Hoo boy. Matthew had no idea how to deal with children at the best of times. This was not the best of times, considering that the child in question was dead. He crouched down so he'd be closer to the boy's level. "Um... hello." Quite frankly, he had a little trouble dealing with dead adults, too (he recalled a man by the name of Stark, who'd apparently been beheaded). "How are you?" What Matthew really wanted to ask was how he died, but he could tell that conversation wouldn't go well.
He sets his hand in Matthew's. It serves to convey three things: One, how small he actually is. Undernourished and only seven. Two, that he's very dead, and drowned. His skin is cold and clammy. Three, how nerve wracking this whole thing is. His fingers are shaking. All of him is shaking, really, and flickering like a light bulb about to go out.
He is dead. Drowned, from the look of him. Who would do that to a little kid? Trying to push away his anger - and a little revulsion at shaking the hand of what he could only think of as a very small zombie - the Ostian whispered, "It's okay. I'm not gonna hurt you."
"And I'm from Ostia. But I bet you won't have heard of it; it's in another world." Matthew wasn't about to say that he'd only seen Spain on maps - even if that was probably normal for anyone who didn't live there.
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"Fine-thank-you-how-are-you?"
It's obviously a trained response.
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Why isn't he running away?
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In the end. Jacinto drowned too.
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"I'm from Spain."
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"It's dusty. Is your home dusty?"
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Matthew grinned. "Sometimes. Not as dusty as some places, though."
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And vultures, but those scare him, so he doesn't want to talk about them.
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An apple, or half an apple for breakfast. Porridge for lunch. Chicken soup (with or without chicken) for supper. Every single day.
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