His top was bare, which was the reason why I could see his bicep muscles, and he looked to be working on getting what Mother taught me was called ‘abs’ - the lines of their foundation taking root against his skin.
He wore dark blue sweatpants but was barefoot. What drew my attention was the bowl of soup in his hand - the culprit of the inviting aroma that deserved my utmost attention.
"If this bowl was a human, you'd marry it."
I tugged my eyes away to meet the man's orbs once more.
"Food is a sacred blessing," I croaked, only realizing just how dry my throat was. My sentence only triggered a coughing fit, and that only made my body begin to hurt.
The boy cursed and quickly put the bowl on the nightstand next to the bed to rush and get me a glass of water.
"Here." He eased me up just slightly, enough for the cold liquid to smoothly run down my throat and ease the dryness. I drank every single droplet, and let my tongue run along my top and bottom lips to help their cracked surfaces.
"Thank...you." I had to pause in between to make sure I didn't go into another coughing fit with how ticklish my throat felt. Itchiness could have been a better word, but I wasn't sure yet what I was dealing with in this state of recovery.
Recovery...meaning I'm alive.
"No worries," he muttered and eyed me closely. He was scanning me from head to toe before he nodded once and mumbled, "Think you can handle another glass of water?"
"Yes." A simple one-word response was more than enough as he nodded again and walked away to get me another glass.
It gave me a few seconds to quickly survey the room, my eyes locking onto the exit of the little built home before I noticed the tiny fridge, a stovetop burner like I remembered we'd use during outdoor festivities, and a suitcase.
One look at the suitcase with a circle that harbored a star in the middle and symbols upon it told me that it was a magical suitcase. When we first set out on the run, we had one of those.
It was where you put your most valuable possessions. The suitcase would shrink and keep those things safe until you summoned it into its normal size. Those types of bags were extremely rare, and sold to royal families or those of high status in our world.
Seeing as we were of royal blood, my family was gifted three of them. Mine - or should I say Mother's, since it’s where she kept the majority of her clothing - was still in my mother's possession, which only emphasized that I had nothing physical to my name.
It shouldn't really matter seeing as my parents had left me for dead. That's as good as being an orphan by accident.
The man returned with my water, and I took my time drinking it this time after he helped me sit up. I'd been bracing for the wave of pain that had yet to surface, which was beginning to make me a little agitated.
"What?"
I looked from the cup I was holding to the man in question as he eyed me with a blank expression. "Why are you so tense?"
"Where's the pain?" I quietly asked. "I...should feel pain."
He didn't respond immediately, which only gave me another gifted moment to take a long sip of my water.
"The pain has been numbed right now by some special herbs. I don't have a lot, though. We need to take you somewhere for my friend's friend to look at your injuries."
"Why?" I didn't lift my head to meet his gaze. I could feel the heaviness of his eyes that had to be staring back at me in question.
"Why?" he repeated back to me. "Why not?"
"You don't know what I'm asking."
"I don't need to," he grumbled. "I know what it feels like to be helpless and question why any person would dare spend an extra second of their life to assist you."
"You're smart for a teenager."
"I'm sixteen.'
"I'm ten."
"Seriously?" He sounded surprised, leaving me no choice but to appease my curiosity and return my eyes to him as he blinked in surprise. "You're actually ten?"
"Mhm."
"Your...rather smart," he complimented. "And pretty."
"Even in ugly rags and with broken wings?" I was trying to sound perky, like how my voice used to be, but my tone was so flat, it was saddening to me.
"Ugly rags don't define a person," he muttered in seriousness. "Neither does a pair of wings."
"When your wings carry your identity in this world of cruelty and status, all you can do is wonder what defines a person other than the qualities that contribute to their upbringing and character."
"You shouldn't speak in such a manner at ten," he muttered.
"You shouldn't be able to understand me at sixteen."
"Sixteen is the prime age of gathering knowledge and power beyond our years. Ten isn't close to the years of teen hood."
"A kid is lecturing me," I mumbled.
"I'm a teen," he practically growled. "Just shut up and eat."
As much as I wanted to continue this argumentative behavior, I was famished and the reminder of steamy hot food waiting for me took my attention like a snap of one's fingers.
As I focused on how my fingers felt, the empty glass was taken from me - replaced by the bowl of warm thick soup that had a tomato basil scent to it. The white topping had to be a form of cheese, but I couldn't recall the name of it.
Staring at the silver spoon, I debated whether I could balance this bowl of soup in my lap and have enough strength to hold the spoon.
My mental debate had to be too long because the bowl was taken away from me the next moment. My heart couldn't decide whether to drop in disappointment or spike up in fear at losing such a golden opportunity.
"I'm not taking it away from you," the man huffed. "Turn your head."
I did what he asked and as I lifted my head up from my lap and looked, I saw he was holding the bowl in one hand and the other held the spoon with a generous portion of the thick soup.
If I was the emotional crying type, I would have shed tears of happiness to be fed during these times of vulnerability. All I could do was bow my head in gratitude before I opened my mouth and allowed him to feed me.
The idea of relying on a stranger scared me.
I was hiding it the best I could, while I took spoonful after spoonful of the most delicious soup I'd ever had in my entire existence. If it wasn't for this man feeding me, I would have dumped the whole thing down my throat and worried about the burns and stomach aches later on.
Not only did this food carry immense flavor, but you could feel the effort and love poured into making it. That was something I'd learned from one of the elders long ago. When the taste of one's food was rich in flavor, it meant the person who cooked the meal took immense time to combine the right amount of spices and allowed them to simmer before inputting the rest of the ingredients.
If the person didn't enjoy the art of cooking or pleasing the person they were cooking for, it wouldn't be an addicting dish. Her words seemed to echo through me as I quickly finished the soup.
The meal had given me a bit of rejuvenation while igniting memories from the years I craved to preserve and experience again.
I had to wait five minutes to have another glass of water; this man wanted to ensure I didn't suddenly vomit. With food in my belly and my body more hydrated than it had been previously, I decided to ask a prime question.