A Promise Through The Bars: The First Series

by Lemon Leopard

Princess Snow White, a title dead to her, is imprisoned one fateful night. For twelve years, she struggles to survive in her cell, slowly losing her faith, her hope, and finally her will to live. Just as she is about to end it all, a woman named Sara is thrown into the cell near hers. Sara asks Snow White to do her a favor. A favor that may change everything.

22. Chapter 22 Wounds and Scars

Chapter 22 Wounds and Scars

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The winter is unusually merciful to us, gifting us a clear day and a tolerable chill. Eric and I barely speak. We ski onward, our eyes eagerly awaiting to see Vilgard.

"Hammond's is to the east!" Eric calls back to me.

My brows furrow. "To the east!?"

"Aye!"

Unease knots my stomach. "Why are you telling me this!?" I ask him, my words coming out sharper than I mean them to...but I cannot help the buried frustration bubbling to the surface.

…Silence. I know he's frowning. "I just want ye to know! When we stop for the night, I want to show ye somethin'!"

When we stop for the night? The selfish part of me wants us to keep going throughout the night so that we reach Vilgard quicker, but that would be beyond foolish. The only gracious bone in my body knows that he must rest. We barely got any rest last night. I already feel the exhaustion creeping into my body.

"Alright!" I call to him.

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"There's an abandoned minin' settlement no' too far from here!" Eric says as the world starts to dim. "It's been abandoned for awhile, but it's got some decent shelter! We'll stop there for the night!"

I frown, my stomach knotting with uncertainty about this old abandoned mining settlement. "Are you sure it's abandoned!?"

"Last time I checked!" he quips.

My frown deepens. Is it truly abandoned or has some poor destitute soul or a gang of thieving, murderous bandits taken shelter in the old settlement? I sigh. Despite these valid concerns, the thought of spending the night somewhere with four walls and a roof over my head is much more appealing than spending one more night out in this blistering cold.

We ski for a bit longer through a little valley with slight hills and skeletal pine trees on both sides of us. This...we're on a road! When did we come across this? Eric rounds the bend in the road, disappearing from my sight. My stomach knots and my heart beats faster. Where did he go!? I lean into my left ski, turning right around the bend. Eric comes into my sight. I sigh, relief washing over me. Dark shadows draw my eyes beyond Eric.

Up ahead are dark, solitary structures of small cabins lining both sides of the road. Their black wood is a stark contrast to the snow. As we ski closer, I can see the broken down fences connected to some of the cabins. There's also a few hitching posts and troughs that have been filled with snow.

Eric throws his hand up and slows to a stop just outside of the small settlement. He wants me to stop! I slow to a stop not too far behind him. My stomach knots more as I watch him slowly look over the whole settlement. He whips his head back to me suddenly, startling me. He motions with his two fingers, silently telling me to come to him. I suck in a hard, freezing breath and scuttle over to him on my skis. It's awkward as hell on my skis, intensifying the aches and pains all over my body. I can't help but wince as I stop just beside and behind him.

Eric raises his brows at me, his eyes filling with concern. "Ye alright?" he asks me, keeping his voice low.

I frown at him. "I'm fine. I'm just sore from this journey. You should be more concerned about yourself." My eyes widen. I'm surprised by the bite in my voice.

He returns my frown and opens his mouth to say something, but his breath hitches in his throat. He closes his mouth.

I did not mean to hurt him. I suppose it's because I'm tired. I'm already on edge as it is. "I'm sorry. Is it safe to stay the night here? Is it abandoned?"

He banishes his frown and grows stern. "Aye. Nae one's been here for years." He looks back at the old settlement. "We'll be left alone tonight."

"I hope you're right."

He glances down at me and frowns, not missing my lack of confidence in him. That stings my heart.

"There's a cabin halfway down the road that's solid. C'mon." He pushes off with his pole, skiing out onto the open road. I swallow hard, steel what few nerves I have, and I push off with my long pole, following him into the old mining settlement.

To my relief, there is quiet save for the faint whistling of the wind as it weaves its way around and through the cabins. Many of the cabins are so dilapidated that no one would dare to seek shelter in them. Several cabins have even lost their roofs and had their doors ripped off the hinges by violent blizzards! At least, I assume that's what happened. There are several old, broken down wagons tucked between some of the cabins that looked to have been used for hauling ore to—wherever the ore would be hauled to. There are no horses in sight. No fresh tracks of hoof or boot. My unease starts to dissipate. Perhaps Eric is right. Tonight, we'll be left alone and he'll have the time he needs to rest. God knows he needs the rest more than I do, but what I wouldn't give to lie down in a warm bed right now.

"Here it is," he says, coming up to a cabin that still has its four walls, its roof, and its front door. He slows to a stop just beneath the roof extending over the porch of the cabin. I slow to a stop beside him and crouch low, both of us loosening the straps of our skis. I free my feet from my skis and I straighten up. A sharp pain shoots down my right arm. I hiss through my gritted teeth. I had forgotten about my injured shoulder.

"Ye alright?" Eric asks.

"I'm fine." I give my shoulder a tentative roll, wincing from another sharp pain that shoots down my arm and up into my neck. "It's just my shoulder."

He frowns down at me for the hundredth time today, worry in his eyes. "Try no' to move yer shoulder if ye can help it." He drops a gentle hand on my shoulder and rubs his thumb along my coat sleeve. "Maybe I can make some sort of sling for ye. I'll see when we get inside."

As he turns from me, my worries and fears creep out of my mouth. "What about you?" My eyes drift down to the slice in the back of his coat, dried blood crusted to the leather. "You're still alright?" I look up at him, his eyes soft.

He turns back to me and rests his hand on my injured shoulder, not causing me pain. "I'm still standin'," he says. Something is off about him. Just like there was something off about him right after he was stabbed. Before, it was easy to tell with how he stumbled around. Sure, he got his grace and dexterity back quickly thereafter, but now there is something else off about him. What, I cannot put my finger on it, but something tells me that he knows it, too. He's not telling me everything.

I frown deeply at him. "Eric, be honest with me right now. Are you keeping anything from me?"

Distress twists his face. "Why're ye askin' that?"

"There's just…" I shake my head, my eyes burning with unbidden tears. "There's something off about you, like there was something off about you when you were first stabbed. It was just more obvious then that you were affected by the poison, the incendium poison which you didn't tell me about at first! Why didn't you tell me before!? God, at that rate, why did you let it slip!?"

"Let it slip!?"

I nod fervently. I am poking the bear, but I don't care right now. "Yes! You said the poison works slowly, yet you're telling me that Hammond's is to the east! Why are you telling me that Hammond's is to the east!?" Tears prick my eyes. "WHY!?"

His anger leaves him as he sighs. He stabs his long pole into the snow and cradles my face in his hands. He brushes my tears away with his thumbs. "Lass...cryin' o'er me is no' gonna do us any good."

My eyes widen. More tears spill down my cheeks only to be caught by him. "Please don't say that," I say softly. "There's something you're not telling me, I know it! What aren't you telling me!?" My sobs turn to full weeping, endless tears spilling down my cheeks. He closes the space between us and takes me in his arms. I can't help but wrap my arms about him and bury my face into his chest, soaking his chilled vest with my tears.

"Easy." He sways gently with me. Feeling the strength of his arms about me, the solid length of his body pressed to mine, and his gentle swaying starts to soothe me. I don't want his attempt to work. I need to find out what he is keeping from me, but his gentle swaying...it speaks to something primal in me. I want to keep weeping, but my tears lessen. Papa...he once held me like this when I was weeping over Mama. It was a private moment, only he and I in my bedchamber. He held me in his protective arms. He gently shushed me and he swayed with me as a loving father does with his daughter.

