Chapter 2: Deadman

When I wake up it is light. Daylight. I need a moment to regain my memories.

But they come flooding back when I see him. His back is turned towards me. He's bent over the fire. I take a deep breath and know what woke me up.

"Eggs." The word alone is almost enough to make me swoon.

"Eggs", he confirms without turning.

I look at his broad back. Take in the overpowering smell of warm food.

I can't. I can't beg him for a scrap of his food. But my mouth waters and I can't contain the small whimper.

"Haven't had eggs in a while, have you?" His voice is gruff but not unfriendly.

I shake my head, unsure that my voice will hold.

"It ain't much I'm afraid." He takes the pan off the fire.

I close my eyes and just suck in the smell. Can the smell of eggs fill your stomach if you just breathe it in deep enough?

"Got a bowl?"

My eyes spring open again. But he holds out the pan to me, so I haven't misheard. I nod quickly and search through my stuff until I find my bowl. I can't stop my fingers from shaking as I hold it out to him.

He looks from my fingers to me for a moment, then heaps about two thirds of the portion onto my plate. "You haven't had anything in a while."

"You don't have to do this…" But my actions belie my words because I have already snatched the bowl from under his fingers and put it safely in my lap before he changes his mind.

He chuckles, a noise so unexpected that it takes a moment until I fit it in with what I have learned of him so far. In the healing, it seemed that all he was was pain. I didn't concentrate on anything apart from the task at hand, but it is hard to miss a pain that strong.

"So you're a healer", he echoes my thoughts as I shovel the first bite into my mouth.

The unexpected delicacy hits my senses hard and I need a while before I recover enough to answer. "And you are a fighter. Not a very good one, judging by your wound."

His voice is a notch colder when he answers: "There must be a reason a healer with your talent is as famished as you are."

He's right, of course, and he knows it without me agreeing. "Worked out well enough for you, to have me here."

I can see how much better he is, how much easier he moves. I have lost none of my abilities, famished or not.

"That, it did." He is placated, I can tell, and he stuffs the next bite of his eggs into his mouth. He still looks thoughtful, though. "Should cost me a fortune, too. What you did for me. Unfortunately, I meant what I said. I have no money to offer right now."

I nod while the next bite hits my stomach. In truth, that he shared his breakfast is enough payment for me today. But I know that in civilized parts, a healing like I worked it on him would cost him the equivalent of a good horse at least. "You could give me your name. In case you ever get famous and rich, I could come find you."

His face closes up again, a heavy cloud now darkening it. "My name? You can call me Deadman. I listen to it. And you might just find me with it."

Suddenly I know. I do not know what happened to him, not personally, not the details. But I know where he belongs and why he is here, alone, hurt, in the depth of winter. I remember his pain and feel pity for him, even though the fear stirs back up, too: "Your name can't be spoken."

He stares at me surprised. Then he nods.

Yes, I know about the travelling folks and their customs. It's a hard fate, being taboo. It's also a fate that hits those who have done evil. There is reason to fear him, even if he tells me I'm safe. But there is no use in letting that fear show. "Alright."

My lessons about the travelers have also taught me that I can't pry. If he has any loyalty left, he will take his clan's secrets to his grave. He cannot tell me his story even if he wanted to.

"How much do you see?"

"What?"

"When you're healing, how much do you see?"

The hesitation in his eyes before he drank the tea. Yes, he fears me, too. In a different way than I fear him, but it is still fear.

I shake my head: "I was looking for your physical strength to bind the flesh. Nothing else."

His gaze stays guarded. He doesn't trust my words.

I guess that obeying the rules of his clan is all he has left. I can't help myself and give him a small, sad smile. I know that he can see the pity and I know that he won't like it. So I add: "It is good. It is good that you still feel the bond."

That elicits a bitter laugh. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

I shrug. I don't. But I know one thing: "Even someone you lost makes you less alone."

He observes me with a new curiosity.

I shake my head: "I will not tell you, so don't bother to ask."

"You have asked me my name. I was only going to ask yours."

I can feel the blush coming on. Of course. He, too, knows better than to ask people for their stories.

I think about it for a moment.

"If you are Deadman, I am Ghost," I finally answer.

It's been a while since anyone has called me by any name. But it seems fitting. It is what I am to most people. A ghost brushing by them. Relieving them of a nickel or an apple, or maybe just brushing their hand really quick to feel a touch of human warmth before moving on.

