The first sensation that came to him was pain. Blinding, excruciating pain. It slammed into him all at once, dragging a groan from his cracked lips—a sound that was almost a howl if he'd had the strength. He lay there, limp and half-conscious, his body screaming with agony every time he tried to breathe.
Blake Takahashi cracked his eyes open, his vision blurred and swimming. The sun above was impossibly bright, burning against his bloodied face. He coughed, choking on the metallic tang of blood in his mouth, and the movement sent a fresh jolt of agony through his chest. He was in a hole. No—a crater.
Slowly, with all the effort he could muster, Blake rolled onto his stomach. The ground beneath him was soft, damp with dew, and every shift of his body sent sharp, stabbing pain through his ribs. He didn't need a med kit to tell him at least a few were broken—hell, maybe all of them. His breath came in shallow gasps as he fought against the dizziness threatening to pull him back under.
With a groan, he dragged himself forward. His arms trembled as he clawed his way to the edge of the crater, every inch feeling like a mile. At last, he hauled himself high enough to see over the rim, and what he saw stopped him cold.
Stretching out before him was an endless expanse of green. Grass as tall as his knees swayed gently in the breeze, an unbroken sea of vibrant color that shimmered in the sunlight. The sky above was impossibly blue, clear and vast, with wisps of white clouds drifting lazily across it. There were no rocky hills or dust storms. No burnt-out villages or acrid smoke in the air.
"This… this is not fucking Somalia…" Blake muttered hoarsely, his voice rasping as he pulled himself the rest of the way out of the crater.
He collapsed onto the grass, his legs flopping uselessly behind him. Pain shot through his right leg as it landed at an awkward angle. He gritted his teeth and tilted his head just enough to look at it. Fractured. Perfect.
"What the hell," he groaned, his head thumping back against the grass. He couldn't even sit up. His body was too battered, too broken, to do much more than lie there.
The air was cool against his sweat-soaked skin, carrying the faint scent of wildflowers. For a moment, he just let his eyes close, trying to block out the relentless waves of pain coursing through him.
Then he felt it—a faint vibration through the ground.
At first, he thought it might be his own pulse hammering in his ears, but the vibrations grew steadily stronger. They became a rhythmic pounding, accompanied by a distant roar that rose and swelled like a coming storm.
Slowly, Blake forced his head up, squinting into the sunlight. On the horizon, he saw them: a dark column of figures moving as one, their forms shifting and blurring like waves on the ocean. Horses.
"Shit…" Blake rasped, coughing again. "Guess the locals don't have trucks."
He shifted just enough to grab his M4, his fingers slick with sweat and blood as he pulled the rifle to him. Gingerly, he raised it, peering down the scope. His vision blurred for a moment as blood trickled into his eye, but he blinked it away, focusing on the approaching figures.
They weren't just riders. They were armored. The sun glinted off polished steel plates and chainmail, flashing like stars on the horizon. Spears jutted from their hands, their sharp tips gleaming as they caught the light. These weren't just a group of nomads or militia.
Blake adjusted the scope, zeroing in on the lead rider. A woman.
"What the fuck…" he muttered.
The rider was tall and lithe, her long blond hair flowing like a banner behind her. She sat her horse with the kind of effortless grace that made it look like an extension of her own body. In her hand, she carried a spear, the shaft adorned with intricate carvings. Her armor shone in the sunlight, a mix of golden leather and polished steel that looked both practical and beautiful.
Blake blinked hard, his mind racing. What the hell kind of militia leader looked like that? Was someone out here cosplaying or filming some kind of medieval movie?
As the riders grew closer, the ground beneath him seemed to shake with the force of their approach. The roar of hooves grew deafening, and before Blake could fully process what was happening, the column wheeled around him in a great circle.
The horses moved like a single living thing, their riders guiding them with practiced precision. In an instant, Blake was surrounded, the tips of a dozen spears leveled at him in perfect unison.
"Shit," he muttered, lowering his rifle just enough to avoid provoking them further. His head lolled to the side, his body too broken to even sit upright. "Guess armor's still in style around here…"
The blond-haired rider raised her spear, her gaze fixed on him. Her face was sharp and striking, with eyes that seemed to pierce right through him. Her lips moved, but the words she spoke were completely foreign—smooth and musical, nothing like the harsh languages he'd heard before.