The world stops. My eyes fly open, still filled with tears. This is the kind of swaying that only a father would know. Is Eric...is he a father? No...not is, but was? A terrible, crushing ache unlike any other consumes my heart.

Eric stills his swaying and rubs my back. "C'mon, let's head inside...I'll tell ye everythin' ye need to know once we're warm." He pulls back from me.

I lift my heavy eyes to him. "So you are keeping something from me."

His frown deepens. "I said I'll tell ye, and I will. Let's jus' head inside first and get warm."

I sigh. At least he's saying he will tell me everything I need to know. That excludes everything else, though. "Fine," I mutter.

He keeps his frown as he stoops low and gathers his skis. I quickly follow suit. We snatch our long poles out of the snow and I follow him to the door. Sara never said anything about children, but now I realize that means nothing. She had a kindness and love to her that...well, that a mother would have for her daughter. In some small ways, Sara's kindness and love reminds me of Ravenna's love before her betrayal and of Mama's constant love for me. Yes, Sara was like the sister I never had, but there was also something about her that I did not see then. Something motherly.

Eric forces the door open, the hinges squealing, the wood cracking. Because of the roof reaching over the porch, there is not a mountain of snow piled at the cabin's threshold. My eyes widen as Eric steps into the cabin's inky blackness. A chill runs down my spine.

"Are you sure this place is abandoned?" I ask from the doorway. I almost lose sight of him moving about in the darkness of the cabin, but two small windows on the right side of the room provide a little light. I see him go to what looks like a hearth and prop his skis and long pole beside it.

"Aye, lass. C'mon in and shut the door. Yer eyes will adjust."

I frown, my stomach flipping over itself. God, what choice do I have!? He said he will tell me everything I need to know once we're warm. I can only assume that warmth will come from a fire and from a shut door. I suck in a chilled breath and step into the darkness. I stop just inside and run my gloved hand along what I think is the door. My fingers dip suddenly, feeling the edge of what must be the door. I wrap my hand around the edge and pull, the same squealing of hinges and cracking of wood filling my ears. Yes, this is the door, as old and as unsturdy as it sounds. It takes some strength, but I manage to wrench the door shut, enclosing Eric and I in this dark, chilly, eerily silent little world.

Something clatters loudly! I jolt, my eyes darting to the source. Eric stoops near the hearth and tosses a large object into it. Another clattering of two or more objects jolts me. It sounds like wood. It must be wood. I scoff at myself as he grabs more chopped logs stacked beside the hearth and tosses them into the pitch black center of the hearth. The logs clatter together before falling silent. I suck in another breath, allowing relief to fill me.

I turn my eyes from him to look about the cabin. Just as Eric said, my eyes have adjusted to the darkness. Though it's still dark, I see the shape of a table close to the hearth with three rickety looking chairs about it. I can also see some barrels and crates stacked in the corners. There's a cabinet with shelves against the wall, some of the shelves filled with pots, others with plates, bowls, and cups, and...are those books? I prop my skis and long pole against the wall and wander over to the cabinet. I stop before the shelves, tug my gloves off, and tuck them into my belt. I pluck a rectangular object from its middle shelf and turn it over in my hands. This is a book. I wonder what's in it.

I find the parchment side of the book and crack it open, only to be greeted with barely legible words in this darkness. Of course, you idiot, what did you expect? That the pages would glow!? I sigh. Once Eric gets the fire going, I'll be able to see.

Metal strikes flint! My feet spin me about to face the noise even though I know that sound. Eric is crouched before the hearth, his back to me. He strikes his flint. A quick flash of light glows in front of him before darkness closes in again. I sigh. Bastard. A twinge enters my heart. He's not a bastard, but he's going to give me a heart attack one of these days. STRIKE, STRIKE, STRIKE! of his knife against his flint. I shake my head of the dismal thought and go to the table, setting the book down on it.

I look around, spying a partly opened door in the back. My brows furrow. What's behind that door? I stalk slowly towards the door, fear barely nagging at my gut anymore. If someone was in this cabin, then Eric would have known it. At least, I pray he would have. That almost makes me stop, but I force myself to keep going. A few more steps, and I reach the door.

Crackling tickles my ears. More confidence fills me knowing that soon a fire will be blazing in the hearth. I slip into the black space between the wall and the door and stop there. My eyes pass over several dark shadows of furniture before stopping on the small window. Tattered curtains frame both sides of the window. The last daylight barely passes through the frosted, dirty glass panes, but it provides my eyes with just enough light to adjust. I glance around at the furniture again. A single bed is pushed up against the wall just beneath the window, messy blankets and sheets lying atop it with a generous layer of dust.

This is a bedroom—a tiny bedroom with barely any space to turn around in with all the crates and barrels stuffed into here. There's only a small path from the door to the bed. Whoever left this place looks to have left in a hurry. The door is only half open. The blankets look as though they were tossed back. Perhaps this bed's former occupant slept in and only awoke to the bell's toll calling the miners to work, cursing because he missed his chance for breakfast. It may have been a bland porridge, but it was still food, and now he would have to swing his pick all day with an empty stomach. Though, why did he never return?

A golden light grows and provides some illumination to this little bedroom. My ears prickle from the loud crackling of a fire. The heaviness of exhaustion weighs on me, begging me to just drop down on the bed and shut my eyes.

"I see ye found the bed."

I wheel about, coming face to face with Eric. "Maker, Eric!" I heave for breath, holding my hand over my pounding heart. "You frightened me!"

His eyes widen and crinkle with his hearty chuckling. "I'm sorry, lass." His chuckling ebbs, but his silly grin stays.

I groan and force myself to let go of my heart. "It's fine." I take a few slow breaths through my nose, slowing my racing heart. "It's fine," I say more calmly.

His smile softens. "Good." His voice strikes that particular pitch that rumbles deep in his chest, sending a shiver down to the very bottom of my spine. His eyes shine that precious skyblue, ensnaring me. The nagging ache stirs in my loins, my mind turning to the bed that is two small steps behind me.

Eric looks slowly down my body and peeks at the bed behind me. I swallow, my heart beating harder and my stomach tightening. His eyes dart back to mine, darker than before. This little room grows hot and stuffy. My fingers twitch, wanting so dearly to push his coat down his arms and unfasten all his buckles, especially the one about his waist, but I clench my hands into fists.

He suddenly smirks down at me. "C'mon, let's get warm by the fire first before we do anythin' else." He turns and steps out of the bedroom, leaving me alone in my personal little hell. It's just as well. I suck in a chilled breath and force my feet to move, following him out into the mainroom. He goes to the table and drops into a chair, leaning forward and bracing his hands on his knees.

He turns his gaze from the fire blazing in the hearth to me, the gold light dancing across his grimy, bloodstained face. Several black-purple bruises smatter his cheeks and forehead. "Come sit." He nods to the empty chair across from him, the chair closest to the fire. The last of his smile leaves him. A look of distress twists his face. He turns his face to the fire. "I'll tell ye everythin' ye need to know," he says slowly, reluctant and lamenting.

My heart hurts at the sight of him. He really doesn't want to tell me what I have begged him to tell me...and frankly I don't want to hear it just yet. I want to clean the dirt and blood from his face. I want to comfort him as he has comforted me as...God, he has comforted me more times than I can recall.

I head straight to the cabinet and grab a bowl from one of the shelves.

"What are ye doin'?"

"I'm going to clean you up first," I say as I go to the front door and wrench it open, letting in a blast of the freezing night air, stinging my already tingling cheeks.

