Hands Off
Her movements are swift. But he is swifter. Her feet pound the forest floor. But he thunders his way across the terrain.
"Hands off, you scavenger!", she shouts, racing toward the prize. Her ebony locks, secured in a loose braid billow behind her as she sprints to the already kneeling figure amongst the trees.
"I'm not stealing from you," a low and rugged voice says with a heavy accent she can't quite place. "The animal has made its sacrifice. I'm simply thanking it for its honor."
"It's not like the thing willingly surrendered itself," she huffs, coming to stand behind the prostrated figure on the ground. "I killed it. And rightfully so. I'd very much like to eat tonight, thank you."
"So would I," is the reply, "But this animal was a living, breathing creature much like us. It deserves our respect."
"Sappy," she snorts, slinging her bow over her shoulder. "Now if you would please move." However the only response is a short sniffle.
"Don't tell me you're crying," she scoffs, rolling her eyes, "What kind of man cries over kills?"
"An honorable one."
"And what do you know about honor?"
"I have it. The animals have it. You clearly don't."
"Excuse me?"
"It's just what I said. You don't seem to have any honor or respect for nature and wildlife do you? I will never understand your kind."
"I apologize but I'm not the type who cries over dead animals. Not when there are worser things to cry about…much worser things." There's a hint of sadness in her tone. "Trust me. I know."
"But sometimes it's the little things we must acknowledge."
"Who are you?", she asks exasperatedly. For the first time the man finally turns around. And dark grayish eyes meet hers. He's a scruffily man. With a beard and long curled locks that flop over his forehead, he is rather attractive in his own rugged kind of way. His form, covered from head to toe in leather and skins and furs leaves much to the imagination. And for some reason, she can't help but fantasize at just what lies underneath.
He stares back at her silently, with an intensity that can quite easily slaughter. But she is not so easily frightened. Strangely, it is quite the opposite.
"Um, your name?", she asks, raising a brow as she crosses her arms in front of her bosom and tapping her foot for maximum effect.
"I don't have one," the man says, his voice resounding deep inside her to the bone.
"Everyone has a name."
"I wasn't so lucky."
"They must call you something."
"I'm just the Huntsman to anyone."
"Oh," she murmurs, suddenly feeling a pang of pity for this incredibly distant and awkward man. It's quite clear that he isn't used to this much human interaction. She bites her lip nervously. Perhaps it's because he spends his days away from the villages, in the forest hunting. He is the Huntsman after all.
"So Huntsman, I suppose since you won't ask me my name, I'll just willingly give it to you. I'm Regina. Regina Mills if you are so interested." Regina smirks slightly. Yet, he remains passive on the ground before her, staring up at her with wary eyes.
"You don't talk much do you," Regina comments.
"I have no one to talk to," the Huntsman replies rather unemotionally.
"Don't you have a home? A family?"
"The forest is my home, and the wolves are my family."
Regina's eyes widen. And she gazes at him suddenly with a new understanding. Sympathy swells in her heart, more than she'd like it to.
"The wolves?"
"They took me in."
"In…Into where? Their home?", Regina asks, eyebrows furrowed with maximum intrigue. And when the man does nothing but gaze back at her silently, her heart blossoms and her expression softens. "You were abandoned?", she whispers.
"That is of no matter," the Huntsman states curtly, "Not anymore."
Regina shakes her head incredulously. The poor man. For the first time in a long time, she finds herself softening. "I can provide a place to stay," she says gently, stooping down to the man's level, "My place has enough room for two."
She watches as the Huntsman's eyes widen ever so slightly. He is clearly taken aback by this kind gesture. After all, the world has been less than kind. And surprisingly, the same can be said for his newfound companion.
"You'd have to get your hand off my kill first though," Regina says, her smirk returning. She gently places her own gloved hand atop the man's which lies gently on the body of the fallen deer. That simple touch, although hindered by thick leather upon leather, effects both parties in a way that which they've never felt before. And a stirring arises in both their stomachs, reaching down towards places even lower. Slowly, a small blush simultaneously creeps across their faces.
"Um…my kill…please?", Regina tries again after a time. This time, the Huntsman nods silently, slipping his hand out from underneath hers. And strangely enough, she can't help but feel an immediate pang of desire to feel his hand connected with hers once more. But Regina dismisses those sentiments away for now as she swiftly works to skin the deer and cut the meat.
She works for about twenty minutes, chopping the tender meat from the bones of the animal. All the while, the Huntsman watches silently by, guiltily drinking in the pleasure of watching the first woman upon which he'd ever truly laid eyes.
"Well that's the last of it," Regina announces, slinging the burlap sack of meat over her shoulder. "The rest is for the bears. Shall we?"
The Huntsman nods. He stands, takes the heavy sack from her shoulders, unburdening her, and smiles. "Lead the way," he commands, returning that beautifully mischievous smirk.