The cavern felt cool and dim, its rocky walls dripping with fresh moisture. Shiny droplets clung to the tightly coiled stalactites like the collective beards of wizened men, their filmy silhouettes moving this way and that in the flickering torchlight, as if they were graceful dancers performing elegant pirouettes for the moon.

Bluish-purple moss padded the uneven ground, their vibrant sprigs muffling any footsteps to be heard otherwise. Large strips of tanned hide were formed into makeshift partitions, crudely enclosing the murky grottos with secluded alcoves shaded by giant green ferns and columns of winding grey stalagmites.

Braziers and rusted sconces hung near the natural arches that served as doors, their copper flames licking at the dampness with a prodding timidness serviceable. Pink stalks of fungi and misshapen holes in the ceiling provided motes of dusty light where it was needed in the more primitive areas of the cave.

Hand-painted murals were smeared all over the luminescent walls. They were done artfully, precisely, and with a startling attention to detail, displaying various scenes of battle, wisdom, and vivid trysts that were coarse enough to make the hardiest person blush with warmth.

But the most prominent painting was of a man, which seemed to be everywhere at once, and yet also kept to the murky shadows so that only glimpses were caught at passing. He was starkly wrapped in bone-white bandages from head to foot, resembling a wrathful spectre bent on something otherworldly and unattainable. Crimson blood wept from his ice-blue eyes in twin rivers as he slaughtered those around him with a self-righteous expression and flaming shortsword borne from the wroth of the heavens.

Natives stealthily moved in the darkness. Their bodies were lithe and nut-brown from living out in the warm climes, thick whorls of colourful paste drawn on their faces and limbs in intricate patterns. Many wore no clothes, and went naked instead. Most of them were women and young children, although a few wore feathered headdresses and loincloths to denote their importance. Those who were dressed more modestly were the hunters and forward scouts, garbing themselves with festive amber jewellery, bone piercings, and peeled skins of the dead animals that they feasted upon.

A girl crept onwards, rolls of linen in one hand and a clay bowl consisting of tepid water in the other. It was from the little spring outside, tasting of metallic rock and bitter earth. But its properties were good, she decided, able to make the sick warriors strong again. Those that drank the sacred water were trustworthy friends. And, likewise, any who refused became enemies of the tribe.

It was simple, as Joshua always patiently explained to them, time and time again. The girl blushed a deep scarlet, quietly thinking of him with a sweet gentleness and a hidden smile dredged up from the spirit of her untroubled soul.

He spoke their language fluidly—effortlessly, even, yet they knew nothing of his own mangled tongue beyond some meagre words that were rarely spoken around the campfires at night. A privileged few Joshua taught when there was spare time, but she hadn't been chosen with such a valuable gift. As the shaman's daughter she had other responsibilities and duties that came before pleasantries.

She was clad only with a ragged hide between her lanky legs. A primitive necklace of teeth and feathers was laid over her budding breasts, covering her bare nipples to signify the importance that she held in the hierarchy of the tribe. One day she would enter into the sacred covenant of marriage, bearing strong sons so that the Dead Horses could continue their legacy. Her heartbeat nearly burst with anticipated pride, thinking of the moment and strengthening her resoluteness.

Yet as of the present, only one man had completely captivated her maturing attention. She was hardly the single female to become infatuated—nor the last—but their suitor seemingly cared not for them, ignoring their plights and desperate ventures for his unwinnable regard. He was too absorbed with his books and foreign weapons that no one was allowed to touch. As an expert in bloodshed, warfare, and wisdom, those lofty goals took all of his allotted time.

Or so Joshua said.

Yet they did not love the Burned Man for how he looked. In contrast, the girl thought him to be quite hideous beneath his bandages. It was not known for certain, though, as he always changed them alone in the comforting solitude of the caverns. No—the dangerous attraction sparked from his willing spirit, his ability to inspire hope and patience, and his beautiful, beautiful eyes. The lattermost were completely unique, different from anything that she had seen before in Zion.

Blue, the girl thought, like the holy waters. Her tribe had brown eyes, as if mimicking the soul of the earth; warm, almond-shaped, and soft in the gentle sunlight. His were fiery, consuming, and chips of steel that could suddenly become inhospitable without reason. They were intoxicating to her. She felt able to drown in them for months on end without anything else as a form of sustenance. Indeed, whenever a glance was spared at her direction a strange shiver went down the length of her backside with a ghostly touch.