"Lass!" he calls after me, but I stoop down and scoop a lot of snow into the bowl. This will barely fill half the bowl when it melts anyways. I straighten up, force the door shut, and head to the hearth. I set the bowl on the floor right before the fire, the snow already glistening as it starts to melt.

I turn on my heel and march right up to Eric. "Stand up," I tell him.

He looks up at me, his brows furrowing with bewilderment. "What has gotten into ye?" Despite his question, he pushes off his knees and rises to his bear-sized stature before me, his chair creaking from the movement. I grab the ties of his hood and loosen them enough to pull his hood over his head. His wrinkles deepen while I set his hood on the table and pull his coat down his arms. He stands before me in a stupor while I toss his coat onto the table. I unfasten all his belt buckles and epaulet, minding his sheaves of knives as I drop those on the table with his leathers. I reach for his epaulet, but he shrugs off his epaulet himself like a coat, taking off his twin axes with it. My eyes widen as he sets his epaulet and his attached axes down on the table with two clanks. His epaulet is some kind of harness with two specially crafted sheaves for his axes! An impressive design.

I turn my attention to his vest and he helps me to undo all the buckles holding it closed. Our fingers jump to the last buckle at the same time, thwarting us both.

"Sorry," Eric says. I peek up at him. He no longer looks stupefied, but he has a mix of confusion and lust darkening his eyes. He reaches into his vest, pulls out his journal and the two waterskins, and sets those on the table.

His journal tugs at my eyes, but I resist looking and harden my gaze on his. I blindly undo the last buckle of his vest and open it, revealing his once white woolen shirt that has turned a ghastly grey with grime and stained with spots of dry blood. At least I grabbed that clean shirt. That is something we'll both appreciate—Wait, the wolf bit his arm! How could I forget that!? I look down at his left arm and carefully remove his vest, trying to not touch his leather to the two splotched rings of dried burgundy wrapped around his upper shirt sleeve. His vest is surprisingly heavy! I set his heavy vest on the table and rest my hand on his chest, my eyes drawn to the tied laces of his shirt collar.

"Sit down." I look up at him. He frowns down at me, but he lowers himself to the chair. My eyes linger on him. More shock and fear creep into me with each new dried blood stain that I find. His thick leathers afforded him some protection, but somehow the wolfmen managed to get to his stomach and chest.

"Ye want me to take my shirt off too?" he quips, a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

"Pff!" I shake my head at him. "Not yet." Somehow, I manage to tear my eyes from his and turn my back on him to face the flames writhing in the hearth. The snow in the bowl has melted, filling more of it with water than I thought it would. There's that at least, but I still need some rags to clean him with. I grit my teeth. Damn, the cleanest cloth I have is his shirt! I didn't think at the time that I would use his clean shirt as a rag, but my clothes are soaked in sweat and blood and covered in dirt, bits of tree bark and dead pine needles.

"I'm sorry, Eric," I say as I go to my possessions by the door, crouch low, and dig through my satchel.

"Sorry for what?" he asks me as I find his shirt.

I go round the table before him. "Your clean shirt will make good rags and bandages for your wounds." I hold his shirt up, the folds coming undone as the hem falls down, grazing the tabletop.

He snorts. "Go ahead, cut it up. It's jus' a shirt. It'll make good rags and bandages for yer wounds, too."

I peek at him and frown, my stomach churning. "My wounds?"

He looks down at my right arm as he gestures to it. "My wounds are no' the only ones that need attention." His eyes dart up to mine, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "It might be easier to get to them if ye had less clothes on."

My eyes widen. "If I had less clothes on!?" That scorching ache appears between my thighs, throbbing harder and harder until it hurts.

He chuckles, his eyes both dark with lust and bright with amusement. He holds his hands up in surrender. "I swear, it's nothin' untoward. Jus' an innocent suggestion…," his smile turns almost mischievous as he lowers his hands to his lap, "...though yer welcome to read between the lines."

"Pff, what!?"

We both burst into laughter. It's a sweet laughter that fills up this small cabin. Our laughter almost makes me forget how we got here. Almost. As our laughter ebbs, it dawns on me. He is trying to allay my worries and my fears with his silly banter. It's in his soft eyes. If he could, he would gladly take them all onto himself and set me free. My heart softens too much for him.

My smile nearly abandons me as I set his shirt down on the table, but I fight to keep my smile up. For his sake. "Regardless of how I am reading between your lines," he chuckles as I say, "you have a point. I'll be back." I round the table and duck into the little bedroom, Eric's eyes on my back the whole way.

I hide behind the door and pull my coat down my left arm, then carefully down my right arm. A slight pain shoots through my injured shoulder, but nothing more. I toss my coat onto the bed and pull my gloves and my knife from my belt and set those down on the bed—my scarf. That needs to come off before my outerdresses. Damn it! Though, Eric has seen me with Annabelle's coif before. He won't see my cut hair and nicked scalp. I unwind my scarf from around my neck. The chilly air hits my bare, warm throat. I gasp and lift the scarf off my head. I toss my scarf onto the bed. It is...relieving to be out of that damn scarf. I relish how the air cools the days old sweat clinging to my throat.

I grab the torn hem of my top dress and pull it over my head, a brief stabbing pain shooting through my right shoulder. I wince, but I toss my dress on the bed and pull the second wool dress over my head and toss that on the bed. There. Now I can step out—I look down at myself. My nightdress is bloody and soaked in sweat, clinging to my skeletal body. My breasts are almost nothing but two protruding nubs under my linen nightdress. My stomach knots terribly. Eric will see me like this—"Lass?" he calls from the main room.

My stomach flips. "Yes?"

His chair creaks and heavy boots step across the floor, growing louder the closer they draw. My stomach twists more with each step he takes. "Ye alright?" He stops just outside the bedroom door.

I swallow. "I'm fine." I don't want him to see me like this. So emaciated, barely any breasts at all. I grab my wool dress from the bed and tug that on. I hiss from the pain in my right shoulder. It dulls as I rest my arm at my side. Though it's awfully warm for this dress, it gives me that shred of comfort and confidence I need to stand before Eric.

I grab my knife from the bed and slip past the door. I come face to face with Eric. There he stands beside the door. He slowly looks down my body, a frown weighing on his mouth.

I frown at him. "What's wrong?"

He lifts his heavy, somber eyes to mine and takes my right hand in his. "I want to take a look at yer arm first."

Heat swells my chest as he leads me back to the hearth, being mindful of my right arm. I nearly snatch my hand from his, but I stop myself and sigh. If he didn't have that poison in his body right now, I would refuse him my arm and insist that he let me clean him up first, but allowing him to see my wolfbitten arm will bring him some peace.

"Sit," he says, leading me to his chair. My frown deepens as I reluctantly sit down. He takes my knife from me and grabs his shirt off the table. He starts slicing his clean shirt into strips of varying sizes and lengths, the sound of the knife slicing through linen torturing my ears. One strip he cuts from his shirt is long. He sets the long strip aside from the rest and continues slicing up his shirt. A guilty pang enters my heart. I squirm in his chair. It's not right that I get to sit here while he does everything! I wanted to care for him, yet here he somehow managed to get me on my lazy ass! I spring from his chair and go to the hearth.

"Why'd ye get up!?" Eric asks, bewildered and a bit peeved.

I stoop and pick up the bowl of melted snow with both hands. "I'm not going to sit on my ass and let you do all the work!" I'm surprised how much water there is in this bowl!

He bursts out laughing as I straighten steadily, the water sloshing and lapping dangerously close to the bowl's rim. "I'm a bad influence on ye in more ways than one!"

