You find her in the forest, lying unconsciously next to a burned out fireplace.
The wind pulls at your hair; the coldness stings your fingers. She's wrapped in moist tatters and her hair matches the color of the autumn leaves beneath her.
You set aside your basket with a handful of mushrooms, and kneel down beside her.
Her face is turned away from you and her hands are balled to fists.
Her skin looks dry and her figure is thin. You try to estimate how long she must have been lying here:
Days, probably.
You reach out and curiously brush away some strands of hair from a grey cheek.
She's rough beneath your fingertips—her hair sticks to her skin.
You feel her scars before you see them: black stitches cover her eyes in thick ropes; patches of skin have been recklessly sewed together. It's careless work; the wounds make her face look like a puzzle.
She's beautiful.
You hold your palm to her dry lips and sigh in relief when you feel her breath. It's shallow but it's there:
Life.
Carefully you pick her up.
She's as light as a feather. And she smells like tree bark and like soil.
You press her to your chest—wrap your cloak around her. She soaks up your body heat and even your heart starts shivering.
But it's been centuries since you last touched another human, so maybe that's what it's supposed to feel like.
Her body sinks into your mattress—drowns in soft sheets—and you flinch before you realize:
She hasn't turned to stone.
She's icy when you peel off her ragged clothes. Her body is full of scars, too—not the same thick ropes that adorn her face; they're thin lines on her back and arms and shoulders.
There are larger ones, too, which you recognize as old punishments. They resemble yours.
You soak a sponge in warm water and dab away dirt and dried blood and scurf until her body is soft again.
When you pry open her hands there is one crescent scar in each palm. Those two look fresh and like they could hurt, so you leave them alone.
There's no reaction still when you dab some water on her lips with the tips of your fingers.
You wrap her in a fresh nightgown and your thickest blankets, which you pull up to her chin as you sit by the bed.
The sun is setting.
You're used to hiding yourself away in darkness and she's blind and unconscious, but you light a candle nonetheless. Maybe it'll force away her nightmares. Maybe the light will guide her back to reality.
.
You stay up and watch her sleep.
And sleeping it has become now, because her breath is stronger and even, like her heart beat when you press your ear against her chest.
Sometimes her fingers twitch as if she was trying to reach for something, but you never reach back, because whatever she's searching for she won't find it in you.
Every hour you dab at her lips, and you wash her face and her palms again in the morning. You treat her wounds, too, with oil that you made from Wild Rose.
And the next night you light another candle: a little flame to connect you through the darkness.
You sing to her—melodies that you thought forgotten; lullabies that your mother sang to you when you were a child. Those are words from a time that you barely remember; a time before your life was taken from you.
Now you exist by yourself, far away from all the kingdoms that have banished you—far away from men and beasts who could inflict more damage.
You have disappeared to the human eye and you don't possess a mirror, either.
Sometimes she cracks open her mouth. Then you dampen her lips and wait.
You smile the first time she licks away the water.
The third day you come back from collecting herbs and find her tossing and turning. Her forehead burns when you press your palm to it.
You clean her face and her wrists and her neck. She calms down and sighs at the cool of the damp cloth you wrap around her calves. Her voice sounds like the wind when it makes thick brushwood whisper.
You stay with her the rest of the day; you wipe away sweat and change her clothes again.
This time when she reaches out you take her hand.
She squeezes tight.
.
The fourth day she wakes up.
You crack open the door and her voice sounds through the room like the rustling of leaves: "I knew you'd come.
"I've seen you in my visions from the day I was captured and brought to war; I've seen you helping me. In all the possible universes, in everything that could be—you were always there: the most beautiful creature to walk upon earth."
Disappointment clutches your heart. The hand she's been reaching out has deceived you. It's never been you—of course it hasn't!
In ancient times this could have been you: beautiful—it's what they called you.
But the years have worn you out and the day you were cursed to live in solitude lies lifetimes in the past. Long have your children grown old, and their children have, too.
The last thought of happiness was such a long time ago that it may as well not be true.
The Gods rained spite upon you, and they took advantage of your humanity. They took your beauty and they turned it against you:
They took your body and they made it theirs. They used you up and spat you out.
When you didn't serve their entertainment any longer, they told you no one could ever see you again.
They told you to hide your body away in the shadows or Poseidon would seek you out again. He'd punish you for your vanity like he did in Athena's temple.
Now that you've fulfilled their purpose you're of no use to anyone.
You're hideous, not beautiful, not like Athena—that lesson you learned.
And you're not nearly as beautiful as the marvelous woman sitting before you now: with tousled crimson locks falling over her shoulders, chappy lips and slender fingers reaching out again, reaching out to what can't be you.
But she says:
"I've seen you time and time again. You saved me."
You back away into the kitchen without saying anything.
There's a feeling squeezing your insides; it's so old that it almost feels new. It's something you thought long lost. It's something you didn't even remember you were capable of feeling.
And there's no word in your vocabulary anymore to describe it properly.
But it lies heavy in your guts and it drowns out all sound. It makes your head spin, too.
You want to cry but the tears won't come. Your throat is tight and sore. And yet this other feeling—new and old, forgotten and there—lingers. It makes you want to breathe, and you inhale deeply before letting go off the edge of the counter.