"But you're not…"

"No", I shake my head. "I'm not of your kind."

He observes me silently.

Uncomfortable under his gaze again, I feel an urge to explain: "There are many reasons to go without a name."

But before I can give any details, I shut my mouth. Telling him about me is not a good idea. If anything, I should have been more careful in the first place. Probably should have let him die. Having used my full powers he knows that something is wrong about me being here. And his strength is back, while mine is not.

Questioningly, I look at him, try to figure out whether there is any danger that he'll try to drag me to the authorities.

He holds my gaze. No. I think he's not the type. I let go with a sigh and nod at his sword. "So, you fight for a living?"

He nods.

"You should be more careful. That was a close call last night."

He raises an eyebrow: "Last time I checked, starvation kills, too. Especially in a winter like this."

Against my will, that makes me laugh: "Are you saying we're even because you gave me eggs?"

His mouth doesn't even curve slightly: "No. I know that you saved my life. And that you spent more energy than you had on it. I'll be damned if I can figure out why."

For the first time, I have the thought that maybe he didn't want to be saved. That maybe death would be a mercy for him. That he was looking for it, even. But if it was so, why did he let me heal him?

Finally, I just shrug: "I don't kill if I don't have to."

His eye-brows rise even higher.

I can see what he thinks. How a starved girl like me could kill someone like him, even if he's wounded. He's crazy if he thinks I'm going to tell him.

But he doesn't comment on it. Instead he looks over to the white void at the edge of our space: "Storm's not letting up."

"I've noticed."

"Want me to go?"

"Do you have more eggs?"

For the first time, his laughter sounds real. "Some bread. And dried meat and vegetables. There might even be an apple or two."

My mouth waters at the sound of that and to my embarrassment my stomach rumbles loudly.

The laughter flares up before it subsides to a low chuckle. "Too proud to ask even when you're starving, huh? But yes, I'd be willing to share."

I don't like being patronized like that, but still: "Please, stay."

I try not to make it sound too eager, but I fail miserably. I'm horrible at going hungry. I have never properly learned it.

Finally, I shake my head and change the topic: "Let me check on the wound."

I move over to where he is kneeling. Again, I feel a strange hesitation before touching him. Is it because he is taboo? But I do not belong to the travelers, I have no obligation to shun him.

I shake my head and get over myself.

The skin around the suture is red and angry but it is cool to the touch. He doesn't flinch when I let my fingers glide along the stitches.

I start humming in a low tune, not a healing song, just a variation on a nursery rhyme to help me concentrate. The flesh is knitting itself together at a much faster rate than I was expecting. I check it again even though I know my first impression is right.

"Something wrong?"

He has noticed my knitted brows.

"No."

But I don't look up at him and instead change my song to something deeper, something that will allow me to probe and search for the reason.

I'm not even deeper than the wound and my mouth already feels dry. The syllables of this song always choke me. It has nothing to do with the tune itself, only with my memories. But still, I don't use this song often.

In the second verse, I finally dare to go deeper.

He is strong. He is in good shape. Maybe his energy is more intense than I expected.

I expand the radius of my song. I don't want to disturb his privacy but I want to know.

My skills could have grown since I used them the last time. It is not unheard of, for a gift to increase over time. But usually, it happens with patience and training. Not in a spur, while starving to death.

I stumble in my tune as I find something. It is gone as fast as it came. I reverse the last few notes. There. There it is. I lock on carefully to examine it.

A tingling starts in my fingertips and spreads through my body. It radiates outward from the point of resonance that I found. I can feel my control slip and frantically try to let go before the feeling overwhelms me, but I find myself frozen in place. I can feel my eyes go wide and my heart starting to race but my mouth cannot stop forming the words of the song.

"Enough." He shoves me back harshly.

I land hard on the cold ground, too stunned to even think about catching my fall.

"What the hell was that?"

"You felt it, too?" My voice shakes as I try to work saliva back into my mouth.

He narrows his eyes and glares at me. Suddenly, he is looming over me.

Instinctively, I crawl a few steps backwards.

This is not supposed to happen. He's not supposed to feel me. He's not supposed to resonate, either. No one is supposed to resonate like this.

"You better explain what you did to me." His voice is a growl.