I snort as I turn and carefully step to the table. "You are the company you keep." I come to his side and set the bowl down on the table a little ways from the edge. I peek up at him, catching his smirking mouth as he cuts up the last of his shirt and sets my knife down on the table. "Though I've always had a foul mouth. Not as bad as you, of course."

He casts me a sideways glance, amusement gleaming in his blue eyes. "Ouch," he quips, wincing.

I giggle, my cheeks flushing. He chuckles before falling quiet. A soft, tender smile shapes his mouth. Something softens his eyes as he looks down at me. My smile turns painfully sweet. I love this. Our jests, our ribbing, our banter—my smile grows heavy. To think that all could be stolen away when I just found it. Found him.

His eyes flit down to my mouth and to my right arm, his smile falling. "Sit," he says, taking my left hand and pulling me back to his chair. He lifts his gaze to mine. "I need to take a look at yer arm."

My smile is gone. I'm not sure when it fell, but it did. "Alright," I sink down to his chair, "but then you're going to sit here and let me tend to your wounds."

He smirks and kneels before me, his hand still holding mine. "That's fair."

I offer him my right arm. He lets go of my left hand and carefully starts rolling up my sleeves. At least it is not my left arm. There's no need for him to see the burn scar, to remind him it's there, especially now with all this attention on our wounds. The questions he would ask about it—he can never know the dark truth behind it.

He rolls up more of my sleeves bit by bit, revealing more and more of the wolfman's bite. My stomach churns the more I see. He rolls my sleeves to the bend of my arm. I suck in a breath. God, my injury. Crimson puncture holes arranged in two crescent shapes mar both sides of my arm. The punctures look so deep that I'm certain the wolfman bit down to my bones. Warm blood seeps out of some of my wounds and trickles down my arm, beading at the bottom. One drop of blood rolls off my arm and drips on the floor.

Eric slowly turns my arm over, his eyes studying each puncture wound. "I was worried about infection, but it disnae look infected!" He looks up at me, relief in his eyes and in his small smile.

I sigh with equal relief, loosening the knot in my stomach. "That's good."

"Aye." He nods, taking his hands from me. "I'm gonna clean yer arm and dress it."

He grabs one of the rags out of the pile and soaks it in the bowl of water. He plucks it out to let the excess water spill onto the wood floor, some of the water striking the floor so hard that it splashes onto my boots. He scrubs the grime from his hands that I hadn't realized was layering them and tosses the dirtied linen under the table. He picks up another piece of linen and soaks it in the bowl. He wrings out the excess water into the bowl and takes my wrist in his left hand. With such care and gentleness, he dabs away all my dried and fresh blood on the top of my arm with the rag. The rag is warm and weighted with the water, yet it is dry on my skin. Hopefully he finishes quickly so that I can clean his face with warm water...though he probably won't feel the warmth. A sickening pit forms in my stomach.

He minds my shoulder as he turns my arm over by my wrist and cleans the rest of my wound. As he does so, fatigue fills my body and weighs on my eyes. I blink my eyes a few times and open them up as much as possible, but somehow I lose sight of him for a moment in the warmth of the dark abyss.

"Yer lamia balm! I can put that on yer arm."

My eyes spring open, crossing Eric's wide ones. "Oh...oh yes!" I start waking up again. I haven't even tended to his wounds yet. I cannot fall asleep now! "And your wounds as well! It's in my satchel. Let me get it." I go to stand, but he grabs my left shoulder, stopping me.

"I'll get it. I just finished cleanin' yer wound." He gets up from the floor and goes to the front door where I had left my possessions. I twist around in the chair to watch him—my eyes cannot move from all the burgundy staining his shirt where he was stabbed. My heart sinks so deep, agonizing in its core. The blood is dried, but it has stained the bottom half of his shirt. My eyes prickle with coming tears. That's a lot of blood…that he lost.

"Here it is," he says. He sets my satchel back down and springs to his feet, clutching the lamia box in his hand. He turns to me, but he stops when he sees my face. His face falls. "Why're ye cryin'?"

I'm crying? I brush my fingers across my cheek, collecting something warm and wet on my fingertips. I look down at my grimy fingers. Indeed, the tips of my fingers catch the firelight. I am crying. I scrub the tears from my face and look up at him. "You lost a lot of blood," I say, my voice hoarse.

His face almost falls more, but he forces a grin. "I'm pretty tall, lass. I've got more blood than most lads."

I can't return his grin. I know he wants to lift my spirits, to give me hope…but I can't lift my mouth. "It's still a lot of blood," I whisper.

That kills his smile. He comes to me and kneels before me, his eyes level with mine. "Yer right," he says, his voice gruff, barely louder than a whisper. He reaches for me and cradles my whole cheek with his free hand. I can't help but place my hand over his and press my cheek into his touch. I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing tears down my cheeks. "But I'm still here," he says softly.

My eyes open, meeting his blue ones.

"Lass…" he swallows and brushes his calloused thumb across my cheekbone. Why is he struggling to speak? Panic shoots through me. Is the poison affecting him!?—"I dinnae want to leave ye. Not now, not ever. I'm goin' to do everythin' in my power to stay with ye."

Oh God! "Why are you saying this!?" I sob and cling to his wrist.

"Easy, lass." He sets the lamia balm on the table and brings his other hand to my cheek to wipe away my tears. "I'm still here."

I choke on a sob. How I love and hate those three words! His eyes flit between my mouth and the rest of my face. He draws close, guiding my mouth to his for a soft kiss. The tang of salt touches my tongue, trying to spoil this. No, I will not let it! I let go of his wrist and cradle his face with my hands. The fear and pain of losing his care, his warmth, his protection, his friendship—losing him…I am grateful to him and for him. Beyond grateful. Beyond words. It comes out in my lips, almost still and tender, light on his mouth. He is a most precious gift. Even if he has not given himself to me as my sinful flesh demands him to, he has given of himself in so many other ways. Good, hallowed ways. God, that would be a blasphemous thought to any priest or monk, but I care not.

He pulls back, parting our mouths. I drag in a shuddering breath and force my eyes open. He looks at me, his eyes somber, but also full of that damning reverence! I wonder if he is blaspheming Ursus by looking at me that way.

He wipes away more of my tears that fall silently. He smirks suddenly. "I should thank that old hag."

My brows furrow. "What do you mean?" I croak.

He withdraws his caress from my cheeks and grabs my right wrist, easing my hand from his cheek. "If she had no' sent me into that dark forest after ye, I would never have found ye." A faint smile lifts his mouth. "I'm grateful to her for that."

My left hand drifts from his cheek. My heart softens far too much and falters on its next beat. He's…grateful to Ravenna for having found me?

He smirks again and grabs the box of lamia balm off the table. "Bein' grateful to an enemy, that's a first for me."

"Mm," I hum while he scoops a generous amount of the glistening, rosk-pink balm onto his fingertips. He sets the box back on the table and gently spreads the balm over each puncture hole that is now clean enough to see in clear, gory detail. This wound will turn to hideous scars if I live long enough.

Ravenna…God, if she never had me imprisoned, then I never would have met Sara. I…I never would have met Eric. In a strange way, I can thank her. She brought Eric into my life. My stomach twists. When Eric learns my true name, his gratitude to Ravenna will vanish. I…I loathe that day—but it must come. Eric must make it to Vilgard.

"Save some of the balm for yourself," I say. "We can use it for your stab wound."

He looks up at me and frowns. "It willnae work against the poison."

"What?" A wave of despair threatens to sweep me away.

