It was the cold that had awoken her. She was shaking furiously and coughing quiet loudly with the sense of the cold snow melting upon her. Her finger tips were a bruised purple against the glowing pure white of the snowflakes that continued to fall despite her silent protests.
Everything was blurry—she could barely see the trees around her; they were all just blobs of deep dark green. The cold air was harsh, not letting her warm up, and the dress she wore was not helping her the slightest bit. Her previously ivory skin nearly matched the blue of the cloth that hung to her. Her limbs stung in all places, the cold simply inviting her body to lull back to slumber. Her lids were starting to flutter to a close but she would fight off that sleepy sense because she could feel it in her heart that she would possibly not awaken from the inviting slumber.
A shadow blocked out the only source of warmth that she felt as it cast itself upon her and she could barely make out the words that sounded as if they were were murmured softly and gently. Then something warm was wrapped around her—taking the place of the sun—and even warmer arms lifted her from the freezing white cushions, also awaiting for her to awaken. The person's face was blurry to her and she could only make out a soft hue of rust orange turning into a lighter shade right before she fell back to join the coldness that was taking over her being.
Red. There was deep dark red that stained the rich white snow around them—she could easily mistaken the splatters as red rose petals; but everyone knew that flowers never bloomed during the dead of winter. One lone option remained—blood—and she could not tell if it was hers or somebody else's. She could not see the other person's face, but she noted a sword in their hands and she could also feel the familiar weight of her own weapon. She had a reminiscence that she was hurt but she could not tell if it was due to the icy air around her or caused by the blade before her; what was worse was that she could not feel where the pain originated and that was what she feared the most.
This time around, it was voices that had awaken her. Her eyes lazily flickered open, each action taking time and effort. She found herself in doors, as she deducted by the wooden ceiling, on a couch of sorts; in front of a warm and sweet fireplace. She sighed.
One of the voices sounded passive and the other more demanding. She could not recognize the language for a while because her mind was completely blank, anything that she tried to remember would run away from her grasp. Slowly, but surely, she began to understand what the voices were saying, the pulsing in her head told her she knew a little more than English.
She searched for something that would remind her of her past—anything—but there wasn't a single solid thing in her mind, only notions. Feelings of certain things but nothing concrete. While scanning her brain, she still found nothing of substance, nothing she could hold on to; nothing to make her feel safe.
The shuffling that resonated through the house brought her back to reality and away from the hollowness of her mind.
"I haven't any idea of why you even care for her." She deemed the language to be Gaelic after her brain slowly started turning it's gears. "God only knows what she is really capable of." The much more demanding voice boomed through the thin walls of the house.
A grunt, "Goodness, brother! She is half dead! It is not as if she can hold a sword at this point." The other voice retorted, tone hinting slight sass.
"You should never be fond of strangers. And did Aengus not tell you that bringing strangers home was not allowed?"
"She is not a stranger..." It was a little choked, clearly a lie.
There was more shuffling before the aggressive voice started once more. "Really, what is her name then? Where did you meet her? And why the hell does she have a hole through her body?" It growled.
"She is not trouble, I swear."
"When she wakes up, make sure she leaves this house." A couple of footsteps creaked the floorboards and then she heard what seemed to be the front door open and close before more footsteps came her way.
Although she was still rather dizzy, she glanced around the room really fast and noted that if she hurried; she could grab the poker from the fireplace stand hide behind the curtain—but the footsteps were getting closer each time she thought of an addition to the plan. Considering it time to go through with her plan and with adrenaline pumping through her body; she jumped from the bed, with quite a lot of pain, and did just as she had strategically designed in her mind. With little to no noise, she was able to reach the curtain next to the door before the door creaked open. Footsteps were led to the couch where she had laid in front of the fireplace and then, not even waiting for a gasp, she emerged from the curtain and pressed the fireplace poker against the tall male's chiseled back; the back of his heart to be more precise.
"I see you're up." It was chuckled lightly, she could tell the passive voice had belonged to this man.
She did not say a single word, even breathed a little less as to suppress her slight fear.
"I would think that it would be best for you not to hold such heavy iron in your hands for you might start bleeding again. Plus, I further suggest you do not point this short weapon at the first Spear of Fianna." He noted that the poker was missing from the fireplace tool set he had bought months ago. After even more silence he took a deep breath, "Can you understand Gaelic?...I take it you do not." He had waited quite a long time for her reply whilst turning around cautiously and slowly; he was able to see clouded green eyes.