You didn't even realize how your death grip was turning your knuckles white.
The soup you make consists mostly of hot water and some herbs to sooth a sore stomach. She cradles the bowl with both hands when you sit at the edge of the bed.
Her insides growl when she takes a first careful sip: her body is rebuking her. She recovers quickly, though, and greedily empties the bowl, before thanking you.
"I don't have anything to give you in return."
Again you marvel at her voice—distant and so close to you at the same time. Her words blow right through your skin; they settle somewhere deep below flesh and muscle. You raise your palm to your lips when your breath hitches.
And you swallow anything you meant to say.
You were born into a family of Gods and you grew up among them. They treated you dearly until they did not. They praised you until you grew confident.
You've seen the Moon and the Sun and the Stars above the forests—you can call them all by their names—their real names, not the ones that people gave them.
Those Gods were your parents and your siblings. They were the ones to raise you and to kick you down. They taught you how to be a human: a worthless toy in the hands of the Divine.
But you've never looked upon a face and felt so humbled.
Her hands are rough and warm when she takes yours, and you fight your instincts to dodge the touch.
"I don't see much anymore," she says. "My visions are all blurry now."
She smiles.
Then she leans back into the pillow, and your palms are cold when she lets go.
Olympus has long been abandoned, ever since people started worshipping different gods. You wonder which of these new realms she might have fallen from—or if she simply fell from grace.
People all call themselves good.
Her words "Could I have some water, please?" pull you from your thoughts. You start and are back with a cup within seconds.
Another few seconds later the cup is empty and she's asleep.
Centuries ago you would have demanded a price at face value for your generosity. Now the value of your face is nothing, and nothing is the amount of what you need, from her or anyone.
You stay by her side until dusk has turned to darkness and the Grey who is strongest in the world between day and night is no longer a threat.
She breathes evenly now. Her face is cool when you press your palm to it. Her skin has regained its color.
Maybe you were wrong. Maybe this is what it's supposed to feel like.
And maybe there is something you need after all.
You keep a cup of fresh water on the nightstand and find it empty in the morning.
Just like the bed.
You change the sheets and listen to the silence around you. She's gone, and she has taken the chirping of the birds and the slithering of the snakes and the rustling of the leaves with her.
It's the quietness that only a person can leave behind—the silence only words can cause.
.
The days are longer now even though winter is coming and the hours of daylight are fewer.
You stay awake at night and listen to your heart beat or the blood rushing through the veins in your temples.
And you keep a cup of water by the bed, just in case.
Just in case you become thirsty.
Sometimes you think you hear her voice, but it's always only the wind whistling through the crack in the door or making brushwood whisper when you're out gathering herbs. Whenever a sound seems more than that you never hear it again.
Sometimes you think a breeze carries her scent, but it's always an illusion.
You search the ground for leaves with the right color, but they're all damp now and rotting away. There's nothing left of crimson—time's not patient with you.
You open the door to your home and find the bed empty every day.
Until you think you've only dreamed her, like one dreams an oasis in the desert, like a starving woman dreams of apples.
You're thankful for the delusional moments when you sit by a well and remember washing her face. The years have worn you out, but they have also made you richer. You have nothing, and yet you have your memories.
In your mind you map her scars with the tip of your index finger. She tells you where she got them and you sing to her again.
You go back to where you found her, and you sit by the burned out fireplace and wait. You imagine her sitting next to you, stretching her hands into your direction once more. You close your eyes and feel her warmth.
And maybe that's what it's supposed to feel like.
Life moves on and drags you along through rain and storm until the very last leaf has fallen.
You don't mourn her loss, because you never really had her.
And that's not what this is about anyway now, is it?
.
She's back with the year's first snowflakes melting in her hair.
"I'm blind," she says.
There's finality in her statement. Her smile is faint but unmistakably there.
Your eyes trace every inch of her. She looks exactly like you remember: every stitch as thick as the needle that put it there, every scar intact. She's wearing a long earth-colored dress. Her hands are red, and cold as ice when you take them into yours.
She seems as light as a feather. Maybe the wind carried her back to you.
You can't help the smile twitching at the corners of your mouth when you lead her in.
You fire up the oven, and she warms you with her words:
"From now on everything is new. All I ever knew is gone—all of what could be, all of what will be. The only thing I remember is you—the only one who ever helped me; the only person I want to know. I don't need anything else."
When you finally let go of her, she reaches out again.
Foolishly you lower your head to hide the blush. Her smile is as warm as her words and her hands now.
You eat, together in silence.
It's the silence that's full of life and comfort. It's the kind of silence which leaves create once they stop falling—the calm after a storm.
Outside snow's falling and it makes you think of the noise in your heart.
"Lies," she says when she puts down her spoon. "They've told you so many lies."
She doesn't explain and she doesn't have to, either.
You swallow your tears but they're relentless like the winter.
Her heart is pounding strong and steady when she presses your cheek against her chest.
"They told you all these lies so you wouldn't tell the truth. But I swear to you that in all realities I've seen you're beautiful, especially now."
Her lips taste like water fresh from the spring. And her hands on your waist hold you close to her. Her back arches beneath your fingertips, and your cheeks burn hot when you part before diving back in.
You're as light as a feather.