The desk's chair was lifted and set upon the floor just near the bed, so that Snow could sit. Despite offering to let Diens go and fetch and seat for himself, the older man declined. Even though they might wait a long time before the drifter might open his eyes and return to life, Diens remained staunch in his desire to stand. It was not as a ruse meant to quietly show strength, but one of preference; sometimes he forgot that the man preferred to stay on his feet unless he were forced to rest out of his mortal chains.<br/><br/>Hours past. The sun was still in the sky, and its descent to the horizon was beginning to become noticeable. He remained inside the room, waiting for when the man would awake. Snow touched his hand to his face.<i>Cold. </i>He drew his cloak closer, hoping to gain some more warmth. As long as he could remember, it was difficult for him to tell if things were warm as milk or frosty as the ice that capped the peaks of the Draconine Mountains. Sometimes the cold could be comforting...<i>too comforting. </i>Instead of feeling the stinging pain that was often described with chill, he felt a strange warmth when exposed to the extremes of cold. Like the warmth a man got when draining a tankard of wine in swift gulps. Milchen had oft retold him the events of one winter's day, when he was a wee child.<br/><br/>Clouds had released upon them a hell of hail and snow, battering at the stone walls of Igna's Hold, the hostile tempest trying to slither through the mortar that bound stone to stone in order to seize hold of the warmth inside and render it nothing. He had been under the watchful eye of his mother. But when his mother averted her gaze for a mere moment, he was gone. She had torn through the halls of the hold looking for him, searching every nook and cranny, consumed by worry; what could it mean, the disappearance of a child? What felt like an evening would pass before they found him. They had discovered him outside, on the balcony that overlooked the town in a frozen white gown. Playing in the cold and building knights out of the powder snow. When they had pulled him back in, he was clammy cold - but Milchen had always told him he said otherwise.<br/><i><br/>
"Why must I return inside? It's so warm and fun out here. Mother, won't you play with me?"</i><br/><br/>It was so long ago, in a life that seemed like a distant memory. Snow himself couldn't recall if the tale was true, or one spun by Milchen in her mind. He recalled a common saying;<i>the wet nurse's milk is not the only thing fed to the children. </i>A wet nurse might invent amusing tales or tales of grandeur, to indulge her milk child. Certainly, it could be true. He could imagine his younger self, rolling in fresh beds of snowflakes. The only other person who might know if the tale was true was Diens, and Snow thought it would be childish of him to ask.<br/><br/>The slumbering man was resting peacefully, despite his bound state. His head was tilted to the side for breath; all Snow could see was a plethora of fine, golden locks. Golden hair was uncommon in Weiss; many nobles had the tendency for chestnut or raven hair, and the common people had auburn hair. From what Snow had seen of his face, even clawed and bruised, Snow could tell that the man had features unlike those of Weiss natives. There were many questions that Snow had for the man. Just what had happened? How had he been left in the ocean, and why? Had he simply fallen off, and was forgotten? He was found naked, wrapped in bloody linen. Snow hadn't removed the bandages to see what was hidden beneath, but he could guess. It was stained mahogany across his back - some grievous wound had to be there to yield so much blood.<br/><br/>The man shifted, the first movement he had made in hours. His ragged breathing became hurried, distressed like a stuck deer. He turned his head, staring at the both of them in visible alarm.<i>"Don't," </i>the man warned weakly. What the man was expecting, Snow didn't know. More tugging ensued, as he despaired silently.<i>“You should have left me to the ocean if you brought me up for this.” </i>His words came out with a pitch to them, the sound a man cornered by wolves would make. Unhinged laughs came from the man, as he spoke in a foreign yet familiar language.<i>“Whatever you have planned, there really is no need to have me tied for it. I'm hardly in a state to be resistant. It is redundant.” </i>The man continued to wriggle as if he were a large fish, but the ropes remained taut and unwavering against the resistance placed against it.<br/><br/>Snow gave the man a silent stare, his mouth a straight line.<i>Has he gone mad? </i>Such a close brush with death was bound to push a man to the end of his rope. "Whoever dealt you your wounds is not to be found on this ship," Snow assured. It was the best thing he could think of to say. "We have nothing planned for you... whatever do you think we would like to do to you?" He thought of reaching a hand forward to rest itself on the man's arm, for stability and comfort. But as it stood, the man was incoherent and rambling, and he might take the hand as a threat instead.<br/><i><br/>
"Who was it that pulled me out of the water? It was you. Why did you do it?" </i>The deranged man was looking at him for an answer.<br/><br/>"Did I need a reason?" Snow queried. "You were in the water, dying. I thought it best to save you from a watery grave."