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Perhaps today wasn't a good day for painting. Finnian's pale eyes flitted up to stare at the sky, an expanse of mottled grey against dark green pine needles. The air seemed to hang heavy with moisture, though Finnian himself didn't quite notice. He'd been failing to notice a myriad of things, lately. But he certainly noticed the sudden breeze that buffeted his greyish locks around his pallid face, obstructing his view just as he thought he saw a flash of shining green over the lake. He brushed the hair away with his free hand only to find he must have been imagining things; it was only a fluttering of oak leaves winding through the air and falling to the lake.
It was strange, but there was something about a cloudy midmorning that made Finnian terribly sad. The satchel full of paint around his shoulder bumped softly against his hip, a constant pressure that kept him grounded, kept him from staring at the sky for too long. That, and the edges of the easel under his arm were beginning to dig into his skin. But all of that hardly mattered, for suddenly, Finnian's eyes were locking on the figure of a young man who was falling, hunched and frail, to the ground by the lake, and Finnian felt his body lurch in surprise. No heartbeat thudded in his chest--no, it was a different sort of feeling. A feeling of dread that seemed to make even the pale violet veins in Finnian's wrist pale to whiteness.
The boy rushed quickly, stumbling over his feet and laying his easel and bag down with a frantic flutter of movement halfway through the grass. And all at once he was there, kneeling down beside the unconscious figure and shaking his shoulder.
"Dear gods--Hello? Sir, are you alright?" It was an odd term to use for someone who was likely the same age as he was, if not a year or two his elder, but Finnian wasn't paying much attention to the young man's age. He brought a hand to the man's face and frowned, wishing he could feel whether or not the man had a fever, but he felt no heat, no lack thereof. Strange. Strange feelings that plagued him, ones he tried not to think too hard about. Well. Better safe than sorry--Aonbharr would know what to do for the boy.
With a small grunt of effort Finnian had bent down and lifted the boy as best he could--frankly, he was rather lightweight, and after carrying the easel and paints, it wasn't too much of a noticeable difference. Finnian huffed as he righted the young man, and he set out trudging in the direction of his cabin, nestled in the forest up the stream. He blinked as he felt the plop of a raindrop hit his head, and he glanced back at his easel and paints ruefully before sniffing once, dismissing the regret and focusing on his task. He could always retrieve those later, and that painting on the easel he'd been working on wasn't all that impressive anyhow.