were new; no patch, no darn, no fraying at the cuff.

And the fabric - the hunters ran it through their fingers and exclaimed it had no friction. It looked rough, like homespun, but the dust and dirt refused to stick, even though he'd been dragged through a lot of it; you could see that by the state of his skin.

He wore a belt with a heavy buckle, too expensive for the style of clothes. And his waistcoat... No farmer would have worn a waistcoat trimmed with fur, unless he'd robbed it from a merchant. It was as if someone had dressed him from their grandma's memory chest - all hotch potch and mixed up.

More strangeness. I heard them scoff he had no weapon. No weapon on a spy? That should have aroused their suspicions right from the get go. But they were too full of themselves, too proud of their victory to give it much thinking time.

They soon had most of those clothes off him, squabbling over who got what. There was almost a fight over the belt with its curiously fashioned buckle. Codon, the pack leader, won that battle, of course. Took it like a trophy and wore it with a swagger. Although we all knew at morning light he'd have it down the market to trade for food - times were hard, and even hunters were struggling to fill their bellies.

Then off they went, big voices and bigger egos. To see them you would think they'd held off an invading army, not taken one man in the wrong place at the wrong time and beaten him to a pulp.

When he woke up I was the only one remaining.

I was sweeping in the next cell; sweeping as best I could, given my broom had a broken handle and half its bristles missing. The last lot of prisoners had made a proper mess, with their bleeding, and vomiting, and worse.

It had been weeks since they'd replaced the straw, so it had done a poor job of soaking up the stink. The smell had got so bad even the chief had noticed. Arris had known my ma, so he took pity on me on occasion; gave me food if I did the odd job around sec-block.

So there I was half sweeping, half spreading muck and all gagging with the stench. I wasn't thinking about the stranger, flat out, bare chested and attracting flies. All my mind was filled with hunger and on how long I'd have to keep this up before I could ask for some stew scrapings to stop me keeling over... And that's when I heard him groan.

He obviously thought he'd broken something because that was the first thing he said.

"Bones..?"

I went over to look into his cell. His eyes were closed. He couldn't have opened them if he'd wanted to - not with his face all gunked up, his eyelids stuck down with the blood from the cut on his forehead. He had a couple of black eyes coming too. I could tell the swelling was only just getting started.

"Bones?"

He said it again, voice all croaky but the word was clear enough.

I looked at him, then at the door. It wouldn't do for one of the hunting party to see me confabbing with a prisoner. I'd done a good job of playing invisible up to this point. Got good at melting into the background. None of them could have picked me out in a crowd of one and I aimed to keep it that way.

But the pack of hunters had long gone, to their warm ale and warmer women. They thought he was out cold for the night. They hadn't reckoned on how strong he was. He wasn't a big man, not a broad shouldered ox like Arris. But I soon found out that looks can be deceiving.

I didn't say anything. But he knew I was there. Turned his head and winced when the pain hit. Didn't groan again though. Just the one groan.

"Bones? Is that you?"

So I knew he was delirious. Who talks to their bones? But there was something in his voice... He wasn't in a panic the way I would have been waking up like that, in pain, not knowing where I was. The voice was calm, just asking.

I made a decision. Didn't see how it could hurt to let him see where he was. So I went and got a bit of cloth and a noggin of water to wipe all that gunk off of his eyes. They hadn't bothered to lock the door, what with him being secured and out cold and all.

I tried to be gentle but I'm no healer. I could tell it hurt when I touched his face. In the end he grabbed the cloth and contrived to wipe his own eyes, even with his wrists chained to the cot. His hands weren't in a much better state than his face - reckon he'd given those hunters a good old fightback before they all piled in.

His eyes, when he opened them, were hazel. Like my ma. You don't see that colour much round here. Most people these parts got blue or green eyes. My ma wasn't from round here and I guess neither was he.

He looked at me, blinking, and I could see I'd been wrong, He wasn't delirious. Delirious people don't look at you like that, all analysing and assessing. It was like he looked straight into me and I didn't like it. But when he spoke his voice was gentle.

"Thank you."

Yes, I know, but that's what he said. No-one had said thank you to me in like... forever. It made me feel peculiar. Like I was suddenly a real person, not a shadow.

I stepped away, taking the water with me, saying nothing. Shadows disappear in the light. Shadows are safe. I figured the less I said the less chance I had of getting into trouble.

So I went back to my sweeping in the other cell. He didn't say anything more, but I kept my eye on him, and I could tell by the way his head was moving he was having a good look round, taking it all in.

When I'd finished, I piled the filthy straw into my barrow and went off to get some fresh from the yard between the sec-block and the ale house.

There was a right old set to going on. The guards were in a squatting circle, focused like a pack of worwolves. And in the middle, Yanis and Jax, two of the hunters - facing up to each other, nose to snivelling nose.

They'd all been drinking, I could see the smashed jug and smell the vapours, even above the stink from my barrow. The guards would be in a heap of trouble if the chief caught them drinking on duty. He doesn't allow liquor through the gates, and with good reason.

"I know what I saw," says Yanis, stubborn-like. "They was there, clear as day, right above me on the rocks."

Jax is all sneery and slurry. "So how come none of us saw them then, Mister 'I spy strangers'? How come there weren't no sign, not even a foot mark? You suggestin' they melted into the rock face? Maybe they was snow people those folks you saw." That got a laugh from the guards. We haven't had snow in years.

Yanis looks down then. Like he knows it made no sense. "I reckon witches took 'em," he mutters. "I heard the witches' spell - like a wind howlin', high and buzzy."

At the mention of witches there's an angry murmur goes round and the eyes turn skyward. There'd been a lot of talk about witches in recent months, what with the crops failing and the witchy weather; storms with no rain, winds like we'd never known and days when the sun never seemed fit enough to leave her bed.

