Lost And Found. A Story.

He\'d been walking so long, wearing thin the leather sandals a gypsy had once fitted him for.



This is my winter song to you.



It was another winter season, and he still walked north. He\'d traded a deer he caught for the thick wool tunic he wore now, and the quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder.



His blonde hair reached just past his shoulders, and caught flakes of snow as they fell lightly across the pine grove.



The country he walked through, he thought it was called Saxony, but he was unsure. His hands were cold, tightly wrapped around the small locked mahogany chest. He\'d traced the carved lines with his fingers so many times that his calloused hands wore the grooves even deeper, the thin swirls of opal and gold making flourishes along the sides of the box.



The storm is coming soon,


It rolls in from the sea.



As he sat at the mouth of a dark cave, he\'d brought himself to open it, tearing at the silver lock with tears sliding quietly from his dulled blue eyes. Reverently, he stroked each tarot card and jeweled talisman, worshipping the secrets held in the small space.



My voice; a beacon in the night.



He chanted the liquid words she had said so often, the words that let Matilde lead the band of gypsies with her wisdom and grace.



My words will be your light,


To carry you to me.



The words that had comforted him when he had no home.



The words that had once saved him from the wild.



Is love alive?


Is love alive?



He snapped the box shut, sobs wracking his lean chest after all this time. How many seasons had passed? He knew not. Not since Matilde had died by the fire that one summer.



Is love...



He never wanted another summer. He felt sick.



Days passed. Weeks passed. He often regretted leaving the gypsies as he did, running like a fool and child. But he had been a child then, and now he was walking through his fifteenth winter.



They say that things just cannot grow


Beneath the winter snow,


Or so I have been told.



His hair was still twined with feathers. Many had dulled their sheen, but he would take those and untangle them, placing them in the box with the cards he sought to memorize every night with the stars.



Passing through a city called Munster, where men spoke in germanic tongues and wore velvet coats with tails and top hats, and women wore soft dresses in pale shades of flowers, wrapped tight below their breasts and flowing like clouds as they stepped daintily through the cobbled streets.



They say were buried far,


Just like a distant star


I simply cannot hold.



Most of the populace attempted to ignore him as he passed through, haggard from his travels and outlandish in his attire. He sat staring from street corners for hours, watching the people pass him, interact around him. What was it like, to wear such finery? His mind wandered to Blaise, and he pushed the thoughts back as his chest burned from the pain of memory.



He saw a small child, a girl no older than eight, run towards her mother, laughing as her father scooped her up and presented her with a porcelain doll...



What was it like to have a family?



Is love alive?


Is love alive?


Is love alive?



Tears fell, he couldn\'t hold them back anymore. He sat crying, his shoulders shaking as he stared into the palms of his hands, feeling like he was drowning.



And the snow started falling.



This is my winter song.


December never felt so wrong,


Cause youre not where you belong;


Inside my arms.



As the sun settled on the horizon and the streets stilled save for the click of fallen women\'s heels and the rowdy bar songs from the german pubs, he felt a warmth encase his shoulders.



Startled, he turned around, the knitted blanket around his shoulders thick.



A stocky man looked at him, eyes worried. His short goatee was surrounded by thick curling side burns, and he wore the garb of a shopkeeper.



"Sind Sie gut?" His voice was thick, and the boy didn\'t know much german - he just wiped at the tears on his dirty face.



The man looked around, and seeing no spectators he pulled the boy\'s arm, tugging him to the shop.



Draco followed his lead, sensing no danger, and was met with the caring face of what seemed to be the shopkeeper\'s wife. She took a look at his state of dress and wrapped another blanket around him, patting his matted hair and pressing a hot cup of cider into his hands.



I still believe in summer days.


The seasons always change


And life will find a way.



She turned to her husband speaking in low tones, gesturing with her hands, clearly arguing what to do with the boy. She turned to him once more and her eyes softened, and as her husband saw this he stopped mid-sentence and nodded in consent.



The man turned to Draco, "Sprechen Sie Deutsches?"



Draco shook his head in dispute. He knew enough to know he didn\'t know their language. What he did speak, he thought it was french, but even with the gypsies he had heard words he didn\'t know the origin of.



The man sighed, "French?"



Draco smiled, "Yes."



Ill be your harvester of light


And send it out tonight


So we can start again.



"You will have to pardon my husband Gaufried and I, we speak little french." The woman smiled, her voice was deep and soft, "What is your name, child? Where is your family?"



He looked away, staring intently at the cider, "My name is Draco. My family... they are gone."



She stooped to hug him tightly, her emotions echoed on her husbands face.



Is love alive?


Is love alive?


Is love alive?



They gave him new clothing, the let him bathe, and fed him meat pies. They owned a small, well-off store and pharmacy, and had no children of their own. Gaufried had begun to teach Draco to chop wood in the back of their shop, or keep the shelves of the store stocked with goods, and Draco tried to do the best he could - his heart warmed when Petrissa, the shopkeepers wife, would tuck him into his bed and let him help with her cooking.



He owed them so much.



He was learning german, as they practiced their french, and the couple noticed the boy\'s odd use of romanian words every few sentences.



Seasons changed, and he stayed in Munster.



While running an errand for Petrissa, who he had secretly referred to as his Mother as she bid him goodnight, he saw a young girl approach from the far end of the street.



Her hair was the color of dark autumn leaves, a deep auburn that stood out on her pale skin, though the weather was steadily moving towards spring. She was like a porcelain doll, with earthy eyes shining out to him. Her slender frame was wrapped in a pastel shawl, tulips embroidered on the corners.



They passed each other in the dirty road, and he swore time stood still as the blush flushed across the apples of her cheeks.



As summer approached once again, he took the engraved box from under the bed his Father helped him make, which his Mother would tuck him into at night. His hands shook as he placed the feathers he\'d steadily torn from his hair into the chest, along with the locket Matilde had given him that first night. He locked it once more with a brass lock he\'d found in the store, and took it into the back yard of their house.



This is my winter song.


December never felt so wrong,


Cause youre not where you belong;


Inside my arms.



The sun would not yet rise, and the stars lit up the expanse of yard. They lived a ways from the shopping district of Munster, and could afford the small cottage on a green hill.



This is my winter song to you.


The storm is coming soon

It rolls in from the sea.



He took a heavy shovel and began digging into the soft soil. There was a bundled sapling sitting next to the gypsy box in the dewey grass, a young lime tree he\'d found on the outskirts of the town.



My love a beacon in the night.


My words will be your light


to carry you to me.



Wiping the sweat from his brow, pushing his curling blonde hair away from his face, he set the old treasure chest in the hole, settling the sapling on top, and began shoving the dirt back into the ground.



He flattened the mound of dirt with the end of the shovel, wiping again at the sweat on his face and running back to the house, drawing water for a bath before morning.



Is love alive?


Is love alive?



He glanced in the looking glass as his hands settled on a pair of heavy scissors.



Were those streaks made from sweat or tears?



Is love alive?



He lifted a lock of his hair and cut it, letting the strands fall to the solid wooden floor.