He rarely spoke to her. And when he did, it was merely a customary greeting, his voice the strong and powerful timbre that had commanded legions out of nothing but respect for the authority he held above them.

Once, when she'd been quiet enough, she had come across him reading aloud next to his folded bedroll. It had been something called Lateen, she decided uncertainly. The words sounded melodious and thick, rolling off his burned lips with each pained syllable.

He would read to them in the evenings with the Good Book, if there was spare time, but this had been a different novel. Joshua had looked personal, morbid, and darkly agitated. She'd merely left then, afraid of inciting his anger for being an intruder on such an intimate scene, and scared of what hateful spirits from his past that he was summoning.

The girl smiled on her past reflections. Foolish

It wasn't long before she reached where Joshua kept his quarters, secluded from the others in a narrower part of the caves. It was his own choice at first, where meditation and fasting had been a priority to regain control of something unmentioned—eventually, though, it simply cemented the Dead Horses' admiration further, until he became an omnipotent demi-god, unwavering and protective despite his protests at their blatant worship.

He was cleaning the strange metal weapons he owned that were laid out on a makeshift table, going over each one systematically with precise, clean movements. Behind him was his bedroll, stacks of leather-bound books, and a large fire with a pre-war chair hovering next to it almost uncertainly.

She never understood why he tolerated the flames after the fell deeds which had happened to him, even if she only caught traces of the details from his mishap. The girl could see the pain reflecting in his eyes whenever he glanced at the ashes, as did the others—but it was never spoken to him, and the issue remained quiet like beaten headstones.

He looked up from his task as she entered, wordless. She walked over to him, barefoot, slipping past the foreign workbenches and metal shelves that littered the area. The girl moved with a graceful delicateness that she prided herself upon, holding back a gentle smile.

When Joshua had first come to them she'd acted shyly, uncertain of what the strange man would think of her. There were rumours of his fragmented past, flung about the camps at odd times of the day like miserable scraps—rumours that he'd been brutal and done horrible, unforgivable things to innocents.

The girl did not believe it. She could not. He had never once mistreated her, and she would hiss in anger when the false stories were heard.

She set the linens and bowl down, watching inquisitively with a shrewd gaze. Joshua, without warning, suddenly cocked one of the weapons, making her start backwards in surprise. "Sorry," she chattered, her native tongue flying thick and fast as she babbled apologetic nonsense for her wrongdoings.

Joshua watched her a moment, silent before he nodded and said, "Thank you."

He tilted his head in such a way that made her heartbeat thud faster until she felt light-headed and sick. There was a raw, primal part inside of her that wished he would take off his bandages so he could have his way with her any direction he liked. Then she would be able to stare endlessly into those captivating eyes without a single thought more.

But those were impure actions. Joshua talked about them oftentimes, gently chiding the tribe for indulging in adultery and bad activities. Besides, the girl scolded, rallying together her feminine strength of will, she was most likely to be promised to Follows-Chalk. If he didn't wander off to fulfills his fetishes with items from the Back-When, never to return.

She blushed, looking at the man so close to her through her quivering black lashes. The girl wondered if Joshua would ever find someone else, a mate to satiate himself upon in the auras of worldly pleasure. Here would not do, as much as it pained her to admit the truth. He had already rejected too many handsome women that offered themselves, nearly insulting them with his blunt answers. All that was left were the animals—or, perhaps, the Sorrows—but she did not think him that sort of man.

She scooted away, knowing he was curious as to why she still lingered. At length he seemed to guess her thoughts, for his face quickly morphed into a brooding expression as he gave her a pointed gaze that became far more cutting than words ever could. Even though she knew it was warm inside the cavern, all she felt was a sharp chill.

"I am sorry," the girl responded hastily, apologising to him with wide eyes and parted mouth, her cheeks aflame at being caught redhanded like a babe. Turning on her heels, she fled from the Burned Man's stare and thinned lips for the relief of escape.

He was alone, going back to his guns and consuming thoughts of god-given justice.