His frown deepens as he stills with spreading the balm over my wounds. "There's nae sense in worryin' about it. Our circumstances huvnae changed for me...but I'm glad ye have the balm for yerself." He looks down at my arm and carefully spreads the rest of the balm over my wounds. My heart aches. His logic for his own life is so cold and callous, but for my comfort alone, he is glad that I have the balm. He may have been a selfish man in the past, but there is no hint of that man kneeling before me now. He has changed...perhaps even more so than since he married Sara.

He finishes with the lamia balm and picks up the long strip of linen that he had set aside on the table. He skillfully wraps my arm, starting with the middle of the cloth instead of the end. My brows furrow. I would have started with the end, but I suppose he knows what he's doing. He manages to cover every puncture wound with three layers of linen before tying it neatly near the bend of my arm.

"There!" He looks up at me, beaming proudly at his tidy dressing. "How's that?" he asks, hopeful.

I offer him a small smile and pull my sleeves back down my arm. "Perfect and painless. You almost put me to sleep."

He chuckles with satisfaction.

"Now," I pick up a rag from the pile and stand from his chair, towering over him for once, "it's your turn."

His proud grin lessens to a mild look. "Alright." He gets to his feet, towering over me now.

I move aside and he sits down in his chair. I imitate what he did, drenching the rag in the bowl of water and vigorously scrubbing my hands with it until they are clean. I toss the soiled rag under the table and take a clean rag out of the shrinking pile. Best to not be as wasteful with these now. I soak the clean rag in the water. The water is still warm thankfully, but it is dry. My heart sinks deeper still, sadness stealing the smile I didn't realize I had. Will I ever feel the wetness of a raindrop or the chilly, prickling wetness of a snowflake melting on my cheek again before I die?

I lift the soaked rag out of the bowl and wring out the excess water. I press the warm cloth to the side of his head, covering up the clawlike lacerations. The ache in my heart grows more bittersweet. I cradle his cheek with my free hand. I know he cannot feel the warmth of the rag, nor the press of my hand upon his cheek. He keeps his eyes fixed on me while I wait for the warm water to soften the blood that has dried to his skin. Mama used to tell me that you can see one's heart and soul in their eyes. Is that what I'm seeing in Eric's eyes now? His heart and soul? I'm not certain, but there's so much swarming in them—friendship, care, tenderness, lust, passion, and more that I cannot discern.

I wipe the softened blood from the side of his face as gently as I can, leaving a trail of his clean, glistening skin. His smile has left him. His eyes shift back and forth in mine, that all-too-familiar worry of his creeping back into them. I force a smile for him, knowing damn well he wants to ask me what is wrong. As carefully as I can, I wipe the blood, grime, and sweat from his face, his thick beard thwarting my efforts more than once.

"What do you look like under your beard?" I tease him.

"What does that mean?" he asks slowly, almost reluctantly, as if he knows what I'm about to ask him.

"It'd make it a lot easier to clean your face if you didn't have all this." I tug at the ends of his beard, making him wince. Guilt hits me and I immediately let go of him. "Sorry, but all this hair is not making things easier."

He raises his brows. "I've worked hard to grow this beard!"

I raise my brows at him. "What, so you could braid your beard or hide peanuts in it?"

His eyes widen with sudden amusement and he laughs. "Believe it or no', any proper son of Ursus braids his beard and shaves the sides of his head!"

My eyes widen, laughter escaping me. "What!?" God, I cannot imagine Eric like that! "Don't ever shave the sides of your head! I like your hair the way it is!"

His laughter softens. "Ye like my hair, but no' my beard!?"

I snort, ending the last of my laughter. "I like some scruff, but a beard this long?" I refrain from tugging at the ends. "It's absolutely unciv—" I stop that last word in my mouth, my smile dropping. "I mean it's—"

"Uncivilized, barbaric, savage," he says with a grin, his tone strangely light and amused. "I've heard it all."

I swallow. "You're not...offended?"

His smile softens and he shakes his head. "Nae." He sighs and glances over at my knife resting beside the bowl, his smile dropping. "Ursus, forgive me," he says and reaches for the knife.

Ursus forgive him!? "Eric, if your beard is that important to you—"

"It's fine, lass!" He looks up at me and offers me a reassuring smile. "Ursus couldnae give a rat's arse about my beard. I'd think he'd be more concerned about my heart." Eric rises out of his chair and disappears into the bedroom, leaving me alone here at the table. I frown. What is he doing in there? Why not just cut his beard here?

Before I know it, my feet are carrying me to the bedroom. I stop just outside and peek around the door. Eric is crouching before one of the crates with a small bronze mirror on it that's propped up against the wall. My eyes widen. Though I only see the back of his head, I see his arms moving carefully and hear the slice of my knife cutting through his beard. He drops his hair onto the floor without a care. I look down at the floor by his boots, his fair hair a stark contrast to the ebony wood.

His chuckling pulls my eyes to the back of his head. "Did ye come here jus' to make sure I'm cuttin' my beard?"

"No, I…," I barely shake my head, no proper reason coming to mind, "...I'm not sure why I came in here. My feet just...well, here I am." I lift my arms and let them drop, smacking my sides, still clutching the grimy, bloody cloth in my hand.

He chuckles. "Ye couldnae bear to be away from me, even for a moment! Is that it?"

I scowl at him. "I'm not that clingy!"

He only laughs harder.

Something comes to my mind. "What happened here?" I ask him, feeling comfortable enough to step further into this room's confined space.

His laughter ebbs as he cuts off another part of his beard. "What do ye mean?"

"To the miners. You mentioned that the mine has been abandoned for a while."

"Aye. There was an accident…and a tragedy. So they left." Slice. He drops another chunk of hair to the floor.

I frown and look at the bed, my outer clothes spread out atop the disturbed blankets. "What happened?"

He cuts more of his beard and drops it to the floor. "Do ye believe in ghosts, lass?"

"Ghosts?" Memories of my imprisonment rush back to me. There were whispers, distant screams, wailing, people pleading with no one in particular, yet I could not see anyone. I sometimes would feel a hand on my shoulder, only to spin around and come face to face with thin air.

"Aye, ghosts. There was a cave-in." Slice. He drops more of his hair to the floor. "Some of the men were crushed completely, some only half crushed, left to slowly bleed out, and the others unfortunate enough to no' be crushed were trapped in total darkness."

"Oh my God!" My heart hurts dearly for these men. Surely they had families. They were fathers, brothers, husbands.

"Hunger set in first. With nae food to eat, those still alive resorted to eatin' the dead."

My hollow stomach twists suddenly, sending burning bile up my throat. I seal my mouth shut and force the bile back down. Don't think of Sara. Not now.

"Then paranoia set in. With nothin' but the bones of the dead picked clean, one man murdered another with his pick and ate him. That's when evil came in and drove them all mad. Each man turned on each other, and the last survivors of that cave-in died that day in a pool of their blood." Slice. He drops more hair to the floor and sets my knife down on the crate. He rises to his bear-sized stature and turns to face me, a stern look etched into his face. My mouth drops. He has shaven so close to his face that I can see his skin through his scruff and the shape of his jaw. His jaw is strong, yet the edges are softened with a little fat. His lips part. "The miners who were no' caught in the cave-in tried to rescue those who were trapped." He leans back against the crate and crosses his arms, still wearing his leather bracers. "But when they removed most of the rocks, that's when blood started flowin' out at their feet." He glances down at the bed and looks back up at me. "This poor bastard was probably one of the miners who tried to rescue his friends. As soon as he heard the news of the cave-in, he jumped out of bed."