"I can't." My tone approaches frantic very quickly. "I can't. I don't know what happened. It is nothing that I did."

I hold my hands out in front of me again, like I did yesterday night. I'm not armed, I'm harmless.

But this time, he doesn't believe me. He growls again as he gets up.

I'm ready to run by the time I notice that he is not going for his sword.

But I can feel the tension in his body, feel that he is barely containing his rage at my intrusion when he knows that I know better.

So I crouch, too scared to move but my fingers ready to go for my knife and my legs ready to run.

He looks at me and a wave of confusion hits me as my own fear gets mirrored back to me within a capsule of anger.

He backs away from me, slowly, not taking his eyes off of me.

It's fear, both mine and his, that is now dominant in the resonance. He holds up his hands in confusion and disappears into the snow storm.

I stare into the white, still unable to move.

But I can tell where he is even though all I see is snow. I know how far he walked. And that he's not going to be able to resist coming back. I know it as surely as I know where my thumbs are on my hands.

I shudder. It might be a lingering residue of the healing, of the song that I never use. I have never used it to search in someone who was still alive.

Even just thinking about it, the echo of the resonance fills my head. The white wall begins to swim before my eyes. I steady myself on my knees, but the dizziness does not go away.

I will myself to move.

Some water to drink will help.

I get up. My legs are slow to obey. But I manage to fight the cacophony in my head long enough to put the pot back on the fire.

The flames dance in front of my eyes. I shake my head to dispel the shapes that start to form and to dissolve in them in the rhythm of the resonance. It doesn't help. They are vague at first, but they grow brighter and more vivid. Figures start to appear.

I don't know what it is that keeps my gaze drawn, because the figures turn into faces and the faces are right out of my nightmares. Only those nightmares have been real.

There is a trickle of cold on my face where the tears start flowing. The scream starts building up inside me, growing and growing until I burst at the seams.

At the last moment I manage to close my eyes. But then arms circle me from behind and the scream breaks free after all.

I hear it from afar, as I watch myself struggling in vain against the strong arms that hold me tight. I'm kicking and scratching and making a mess of things. Deadman doesn't let go.

Then the scream subsides and the quiet is balm for my soul. The resonance retreats to a steady flow, something I can manage. The kicking and struggling stops.

I feel the warmth of his body where my forehead touches the skin of his throat. He smells rich and male.

I jerk away.

"Thank you", I mutter but I don't manage to look him in the eyes.

He fills some of the hot water into his cup.

"Here", he holds it out to me.

I nod and let the heat of the cup find its way into my fingers.

"I could hear you scream."

I nod. Everyone for the next mile probably heard it, storm or no storm.

"Before you screamed. I heard it inside my head."

Now I do look up.

He is out of his depth but determined to find out: "Does this happen often? Is it part of what you do?"

I shake my head.

"Then what is it?"

His voice is harsher than the feelings I get from him. He's not used to people. Not used to being close to them or knowing their feelings. He doesn't know how to deal with this.

I shake my head in confusion. This connection is doing nothing for me in terms of figuring out how to handle him without getting myself into more trouble.

But I have to figure it out. We'll leave this place as soon as we can and make sure we go two very different directions. But until then… I look up but the howling wall of white still has the same impenetrable look to it.

"A few hours. At most. Then you'd freeze. "

He has followed my line of sight.

I nod. Yes, I judge the same. We are stuck.

"I could go", he offers anyway.

"And kill us both."

I shrug as he looks at me questioningly. "I doubt I'll be able to sit here and let you die. Hurts too much."

When he doesn't answer, I add: "I don't know how you live with it. With the pain."

"So you do see more than the physical side."

"When I'm looking, yes. But I wasn't. And I'm not singing now. But I can still feel your pain." It is not as overpowering as it was. But the vibration of the resonance is in the air even without the song.

I close my eyes and follow its lead.

When I open my eyes again, my fingers rest on his shirt right above his heart. "Here."

He nods slowly. "I can feel it."

I follow the lead back until my fingers touch the spot right above my heart. Then I sigh and let my hands fall back into my lap. "This is outside my control. It is outside of my song."

He looks at me like I'm crazy: "But it was you who brought it on. You must be able to reverse it."

The flare of outrage and despair comes through loud and clear.

"Deadman," I hesitate. "I don't think I can."