They talk about her as if she's not in the room. "Death caps?" mutter the man Bothos—maybe Brick – as they sit at her table in her home. Swaggering men who had stormed in, expecting sanctuary as their due. They are men like she has seen before and therefore easy to predict. They will glower when they're angry, pretending to be house cats when a miscalculated move on her part could send them into a fury. Arianne had no shortage of lessons when it came to quick tempered, distrustful men.
Quintus is more difficult to figure out. When he lunged out of her hut she was sure a terrible memory was about to repeat itself. Down on the ground, looking up at him was being exiled from her village, was being harassed by Roman soldiers all over again. A lone woman, unskilled in the warrior arts, is nothing but vulnerability. Unlike Etain, Arianne could not stop these men from taking anything of hers they wanted. But Quintus Dias was more of a mystery. With hands held aloft and her own language softly escaping off his tongue he resembled neither Pict nor Roman who came before him. Bedraggled and compelling, his soft tones soother her racing heart down from a gallop.
So when his men muttered about poison and Quintus ate like a man starved, Arianne left them to their own devices. He was a man starved, she reminder herself. Perhaps he was impulsive or too hungry to care. He could be eager to meet his gods, sick of the fighting and strife here. He could be foolhardy, or stupid or unable to comprehend the world through anyone's point of view than his out.
But Arianne did not think so.
By the fireside, he is careful not to stir when she takes the seat beside him. "Your men are very nervous," she says as though her hand does not tremble when she takes the cup he offers. His entire life has been hard edges. From the time he was old enough to sit on his father's knee, stories of clashes in the arena, near misses and clear victories alike, capture his imagination. He has spent his entire life building himself up to be a stone pillar, strong in the face of opposition, solid against the sharp attacks from an unforgiving world. Here in Arianne's hut, however, everything is soft. The herbs hanging on the wall move with the slightest hint of a breeze. The furs on the bed look ready to sink into and the mistress of the house, with her gold spun hair and blue gray eyes, seems less substantial then the water rushing merrily outside in the brook. Any wrong move, even the right move done too quickly, seems likely to frighten here away for good.
Quintus will not allow that. She is foreign to him, like the hot sunny deserts the marathon runner hails from or the half-sung Greek he used to hear in the marketplace at the heart of the empire. Foreign is precious because it is rare. He could no sooner bring African heat to this island than he could his dead father's rumbling laughter. For as long as they stay there, he will keep Arianne at the edge of his sphere. Not too close else he might break her with his hard edges. But close enough to bask in the warmth of her eyes.
So he will speak quietly and move slowly to lure this shy spirit closer to the fire.
She is tickling fish for their breakfast. Rosy pink fingers resemble fat happy worms and with a flick of her wrist, a trout is laying on the grass. Quintus may not appreciate being interrupted "mid flow" but he is smiling as he takes a seat on her chopping stump. With the debris in the water, he becomes a different man. One who is used to commanding and being obeyed. Grabbing her hand and hauling her into the house, Arianne is half skipping to keep up when she realizes she trusts his judgment.
And that is strange because she has known this man for less than a day. There is just something about him—maybe a warmth in his eyes or the way he cleans up after himself and his men—that makes her feel like he has her best interest at heart. And so Arianne, the outcast who tries to fool herself into thinking that she does not like people, because loneliness does not cut so sharply if you would rather be left alone, decides to help these men.
She has survived this long by her intellect. Without the brute strength of the men who have visited in the night with their unwashed bodies and primal urges, she could not win in a fight. Without the social status in her village she could not stop them from burning down her old home as her weeping mother stood beside her. But she can outwit them all, she can turn herself into something from the occult so mystical that even the bloodthirsty Etain will take pause.
She is halfway out the door before realizing that it is not her intellect that is leading her to shield these men. Quite opposite, in fact: it is something primal.
"What's the matter Etain? Cat got your tongue?"
Had he thought Arianne was soft last night? Hearing her taunt the she-wolf above them, Quintus knows with every fiber of his being that she is braver than any man he's ever commanded. An obvious distraction for the hound that paced above them, Arianne drew that wrath onto herself. The following minutes were the longest of his life and he crouched in the granary, actually vibrating with the need to defend her. Only the presence of Brick and Bathos keep him under ground. It's not their reason that stays him, for his reason is lost. The only tether keeping him from jumping out is the thought that these men would die and he has a visceral interest in keeping them alive.
After the Picts leave to chase down another trail he is out faster than prudence would allow. Seeing Arianne kneeling on the ground is like a punch to his chest. He can't help but join her, touching her shoulder, touching her hair to assure himself she is alright. Guilt runs though his body, thrumming fast in his veins. "We've put you in too much danger. We'll leave," he says, realizing the true extent almost too late. Because sometime between wandering into this sanctuary of danger, this safe harbor with bones posted outside, Arianne's welfare grew to matter to him. More than his own when she cared for his man and cooked for them and left early to catch breakfast. It is warring now with the welfare of his men.
So he's relieved she tells him to stay until tomorrow. And it is mostly because that will give Bothos more time to heal. But there is a part of him—and it is not a small part, mind you, and grows large by the minute – that just wants to spend more time near her warmth.
When she brings out a fur for him in the dark cold night it is because she is concerned for his welfare. The wind blows something fierce this time of year and the frost grows thicker on the ground each morning. But she also wants to speak with him again, outdoors and away from the other two. The cantankerous old soldier apologized but he does not have the same magnetic appeal.
"I owe allegiance to no man but whom I choose," she tells him and realizes she's hoping he will reach for her like he did earlier in the day. As his hand reaches up she tilts her head ever so slightly in his direction. After months of solitude, years of struggle and a lifetime of being different, Arianne wants to feel like someone sees her. Really sees her and that they like what they see. When Quintus looks at her so tenderly a slow heat ignites within her. She is nervous and anxious and wants time to slow down so she can savor this moment and speed up to get to what comes next.
Because when she is standing next to Quintus, Arianne does not feel alone.
For a man standing guard he is easily distracted and when his lips touch hers for the first time she thinks it is wonderful and cold outside and like nothing she'd ever done before. Slowly, ever so slowly as if she delicate or tender or precious to him Quintus slides his hands from her face down her to her shoulder. One hand reaches around to hold her close, pulling her into him without caging her in. The other hand slides down her arm and to her hand. Their fingers intertwine and nothing in recent memory has felt this right. It may not be the more intelligent move she's ever made but as time passes and then end up intertwined outside in the cold air with the stars above, she is happy.
She is so happy.
When they leave it is bittersweet. Had her life been easier, Arianne might feel cheated for having just one night when a lifetime would barely be enough. Had their coupling been more heated, more fiery passion without personal regard she might resent her first introduction to pleasure being cut so short. As it is, she is grateful for a memory to last a lifetime.
And as Arianne thoughtfully strokes the wooden horse left by her hearth, she lets herself hope, just a little. Perhaps Quintus left something more of himself behind. Days pass, the wind grows colder and she misses her monthly course. It is too soon to know, but she is skilled in the workings of the human body and senses the change within herself. As the first snowfall of the season looms over the horizon, Arianne begins to knit a blanket for her son or daughter.
She reaches down into the water to tickle up a trout for her own breakfast when she hears the horse carrying him back to them.