Blake just blinked up at her, too stunned to respond.
"...What the fuck is this?" he muttered again, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his own heart.
She approached him cautiously, her boots crunching against the soft grass as her sharp gaze fixed on him. Her voice was rougher this time, commanding but edged with curiosity.
"Who are you, stranger, and from where do you hail?" Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword, knuckles pale against the leather. Behind her, her riders kept their spears lowered, their eyes sharp and wary, ready to strike at the faintest sign of hostility.
Blake clenched his teeth and redoubled his efforts, forcing himself upright. Pain exploded through his body, radiating from his leg and ribs until he felt bile rise in his throat. He swallowed it down, determined not to show weakness in front of these people. Suck it up, Takahashi. Get it together.
With a strained breath, he sat up, his hands trembling as they pressed against the earth to steady himself. "Technical Sergeant Blake Takahashi, United States Air Force, ma'am," he said simply, his voice hoarse but steady.
Then, against every ounce of common sense in his head, he did something stupid. He tried to stand.
The Shieldmaiden's sharp eyes narrowed, watching him cautiously as his body trembled under the strain. Even from where she stood, she could see how broken he was—the awkward angle of his leg, the blood soaking into his strange garments, the weariness that clouded his every movement.
Before he could rise, she stepped forward with surprising speed, her hand still resting on her blade but her other hand reaching out. She pushed him gently but firmly back into a sitting position.
"Your words are strange," she said, her voice softer now, though no less guarded. "But you are wounded. Were you ambushed?"
Her riders began dismounting, one of them stepping closer. His hand hovered over the hilt of his sword, his expression hard as stone as he kept a watchful eye on the strange man.
Blake shook his head weakly. "Negative… Was on a rescue mission… it went bad…" He coughed violently, his breath rattling as he fell backward onto the ground, his strength finally giving out.
The bright sky above blurred, swimming in and out of focus. Blake blinked sluggishly, his vision darkening at the edges. "Guess… there are worse places to die," he muttered faintly, his voice barely audible. "It's quiet here…"
And then he was out.
Freya froze for a moment, her heart lurching.
"Lady Freya?" one of her men called, his voice tight.
She didn't answer immediately, her sharp eyes scanning the strange man sprawled in the grass. His words lingered in her mind: not ambushed, but rescuing. This was no common brigand or thief. His garb was unlike anything she had ever seen—sturdy but unfamiliar, marked with blood and strange symbols. The man himself was like a puzzle: alien, battered, and yet... noble.
Her thoughts flashed to the bright light they had seen at first light, streaking across the sky and crashing into the plains with a thunderous roar. She had ridden hard with her patrol to reach it, expecting to find ruin or wreckage, perhaps an omen from the Valar—or from the Shadow. Instead, she found this.
"Fram!" Freya barked sharply, snapping out of her thoughts. "Quickly, set up camp. Tend to his wounds. I would know more of this man before Mandos claims him."
Her men hesitated briefly before springing into action. True Shieldmaidens were not to be denied. They moved swiftly, carrying the man between two spears as carefully as they could manage. His strange gear was stripped from him, piece by piece, revealing scars and injuries that spoke of a hard life.
Freya crouched beside the unconscious man as her riders worked swiftly around her, setting up camp under the fading light. Blake lay still, his face pale, his breathing shallow and labored. Blood had soaked through his strange garments, the fabric torn and scuffed from his ordeal. His weapons—if they could even be called that—had been laid neatly to one side, a strange assortment of objects that made little sense to her or her men.
"Lady Freya," Éothed muttered, still standing nearby with his hand resting warily on his sword hilt. "How do we know he does not hail from Mordor? His tools and garb are strange—magic, perhaps."
Freya didn't look up, her sharp gaze fixed on Blake's face. "When has Mordor ever cared for rescuing someone?" she replied evenly, her tone measured but firm.
"Could be a trick," Éothed insisted, his frown deepening.
Freya's lips tightened into a line. "Look at this man," she said, gesturing toward him with a gloved hand. "Look at his wounds, his bearing. Do you truly think one of Sauron's creatures would go to such lengths—breaking their body, shedding their blood—to win our trust?"
Éothed hesitated, but before he could respond, another voice cut through the quiet.
