Ichor And Steel

Chapter Ten; His Lord's Boundary

ꜰᴀʜʀʀᴀᴅꜱᴀᴛᴛᴇʟ, ᴘɪꜱꜱᴇ

There was little to none other sensation than scalding water. Upon naked skin, it developed the touch of a teasing hand, gentle knuckles rubbing dents and fingers tickling the tricky patches. At first exposure, it encases your body, burningly unwelcoming but if you gave it just a moment, the heat would sink into and embrace you.

Ethan Winters hadn't felt hot water for weeks; he'd only bathed in a Luke-warm stew with a thin icy layer atop. It felt comforting, and the unfortunate demands of Lady Dimistrescu pulled him from the sauna, and he slithered into cool feeling clothes. Unless heated, everything was cold. As he fixed the sleeves, struggling to keep them from sagging over his hands, noticed the sting of a shallow bite mark. He scratched at the scab and let it be.

With a basket, the courtesy of an extra coat, and sounding like a jingle-bell, Ethan journeyed to the perimeter of the village in search of the trail to Heisenberg's factory. To keep his mind off the wuthering heights of the bridge, he peered beneath the green cloth to examine what metals or jewels Dimistrescu had picked. There were spheres of amethyst, inkling shards of jade, jostling chains and a bar of steel which almost broke through the weaved basket's bottom.

Trudging up the slope, his feet struggled to retain a grip in the snow and, with perseverance, came a tumble and he ended up in a mattered bush, pinwheeling like a tortoise on its shell. How did he ever manage before; so clumsy and misguided.

Patting the dustier flecks of snow from his blonde hair and scraping it from his eyes, he entered the wired perimeters. Somehow, like the previous times he'd been sent for chores here, it was as if crossing a boundary into an uncharted territory but with an unshakable, uncanny sense of familiarity. Ethan was only bought to from a hot grip around his arm and he alarmedly yanked up his sleeve, almost spilling the contents of the basket. There wasn't a being around who had snuck up and grabbed him; it was that bite, festering and blistering under the cloth of his sleeve. Again, he discarded it, sure he would be able to urge Donna to grab him something when she delivered dinner later.

In the clasp of Heisenberg's metal world, a rattling anthem of scorned rock thundered in muffled vibrations in the walls and floors. Ethan moved carefully, teetering around projects strewn but not ignored and found the eventual clearing in the forest of copper and bronze. An ashen perfume stained the air and he watched one thick finger extend and tap the cigar clear of loose black, flittering onto a plate. The finger wistfully swirled into the air, spinning, and tapping nothing to a beat thumping from a vinyl player, the record worn with white welts. Heisenberg gently hummed, a few "dum-dum-tat-tats" in the mix and lacked some clothing over his broad...hulking...back...scarred chest...tightly brawn from laborious hours. Ethan gazed, mulling over the discoloured flaws on a seamless plain of honeyed skin—yet they weren't flaws, only marks of a potent past. I want to trace my finger along them.

However, in this state—without the shirt which Ethan, uncomfortably so, felt he didn't mind—Heisenberg was head in the clouds oblivious to his presence. Had he forgotten? Ethan plotted on softly depositing the basket on a bench which wasn't crowded with crumpled, aged paper with etchings of Einsteinen devices or trinkets. However, one unthought of step collapsed all ideas and Heisenberg swung around on his stool, propping himself against his workbench. He flashed a smirk before leaning between his wide-poised legs.

"Ethan Winters," he slurred the name, physically rolling it over his tongue and his piercing grazed his bottom lip. Yet, the ambiguity of his tone made Ethan conflicted; he either didn't care about his presence or didn't want him there. And even then, there was a hint of pleasurable surprise.

"Ethan, metal man. Ethan is just fine," he scowled, attempting a straight stance.

Heisenberg tipped his head, his grin enhanced with a hint more of snarling teeth and hair loosely fluttered over his face. Ethan had seldom seen the man without his hat; stiff brimmed cowboy wannabe, let alone without the covering of his glasses. Those eyes seemed bare, starkly naked without the opaque mask of glass. A trenchant gaze of contradictory sage and moss, austere silver surrounding the irises, and the reveal of this detail took Ethan back to the chair over the hole; those eyes held a particular demand to them.