And, in the night sky, that extra point of light. Each month it brightened. An omen said some. The witches, said others, a portent of their growing power.

"Anyways," Yanis continues, "You lot weren't looking at the rocks. You was looking at him."

He jerks his head back towards the cells and I know he is talking about the hazel-eyed stranger.

"Not just looking," boasts Jax. "We was stalking. And we got him good while he was grubbing in the dirt. The sneaking spy put up a fight though... Where was you, Yanis? Didn't you fancy risking that pretty face of yours? Is that why you set about fabricatin' fairy tales?"

Yanis lunges then and a proper one-on-one breaks out, the guards cheering them on like a couple of curs.

That was my chance. Quietly I tipped my heap of stink into the midden and went about lifting a new bale of straw into my barrow. They didn't pay me no mind. I'm nobody, aren't I? I like it that way.

When I came back he was trying to sit up, yanking on the chains round his wrists - but not in frustration, not like an animal trying to bust free. More like he was trying to test its strength, figure out the fastening. I knew he wouldn't get far. Those links were forged from the old-style ferrous. And he was tied round his legs too.

He stopped when he saw me. Then he did something that set me reeling, it was so... unexpected. He smiled.

Even through the gashes, and the swelling I saw it - it pulled me, tugged at me - it was quite something that smile.

"Hello."

Just like that. Just like we were meeting by the side of a sunny road, not in a stinking cell with blood on the floor and the threat of dark violence in the air.

I couldn't stop myself.

"Hello," I said, right back at him.

Then clapped my hand over my mouth. I'd just broken my own rule. Confabbing with the prisoner. If they caught me...

He tried to say something else but his voice was all croaky. I put up my hand to stop him. Any moment now someone would come through that door and hear us.

He needed water. I could tell that was what he was asking for. More to shut him up than for any other reason, I went to the pump, filled a nog and brought it back. He drank it down in one and, before he could say more, I went back to my task, spreading the clean straw through the cells.

I could tell he was watching me.

After a while I couldn't pretend there was any more straw to spread. That's when I should have left. I meant to leave. Meant to go find Chief Arris and beg for stew. My poor growling stomach thought my throat had been cut.

But I didn't leave. I collected the spilling slop bucket, and, as I passed, something drew me back to that cot. He was lying flat again, but he wasn't asleep. And his eyes were bright, brighter than they should have been. Maybe he had a fever. I wasn't going to touch him to find out.

When he spoke this time he kept his voice low. He'd picked up on my fear.

"Thank you for the water."

Two thank yous in one day. I didn't know how to react to that. So I just half nodded and began to turn away.

"Listen. I don't belong here."

No shit, I thought. Is there anyone who thinks they belong in sec-block? I've never met one.

He propped himself up on his elbows, his fastened wrists dragging and clinking. "Do you know what happened to my clothes? To my belt?"

I thought it an odd question. Did he think he was just going to get dressed and walk out of here? He had a shock to come. Not many spies walked out those doors. Most were carried out - horizontal. I cleared my throat, spoke gruff.

"Hunters took 'em. For trade."

He nodded slowly. Thinking. "Who's in charge here? Can you bring them? I need to... talk, to explain."

No, I thought, you really don't want to talk to Arris. Not this late, not ever really.

He saw me shaking my head and didn't push for more. He could probably tell I wasn't exactly a lynch pin in this establishment.

"What's your name, son?"

I just looked at him. He was doing it again. Lifting me from the shadows, making me real.

And the curious thing was I wanted to tell him. I wanted to give him my real name. This stranger who I hadn't known yesterday and who'd probably be dead tomorrow. But I didn't. Of course I didn't.

Only Arris knows my real name, my before name, and he's probably forgotten it. Not many people bother with the trouble of asking for a label. But, if they do, I tell them the same as I told him. I'm the only one who gets the joke but I take my smiles where I can.

"Marat," I muttered, one eye on the door.

"Well, Marat, my name's Jim."

Jim. I'd never heard the name but it fitted. Sounded strong and friendly. I tried it as a whisper on my tongue.

"So, Marat, you work here every day?"

And that's how it started.

I didn't say much at first but he wouldn't give up. He was stubborn with his questioning. And after a while I forgot the emptiness in my stomach and the stench in my nostrils. My voice felt rusty it had been so long since I talked.

I was still careful, mind you. He learned quick not to get too personal with the asking. But he had a way, he made you want to talk.

And so I found myself leaking words which spilled into sentences. And the sentences ran together and turned into a river of tales about the city, about the ruling families who promised so much and delivered so little, about the spies and thieves from down the valley. And most of all I rattled on about the weather, the dry storms, and how the little rain that fell smelt of ferrous and poisoned the withering crops.

He nodded gravely when he heard the tales, like he knew those misfortunes and understood them well. And, after a while, he reached out and touched my arm with blood stained fingers.

"Marat," he said, "What would you say if I told you I know a way to help your people? That's why I'm here. Because of the storms and the rain that poisons your fields." His voice grew stronger then, the voice of someone accustomed to command. "There's still time, Marat. But I need your help... And I need that belt."

I stopped talking then. Shut up tight as a trap and cursed myself for my loose tongue. I'd been blabbing to a witch. I just hadn't expected evil to look like him. But that was foolish. Did I really think they wore their witchy symbols on their sleeve and went round declaring themselves to the world?

He could see my fear, in my wide eyes and backwards steps. He tried to undo his words but I wasn't listening. I was out of sec-block like the hell fiends were chasing me, and it was only when I got back to my empty room I realised I'd forgotten to claim my stew.

-oOo-

Feedback and thoughts much appreciated.