The spectacle of Tosia, Antal and the stranger returning to the outskirts of the village did not go unnoticed. A few of Tosia's people, as she possessively liked to think of them, emerged from their huts, the women hesitant, the men territorial as dogs.

Two of the bolder men, Silas and Urvan, who had been visiting at another hut, made to follow into the home Tosia shared with Antal and his mother, Lasca. Tosia turned and glared at the men, with a single look chastising them for their presumptuousness. No one entered her home uninvited. Tosia had always been firm on that arrangement, and this day was no exception.

Silas ground his jaw, watched through the doorway as Antal carried the stranger inside, then paused, uncertain what to do with him.

"Where did you find that one?" Silas demanded, dark eyes flashing. "And what business do you have bringing him here?"

Tosia raised her chin, and though he was much taller then herself, met Silas in the eye. "I found him outside the village, and my business is my own, Silas." She waved her arm the direction of the few other villagers who had clustered near her home. "I will tell you all more later, when he wakens, but right now, he needs tending to, and he does not require an audience."

With that, she stepped over the threshold of her home, shut and latched the door in Silas's scowling face. There were certain advantages to attaining esteemed elder status, she supposed. It was certainly much more satisfying than quietly growing old. She saw that Lasca had already dragged a pallet to the main room on which Antal laid the stranger.

Lasca prepared rags and poured water into a bucket, and together, she and Tosia began cleaning the blood and grime from the stranger's face and washed as much of the dirt as they could from his thick, surprisingly soft hair. Tosia pondered over the layers of clothing he wore, but they had at least protected him somewhat from the elements.

Setting her speculations aside for the time being, Tosia helped Lasca carefully remove the strange articles, pulling him to a near sitting position and fumbling with the unfamiliar fastenings. They first removed his vest and jacket to find that the sand had even crept beneath the long-sleeved black shirt he wore underneath, and so they removed that, as well.

When they eased him back down, Tosia noticed the holster strapped to his thigh. Ignoring the twinge in her fingers, she unbuckled the strap before Lasca could and grasped the handle of the device it harnessed. Sliding it out a few inches, she immediately recognized what it was. She had not seen a weapon of this kind in decades, but the cold, hard metal of the gun in her hand sent a chill up her spine.

How the gun had even come through with the stranger was another mystery. Tosia hadn't thought it possible that such a dangerous and primitive tool would even be allowed in this place of exile. She wondered if her speculations were misplaced, but how else would he have come to be here? And this place had no means for creating weapons of such kind…

"What is that?" Lasca asked, looking at the gun in the old woman's hands with curious puzzlement.

"Nothing to be concerned with," Tosia said with a dismissive shrug and kept her expression carefully neutral. She tucked the harness and the gun in the folds of the vest and jacket she had placed beside her. Once Lasca and Antal were asleep, she would dispose of the weapon. She found it surprising that it did not cause her to fear or mistrust the man. Instead, it only heightened her curiosity of his origins. She decided that she would look through the pockets of his vest and jacket later, as well. Perhaps they would give her some clues.

Throughout their ministrations, the stranger did not waken, nor did he stir at the indignity of being stripped of the rest of his clothing and dressed in a too-large nightshirt of Antal's. The women could determine no visible injuries, though the blood that had spilled from the man's nose and ears suggested a fearful wound much too deep to be treated.

Lasca wiped the last traces of blood from his oddly and slightly pointed ears, and in a soft voice, as though she were afraid of disturbing him, she said, "He is very handsome, do you not think?"

Tosia was not surprised by the query. Though Lasca, whom the old woman had always considered a daughter, was far beyond the age of girlish crushes, she'd always held a fondness for pretty things, and such things were uncommon in this desolate place.

"Beauty is but a dangerous illusion, daughter," Tosia reminded her. And transitory, her mind added. Tosia knew that all too well. She was far from beautiful herself these days. But once, a long time ago, she'd possessed the kind of attractiveness that had turned heads in her wake. Back then, she had been very proud of her good looks and had no qualms about using its power – it was a human weakness to be drawn to glamour and Tosia had taken full advantage of that frailty.

Now, she knew the fates had punished her for that conceit. There were no mirrors in this place, but the calm waters of the lake served well enough. Sometimes, she would stare at her watery reflection, studying the scar that ran from her brow and creased the lid of her left eye so tightly that it was pulled nearly shut. The scar continued down her face, tracing her cheekbone and catching at the corner of her mouth like a fishhook, pulling it somewhat askew. The surrounding skin was crinkled and roughened, the healed, burned tissue trailing down her neck and stopping at her collarbone. The right side of her face, however, was untouched, a cruel reminder of that fairness, marred only by age.

Looking at the man resting on the pallet, Tosia had to secretly agree that he was indeed handsome, his features finely drawn, perhaps almost too pretty for a man, she thought. She wondered what color his eyes were behind those slightly hooded, bruised lids.

Tosia was once more about to give in to insatiable curiosity and peel back his eyelid to see for herself, when the man's features contorted. His brows knitted together, and a soft groan escaped his slightly parted lips. He tossed his head a few times, and more blood ran from his nose in a thin trickle, tracing the curve of his upper lip before Tosia was able to wipe it away. She held the rag lightly under his nose until the bleeding once more stopped, but he was still fretful. His eyes rolled under their lids, his breaths rapid, fingers scrabbling at the rough, heavy blanket they'd draped over him.

As she had done with Lasca, Antal, and numerous other children over the years, Tosia laid her hand on the man's forehead and stroked his pain-creased brow with her thumb. The soothing touch began to settle him and he quieted, drifting into a deeper sleep.

Tosia then reached for the strange metal necklace he wore – it had intrigued her when she'd first seen it, but she had not removed it, suspecting it may be of sentimental value to him. Perhaps it even offered a comfort she did not wish to deny him. Tracing the deep embossing on the metal with a fingertip, she discovered that the inlaid shapes were letters. She had to press her face nearly to his chest and against the metal warmed by his skin to make the letters out, her lips silently forming the syllables.

He made a soft, distressed sound and turned his face away from her, as though aware of her close proximity. Tosia wondered what unforgivable crime this man had committed to be sentenced to this place, to this fate. This man, judging by the letters on the necklace, called John C. Sheppard.

--- tbc ---