I swallow, trying so hard to bury the nightmare of Sara's frozen corpse back under everything else. "It–how long did it take for them to try to rescue those who were trapped?"

He frowns. "Weeks. There were a lot of rocks and boulders to move."

My heart hurts so much that I rest my hand over it. "How long ago was this?" I manage to ask.

His eyes lift from my chest to my face. "About six years ago."

I wince and glance down at the bed. "Those poor men…The earth once shook violently during my imprisonment." I lift my heavy eyes to Eric. "Is that when the cave-in happened?"

He nods. "Sounds right."

My chest falls with my exhale. "I...remember that day well. I was lying in my bed drifting to sleep. Then I was suddenly woken by..." I shrug my shoulders "...the world shaking! So much stone was cracking and falling from the ceiling above me that I had to take shelter under my bed. I'm glad I did because when the earth finally calmed, I found a big rock on my bed where my head had been. If that rock had fallen on me, my head would have been crushed."

That distress twists his fair face again. "Please dinnae say that again." He draws in a deep breath, smoothing his face a bit. "I'm glad ye hid under yer bed."

I frown. Please don't say that again? What? That my head would have been crushed by the rock? Was that too descriptive? Damn it, I've begged him to not say that he'll—agh! Even thinking that is so horrible that it lashes my heart.

"I'm sorry. I won't," I say.

Eric shakes his head, frowning. "Dinnae apologize!" He closes his eyes and sighs in exasperation. "It's jus' somethin' I dinnae want to—" He shakes his head briskly and lifts his sad, heavy eyes to me. "I dinnae want to think about it. That's all." He forces a sudden grin across his face. "What do ye think of my beard now!?" He holds his arms out, showing himself off proudly.

It's an abrupt shift to the somber mood. Despite his best efforts to brighten our little world, he only leaves a bittersweet, aching hole in my heart that cries for him to shore it up. The fact that he doesn't want to think of me dying in a grisly way...it's so different from people wishing to end me in such grisly, depraved ways.

A painfully tender smile lifts my mouth. "You call that a beard?" I gesture to him, somehow lightening the air between us. "What is that really? Scruff?"

"Hey!" he feigns offense, though he grins. I cannot help but laugh. "Ye made me cut this!" He tugs at the short ends of his scruff, barely able to hold a single hair between his fingers.

"What!?" I gape at him. "I did not! Yes, I implored you to cut it, but you chose to do so! I could ask you why you chose to do that!"

His laughter ebbs. "Ye wanted me to, so I did." His words get at my heart more. He did what I wanted. God, that sounds so damn selfish on my part, but how selfless of him.

"See? You are a good man," I say.

His smile nearly leaves him, his brows furrowing with confusion. "Because I cut my beard?"

I sigh. "Because you cut your beard for me even though you didn't want to." My eyes drift down to the thick ring of dried blood stuck to his left sleeve. Now that his beard is out of the way, I must tend to his other wounds as best I can. "Come on." I grab his hand and drag him out of the little bedroom. "I want to tend to your other wounds."

He sighs. "Alright."

I hide my frown from him and lead him back to his chair. He goes to sit down, but I grab his arm, halting him. He casts me a curious look.

"Now you can take your shirt off." I force a small smile for his sake.

He laughs and starts unfastening one of his leather bracers. "As ye say," he says with a grin. While he finishes unfastening his bracer, towering above me like a bear on his hind legs, I will myself to ignore his smug grin and grab another clean rag out of the pile to soak it in the water. He tosses his bracer on the table with a loud clatter, startling me.

"Sorry," he says.

"It's alright." I shake my head, watching him unfasten his other bracer in my periphery while I lift the rag out of the bowl and wring out the excess water. The cabin wall suddenly creaks under the howling wind outside. I tremble. God, please don't let these walls crumble tonight.

"Sounds like a storm is brewin'," he says as he sets his other bracer on the table this time and tugs his shirt out of his trousers.

"A storm?" I mutter, my hope starting to dim. That's only going to slow our progress to Vilgard.

"The son of a bitch bit me here." The chair creaks as he sits down. I turn my head to him. He pulls his left arm out of his shirt sleeve and tosses the sleeve over his shoulder, tugging his shirt up enough to show his skin. I try to avert my eyes, but they cannot move from his bare, taut stomach. They travel higher to the naked part of his chest. My hands wring the rag, desperate to reach out and feel the muscles and sinews of his chest. That sinful ache between my legs comes back with a vengeance. I've felt his strength in his hands, in his arms, in his body. To feel such gentle strength intimately…damn it, get a grip of yourself! I force my eyes to his left arm. The sight dampens my desire. Puncture holes wrap around the thick muscles of his upper arm, coated with congealed blood. I take his arm in my free hand and clean off all the dried and fresh blood with the cloth, revealing every crimson puncture hole caused by the wolfman's fangs.

"Ye dinnae need to be so gentle," he says, my eyes drawn to his. "It disnae hurt."

My chest constricts. I open my mouth—no, saying it aloud will do us no good. He means that he cannot feel anything. His face falls. Neither of us say anything as I look over the rest of his torso, finding more spots of blood crusted to his chest and stomach. A scabbed over slash just above his left hip stands out. A pang enters my heart. That must have been where I slashed him in the dark forest. At least it is healing now. I pray it leaves no scar...so that he does not have that reminder of me.

I drop to my knees before him and press the cloth to the crusted over gash above his left hip. His gaze weighs on me as I dab and wipe away every speck of blood and dirt from his wounds, revealing the many scratches and gashes the wolfmen inflicted on him. My chest constricts more. All these wounds...they were all inflicted on him because of me.

I glance up at him, his eyes soft yet so full of something that I cannot discern. "Did you know you had all these wounds!?" I gesture to his chest.

He glances down at his chest and sighs. "Nae." He lifts his gaze to me. "I barely felt the wolf bite my arm. Ha!" His smile leaves him at the sight of my face.

I discard the now completely reddened rag under the table. Knowing that all his wounds are because of me—the very least I can do is tend to them as best I can. I grab the box of lamia balm off the table and scoop a generous amount of the glistening balm onto my two fingertips.

"Dinnae use so much! Ye need it for yerself!—" I smear the balm onto one of the bite marks marring his arm, silencing him.

I dare to glance up at him, his eyes hardened with disapproval. "Eliza gave me this balm. I can do with it as I please," I say as gently as I can, though there's a bite to my words. My heart stings. "Sorry." I tear my eyes from his and start applying the balm to his arm.

He sighs. "Ye shouldnae be too kind. Many will use that against ye." Hearing the faint smile in his words pulls my eyes up to his. His face is softened with that reverent look again. There's nothing to revere about me. If anyone is to be revered, it is him.

"I can afford to be kind with you." A painful, bittersweet smile spreads my mouth. I know now that he will never use me for his own gain. Not after everything he has done and sacrificed for me. Even when he learns my true name, he will hate me, but he will not use me.

I finish applying all the balm on my fingers to the wolfbite. I scoop more balm out of the box and apply it first to the scabbed over slash I gave him in the dark forest. There. Surely there will be no scar now when it finishes healing, thus no reminder of me on his skin. I slather the rest of the balm over all his other wounds, my eyes stealing long looks at the many scars on his stomach and chest. A few of the scars stretching across the sides of his stomach look clean and precise, like the slashes and stabs from blades. My heart constricts as my eyes travel up his body. Large, faint bite marks mar the side of his ribcage...like some beast had bit down on his chest there. I shake my head as my eyes travel up higher, finding more of the same stabs and slashes most likely made by blades. I've no doubt each scar has a story to it. I've also no doubt that each story is not a grand one of triumph, but rather a grim reminder of how brutal and ugly life can be.