She pressed the makeshift weapon to where his heart settled and remained in her silent and threatening demeanor. "Do not move another inch; you move and this will stab you through the heart." She hissed, partly from the pain in her side and partly from the anger that filled her.
"Oh, so you can talk, and understand." He smiled softly—almost tenderly. She did not want to look at him in the eyes because she thought of the endless possibilities of horrible things that he had probably done to her; but her pride got the upper hand and made her own green eyes burn into tangerine coloured ones.
The man was tall, possibly an entire foot taller than her, nearly towering over her. Black hair somehow pushed back—she was not going to lie, he was a handsome man; but he was an enemy and one never falls for the enemy.
"Where am I?" She ignored his lighthearted comment and noted a sweet beauty mark under the male's right eye. "Where the hell am I?" She was not one to use vulgar language, but the time and place lulled her.
The man was silent for a short while as he was immersed in thought. "A cabin a little away from the Fianna's quarters, about a mile."
"And where is that?" She took no time to continue the interrogation.
"In Hibernia; if you wonder where that—"
"Do not dare sass me. I know where Hibernia is." She hissed loudly and pressed the sharp object even harder against the male's chest; not yet drawing blood because he had two layers of cloth to protect him.
Why on earth was she in Hibernia anyways? It was insane that she had landed a sea apart and a couple of extra hundred miles from where she thought she belonged. The confusion hit her hard when she tried to recall where she was actually from. Was she from Longres, as a notion pointed her to such a conclusion?
"Where are you from?" He asked. "Because you clearly are not from Hibernia."
"And what makes you think that?" She lifted a brow and blinked at the man.
He shifted the leg that he rested upon and smiled at her. "You look confused. Are you from Logres or Alba?"
"Logres." What on earth was she saying? Telling the enemy where she was from. What else was she planning to do? Stab him with the poker and then run away? Not only would she not get far but she would also be breaking a rule of chivalry. Chivalry? What good has chivalry done till now? But her mind yelled at her at the idea of breaking the rule.
He bit his lower lip and thought for another while. "You're far from home."
"Why am I here?"
"I found you in the forest. You were bleeding and freezing to death, so I tried to save you from your close encounter to death." The fire crackled behind him and he slowly turned around to take one of the fireplace tools in his hand.
"Do not dare pick that up." She nearly growled as he let his fingers graze the iron rod and poked him with the weapon again.
"You're a knight, you would not hurt me without my being armed." He spoke slowly as he curled his fingers around the iron and lifted it.
"I said to put it down!" She roared and he let out a small chuckle.
"I promise that I am not going to hurt you." She could hear his smile and the way his lips widened. "I am only going to move the wood around before the flame goes out and you start to feel cold again. You should sit down at least."
The pain that she was holding back had finally crawled out with a greater force and she fell to the floor with a loud and echoing yelp. He was not quick enough to catch her before she hit the floor, which only made her cry louder. Slowly, he approached her and wrapped a strong arm around her to lift her from the dusty wooden ground.
"Let go of me!" She cried, "I am royalty, I'll have you know!" As soon as she had said it, the male let go of her waist and looked rather confused, let alone she too was having trouble comprehending her own words.
"I-I" she stumbled upon herself and fell to the couch. "I'm bleeding," she mumbled as she noted that the bandages around her side were beginning to soak and taint a shade of red—the exact same as the one in her dream—through an unrecognizable white shirt. "What have you done to me?" She glared up at the male that stood before her.
The man looked at her as if he were about to roll his eyes; lids half lidded and a frown on his lips. "I told you to rest and you would not listen to me. Anyhow, I should get you a new set of bandages." He grumbled and turned on his heel to leave the room.
"What have you done to me? I demand to know." She pressured the question forward as she grumbled it under her breath in utter annoyance, giving him a twisted look of abhorrence.
Taking a deep and long sigh, he turned back towards her; making sure to catch her gaze. "I am a loyal knight as well as virtuous man. I would never harm an unarmed opponent, neither would I lay a finger on a woman without her consent. Never would I touch one that I do not fancy," he eyed her over, "Or one that does not like me—which is rather hard to find." It was not something he was proud of, but thought of mentioning anyways.
"If you so are a knight, I should at least know your name." She grunted, the wound in her side overwhelming her.
He gave her a smile and nodded. "Of course," he began, "Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, I am as loyal as they get." He winked at her.