Downpour

THE WITCH'S FLAME

There's grass underneath him.

He's lying down, but not on a mattress. The ground beneath him is soft and muddy, the type that stains your clothes and never comes out. It's damp as well, and cold.

He opens his eyes.

Is he at the castle? He'd fallen asleep on grass there. If he was at the castle he'd at least know he was travelling between three dreams. That would be better than waking up somewhere new each time.

He sits up, grimacing at the stickiness of the mud. His palms sink into the ground slightly, and the side of his t-shirt clings to his side. It's soaked through, and the mud stains his fingertips as he tries to peel the thin fabric away from his skin.

There's something at the back of his mind telling him that these aren't the clothes he was wearing at the castle. They're similarly old-fashioned, but made from a thicker fabric that rubs him when he moves.

He stands up. The mud is so cold beneath his feet and his heels sink into the marshy ground. It's disgusting, and he knows that the dirt isn't going to come out from between his toes easily.

It'll take three showers to get him clean, at the very least.

He tries to distract himself from the trees in the distance (large fruit trees that definitely wouldn't be found near a castle) by thinking of the shower he can take when he gets home.

The bright artificial light of his bathroom, his summer fruits body wash, the warm water.

Goosebumps prick up on his arms as another gust of chilling wind whips past him.

At least the castle would be warm.

He surprises himself by not being surprised when he turns round and the castle isn't there. Instead, there's a small hut type structure. A small stream runs past the side of it, which explains the dampness of the ground, smoke pours out of the tiny chimney in the thatched roof, and smell of something baking is in the air.

It's definitely not the castle.

The wind blows again, causing his hair to blow into his eyes, stinging his forehead. His muddy shirt is stuck to his side, and he rubs his arms in reaction to the sudden cold, trying to get the friction to cause enough heat. It's only after the action that he realises his mud-stained palms have left streaks of brown down his skin.

He realises he must look like a right mess.

"Chan?"

Chan looks up from his muddy arms, and back to the hut. Leaning out of a hole in the wall- the window, he assumes- is Minghao.

"What are you doing outside?" Calls the Chinese man, pulling the wooden shutters closed, and after a brief pause, throwing open the door.

Chan hurries over to the hut. The warmth from the small fire washes over him immediately, making him shudder with the sudden temperature change. He rubs his arms furiously, not caring about the quickly drying mud. He hadn't realised quite how cold he was.

Minghao shuts the door. "I would have said that you were going to get muddy if you stayed out there much longer," he raises an eyebrow, "but I think I'd have been a bit too late."

Chan doesn't reply. He can't think of a good comeback, and something tells him that Minghao would reply with something even more scathing if he attempted to.

"What were you even doing out there?" another voice says. Chan turns around to see Mingyu taking a small loaf of bread out of the fire.

That's probably what he could smell earlier.