"Where did you get all these scars?" I finish applying the balm to the last wound and sit back on my heels, eyeing one particularly nasty scar that stretches across most of his stomach, distorting his navel in a lopsided way.

"The Phantom War. Battles. Drunken brawls, hunts." I glance up at him, our eyes meeting. Drunken brawls and hunts? That would explain many of the scars, including the massive bite mark to his ribcage, but the war and battles? Eric shakes his head, his face both stern and somber. "No' all these scars are honorable. I've lived a fool's life for many years."

I frown up at him. I wish he didn't see himself that way...but I cannot deny the truth to it. "Then which ones are honorable?"

He looks down at all his scars and sighs. "This one and this one," he points to a few small scars on his stomach, "and this one here." He pulls his shirt up, revealing more of his chest. I swallow at the sight of his strong chest and the cleft of his sternum. He points to one jagged scar stretching down his right chest. "This one here was the first one I've ever gotten in battle." He looks up at me, his eyes lighter with amusement and a cocky smirk. "This was done by a phantom soldier's hand."

"What!?" I balk at him, A black glass knight's hand did that!? I suppose the glass shards can cut into flesh. God! "Didn't you wear armor!?"

He chuckles from deep in his chest. "Aye, I've worn armor into every battle I've fought, but the armor foot soldiers like me got wasnae the king's armor."

"Oh." I remember seeing my father in all his armor, the greaves, the gauntlets trimmed with gold, the king's regalia upon his breastplate and the crown on his helm. It looked to be armor that would defend against every blow from the sword and against every dash of the arrow.

"What about this scar here?" I trace a finger along the one scar that stretches across most of his stomach. This looks to have been an attempt to disembowel him. God, what a disturbing thought! I can't help but cringe.

"Ah, that one." He looks down at his stomach and trails his finger along the same scar. "That was a tavern brawl. The bastard was quick, pulled out his knife and slashed me before I could react." His eyes dart up to me, somehow both amused and stern. "I had to keep my hand over my wound just to keep my guts inside."

"Oh! Please don't say that! I—oh God!" I groan with disgust.

He chuckles, not as heartily as before, but he still finds it amusing for some foolish reason! "At least Torrance was there to patch me up."

I perk up. There's that name again. "Torrance? Who's he?"

Eric raises his brows at me. "If ye ever meet Torrance, ye'll know him when ye see him. He…" Eric bobs his head. "Hmph!" He shrugs his shoulders and slips his arm back into his shirt sleeve. "Ye'll know him when ye see him." He pulls his shirt back down, not bothering to tuck it back into his trousers. "He's a healer. Probably one of the best out there. He's an old friend, too."

"Mm," I hum, nodding. A sudden yawn pushes its way up my throat and out of my mouth. God, I feel so tired. So heavy. So exhausted. My whole body aches, every muscle stiff and sore. My right shoulder aches more than anywhere else, but even this pain is nothing compared to what I felt when my arm was first ripped out of its socket. My eyes grow heavier and slower with each blink. The fire is warm at my back. The flames crackle and pop softly, a soothing melody against the muffled rage of the snowstorm outside.

"Ye should get some sleep," Eric says softly, his voice almost distant. The chair creaks as he rises to his feet, towering over me. I lift my tired eyes up to him, a strange, dry sensation coming over them, begging me to close them for some relief. "Ye want to sleep in the bed or here by the fire?" he asks me with a knowing smirk.

"Mm...fire's fine," I say. "You must sleep too."

"I know," he says. His smirk grows to a small smile. "Alright. Ah…," he trails off, looking at his clothes on the table, then to the bedroom. "Maybe there's somethin' in there," he says to himself. He turns for the bedroom, my eyes following him—his stab wound!

I'm on my feet, my hands scrabbling at the hem of his shirt. "Eric, your stab wound! I didn't—" He wheels around to face me, ripping his shirt out of my hands! My heart takes off racing. A terrible knot forms in my stomach, his hard gaze on me. Why the refusal to let me see his stab wound!? "Eric, what!?—"

"Ye've tended to me enough!" He grabs my arms, pinning them to my sides. "Ye need to sleep—"

"Why won't you let me see your wound!? You weren't so shy about your scars!" My voice is raised, bouncing off the cabin walls, but I cannot help the fire building in my chest nor the stinging behind my eyes.

His mouth presses into a thin line. "Lass—"

"What are you keeping from me!?" I say, unable to keep the sobs out of my voice anymore. Tears stream down my cheeks. "You said you'd tell me everything that I needed to know, yet here you are forcing me to go to sleep!"

"I'm no' forcin' ye to do anythin'!" His eyes drop down to his tight grip on my arms. As if realizing the contradiction of his words and his actions, he reluctantly lets me go. "Ye can barely keep yer eyes open," he says, his anger and frustration reined in this time.

"They're open now!" I grab his shoulders. "Let me see your wound. Then tell me everything I need to know." I try to turn him around, but he remains unmoving like a mountain. Frustration pricks me in all the wrong places. "Eric!—"

"Seein' it will bring ye nae comfort," he says, as harsh and sharp as a double edged sword.

I swallow hard. What is his aim to hiding all this from me? To spare me? Ignorance can be blissful, but not now. Not when his life...no. Not now. I shake my head at him, tears still slipping down my face. "I need to see...so I know—" I draw in a shuddery breath, no proper reason coming to mind. "I just...need to see. Please. Ignorance will bring me no more comfort than seeing your wound."

For a moment, he only looks down at me, not saying anything, only his chest and shoulders rising and falling with his steady breathing. His gaze is neither softened nor hardened with anything, but only plagued with whatever thoughts and fears are tormenting him.

Another moment passes. The fire's soft crackling is no longer soothing, but rather creates visions of the flames of hell chasing after me for all my sins. A pop pricks my ears, making me flinch.

Finally, he starts turning about, slowly bearing more of his back to me. He drags his feet as much as possible. The fear and cruel anticipation wrack through me like violent waves. My hands move before Eric turns completely, yanking his shirt up to see the wound. He stills. A choking sob strangles me. A wave of tears surge forward, blurring the blackened skin surrounding his stab wound. He doesn't need to say it. I've seen the blackened stubs of my toes before they fell off from that harsh winter two years ago. Blackened flesh that has not been touched by fire is death.

"Incendium poison…" Eric speaks up, his voice gruff and so quiet that I barely hear him "...It slowly turns the flesh necrotic from the point of entry, but that's no' what kills the lad." I look up at him, meeting his sideways glance with my teary eyes. Part of me is relieved that I don't have to look at his blackened flesh anymore, but it's still there. "If ye've ever been burnt by fire, then that's what it feels like when the poison enters the body."

I suck in another shaking breath. Memories flash across my eyes. That fireball landing on my arm from my failed attempt to burn Sara's corpse. The all-consuming pain that ravaged my arm and hand and left me disfigured. That dreadful laughter of Finn and the men as they mocked me...It takes everything in me to not burst into bitter weeping right now. I would never wish the pain of fire on my worst enemy, let alone the thought that Eric endured that pain piercing into his back when that bastard plunged the poisoned knife into him! God, what an underhanded, barbarous, devilish way to fight!

"It hurts at first, but no' for long. Then ye lose all feelin'. Ye go completely numb. This numbness…" he shakes his head and tears his gaze from me to look down at the fire "...it eventually turns to paralysis. It starts with the toes and fingers...then it works its way up the legs and arms and then...I willnae be able to breathe."

My heart falters, missing a few beats. The world nearly crumbles about me. The ground threatens to disappear from under me, eager to swallow me into a deep, deep grave. My God, I didn't see it before, but Eric...he has become such a big part of my world. I could think all the fanciful words I want and none of them would justify how essential he is to my lungs drawing breath and to my heart beating. It's not a simple fact of if he wasn't here, then I wouldn't be here. No, it's more than that. So much more...yet I have no words to describe it.

My legs grow weak, my knees aching, begging for rest. I sink to the floor, unable to do anything else. My mind conjures up the worst visions of Eric's numb body becoming paralyzed. I can see him, as clear as day, collapsing in the snow suddenly like his back was broken. Despite our blazing fire, the darkness closes in around me, threatening to take Eric away from me and return me to the hell that I had endured for fourteen years, this time with no light and no hope.

The silence stretches on between us. The blizzard still rages outside. The fire casts its searing heat onto me, making me perspire. The flames crackle as they writhe on the charred logs. My chest constricts so much that it gives my heart too little room to pump my blood efficiently. My eyes fall shut. Tears streak my face, leaving behind the only wetness to be felt in this doomed world. I manage to lift my heavy hands and hide my face in them, just...letting my tears drip and collect in my palms.

The floor groans beneath Eric's boot, pricking my ears, but I lack the will to move nor make a sound. Two strong arms wrap around me. A small sob escapes me and I drop my head to his chest. Another sob shakes me, and another, until I am a sobbing mess.

"I'm still here," he says above me. His words do nothing to soothe me. He cradles the back of my head with one hand and rubs my back with his other hand. "I'm still here."

My heart beats hard on my ribs like they are prison bars, begging to be closer still to Eric. I throw my arms around his neck and rest my hands on the back of his left shoulder. I savor the rise and fall of his shoulder beneath my hands and the rise and fall of his chest against my brow with each breath he takes in and lets go. The merciless passage of time goes on unaffected. My body is so heavy. So drained. I have not slept since those wolfmen, or the wolves with delvir souls, attacked us last night. It must have been the dead of night when they attacked Eric and me. All I want to do is sleep now, but there's still too much I must do! But what can I do? His flesh is slowly dying. I cannot restore flesh that has already died!

He sighs against me, throwing me out of the steady rhythm of his breathing. Panic races through me and I pull back to see him. "How's your breathing!? You're not struggling for breath!? It's alright!?"

"Lass—"

"You're alright!?"

"I'm fine!" He squeezes my arms, trying to reassure me. He fails still. He clears his throat and rubs my arms. "Remember I wanted to show ye somethin' once we stopped for the night?"

I nod while I scrub the tears from my eyes with the heels of my hands. God, I welcome any distraction from these tears.

A smile turns up his mouth. "Let me show ye then." He lets go of me and rises to his feet, towering over me like a bear on his hind legs. He walks past me, out of my sight. I turn my head to keep him in my sight. He goes to the table and pulls something from one of his belts. Clutching the mysterious object in his hand, he turns to face me. "Remember I told ye that Hammond's is to the east?"

A sense of dread forms in my stomach, but I will myself to stay focused. "Yes," I say, my voice shaking.

He glances down at the hidden object in his hand as he slowly approaches me. "My mother loved to explore dwarven ruins." He lifts his eyes to me, something brightening them. "It was her passion second to bein' a mother. She knew more about the dwarves than anyone else did, except for the wee bastards themselves, obviously."

"Obviously," I say, a faint smile pulling at my mouth.

His smile grows a little and he looks down at the object in his hand. "Everyone thought my mother was off her head for studyin' the dwarves and writin' about her findin's as much as she did, but she was a wellspring of knowledge. She knew everythin' there was to know about the dwarves." He looks up at me, his smile bigger. "She said one of their best accomplishments was navigation."

My brows furrow. "Navigation?"

"Aye. Ye know the four directions? North, south—"

"East, west," I say, nodding.

He peeks down at the object in his hands while he kneels before me. "My mother gave this to me. This…" He sits back on his heels and opens his hand. I look down at his open hand. My eyes widen and my jaw drops. "This is a compass."

"Oh my God," I whisper, entranced by the gleaming gold encasing a brilliant blue stone. A gold needle is fixed to the blue stone by a single point in the center, balancing the needle just above the stone and beneath a layer of clear glass. Etched into the stone at the four corners are four prominent symbols made of the same gleaming gold as the casing of this compass, and many smaller silver markings lie between each of the four prominent symbols. They look distinct and different from the symbols in Eric's journal. Those must be dwarven symbols. Dwarven language.

"This needle here follows the iron deep in the earth." He points to the needle balanced above the blue stone by the single point. "The dwarves have perfected this design and made it quite sophisticated, but all ye need to know are these two thin's." He points to one of the four prominent symbols that looks like a crescent moon with an arrow passing through it. "This is east, and this…" he points to another golden symbol just adjacent to it, looking like a single arrow pointing up to the sky "...this is north. Ye always hold north at the top when gettin' yer bearin'. Let me show ye. Take this." He grabs my right hand and places his compass in my palm! I gasp and wince. I don't want to drop this precious piece and break it! His compass is surprisingly light, yet so fragile, I'm sure!

"See how north is farthest from ye?" He points to the single arrow pointing to the sky, like the north symbol is leading the way. "Stand up." Eric takes my left hand and helps me to stand on my feet. "Now keep turnin' until ye get the point of the needle to line up with the east."

I glance up at him, my stomach churning with nerves. "Are you sure?"

He chuckles and takes my left hand, pulling it above my head. "Aye. Now turn around like yer dancin'." He guides me into a slow spin by my hand, my head turning to keep my eyes on him. He chuckles again. "Eyes on yer compass, no' me!"

"Sorry." I tear my eyes from him to look down at his compass. As I slowly spin about, I watch the needle spin with me. It leaves north, passes one prominent symbol, passes the second symbol, and finally lands on the crescent moon with the arrow passing through it. East! "I got it!" I look up at Eric, my eyes crossing his smiling, gleaming ones.

He gives me a big grin. "Good! Ye saw how the needle spun?"

"Yes!" I look down at his compass and back up at him. "It's impressive." My heart softens for him far too much. "Thank you for showing this to me."

"Aye. Just remember Hammond's is to the east. Just keep goin' east, and we'll reach his fortress."

"Keep going east." I nod. It sounds simple enough. I look down at his compass. Guilt nags my heart. This is his compass, given to him by his mother. I can't keep holding this no matter how much I want to. "Here." I offer him his compass back.

His smile lessens and he shakes his head. "Ye keep it. It's yers now."

My mouth falls. "Eric, I–I can't take this from you! Your mother gave this to you!"

The last of his smile caves to a frown. He glances down at his compass in my hand before looking up at me with a harder look. "I want ye to have it. I know all of Tabor like the back of my hand, I'll be fine! But ye can use it."

I cannot tear my eyes from him. Yet another precious gift he has given me. This is also another sacrifice he has made for me, even if he truly wants me to have his compass. My heart beats harder, begging for me to close the distance between us. Unable to resist my heart anymore, I clutch his compass to my chest and throw my free arm about his shoulders for a tight embrace. I bury my face into his chest. "Thank you for this. Thank you so much!" My tears start to flow again, soaking his shirt.

He wraps his arms about me and pulls me down to sit on the floor with him, keeping me tucked between the warmth of his body and the warmth of the fire at my back. "Yer welcome. Now try to sleep, lass." He strokes my back and presses a kiss to the top of my head, though he ends up kissing my coif. Regardless of the clothing separating his mouth from my head, his kiss lulls me into that restful black abyss...only to find no rest.