"She is right, lad," said Fram as he approached, his voice carrying the weight of age and experience. He was one of the eldest in the company, his gray-streaked beard framing a face lined with years of wisdom and battle. In his hands, he held the man's tattered uniform top, carefully studying the strange symbols and patches that adorned it. "This is no trickery of Mordor. The Shadow does not produce men of such character."
Freya glanced at him, her expression softening slightly. "What have you found, Fram?"
The older man knelt beside her, spreading the garment out across his knees. His calloused fingers traced one of the patches on the shoulder—a small but intricate emblem that bore an outstretched angel with wings, holding a sword and shield. Above the figure, faint letters were stitched into the fabric, their meaning as foreign as the man himself.
"What is this?" Freya murmured, leaning closer.
Fram's sharp eyes flicked to another section of the garment, where another patch had been sewn—a rectangular strip of cloth with the words "So Others May Live" emblazoned on it in bold letters. He tilted his head, his brow furrowing in thought.
"His words are strange, but this…" Fram said, his voice quiet yet reverent as he ran his fingers over the stitching. "This is a noble phrase. Perhaps one of the noblest I have ever heard."
Freya's eyes lingered on the patch, the foreign words whispering their meaning to her even though she did not fully understand them. She looked back at the unconscious man, her gaze softening. "It fits what he said," she murmured, almost to herself.
Fram nodded, his tone thoughtful. "A man who claims to have been on a rescue mission… who bleeds not for conquest, but for the lives of others." He looked up at Freya, his eyes sharp and searching. "Lady, I do not know what strange world this man hails from, but I do not believe the Shadow birthed him."
Éothed crossed his arms, his expression still guarded. "Words stitched onto cloth do not make a man good."
Freya shot him a pointed look. "No, they do not. But look at his wounds, Éothed. This man was no marauder, no brigand. He came here broken, with tools meant for precision and care, not for cruelty." She motioned to Fram. "Continue."
Fram turned the garment over in his hands, noting other strange patches and insignias. He paused at a small pocket where a name was stenciled faintly above it. "Takahashi," he muttered aloud, testing the sound of it.
Freya raised an eyebrow. "What is that?"
"A name, perhaps. Or a title," Fram replied. He folded the garment carefully, laying it beside the man's other strange belongings. His gaze returned to the unconscious figure, his tone quieter now. "Whoever he is, he has carried these words with him for many years. A creed, perhaps. A guiding star. It takes a rare man to live by such words."
Freya leaned back slightly, her eyes narrowing as she studied the man. "So Others May Live," she repeated softly, testing the foreign phrase on her tongue. Her gaze lingered on him, her mind churning.
She turned to Fram. "His injuries?"
"We've done all we can," Fram replied grimly. "The wounds are set, the tonics will keep the fever at bay for now. But his body… it is beyond any I've seen. His strength has carried him far, but even the strongest man cannot endure this alone."
Freya looked down at Blake's pale, motionless form. He was a mystery, an enigma wrapped in blood and battered steel. Yet something about him struck a chord deep within her—an unshakable belief that this man, strange though he was, had a purpose that went beyond what any of them could see.
She reached out, brushing a strand of his dark hair from his damp forehead. "Then we will not let him endure it alone," she said softly.
The next day dawned cool and clear, the pale sunlight stretching across the endless plains of Rohan like a golden veil. Freya rose from her restless sleep, her thoughts heavy with the troubles of her land. The Westmarch had grown more dangerous in recent months—wildmen and orcs prowled along the River Isen, their raids growing bolder with each passing season. To the east, darker whispers spoke of the Anduin River stirring with movement, and Gondor, their stalwart ally, was said to be beleaguered on all sides.
War was coming, Freya knew. It loomed like a storm on the horizon, its winds already tugging at the edges of her people's strength.
But that was not her concern today.
She made her way toward their strange guest, her boots crunching softly against the grass still wet with morning dew. Blake had not stirred since collapsing in the plains, his breathing shallow and uneven throughout the night. She found Fram tending to a small fire near his patient, his expression thoughtful as he stirred a steaming pot of herbs.
"He still breathes," Fram said without looking up. "Some color has returned to him, and his fever holds steady. I gave him more tonics this morning, though he remains weak. I hope he awakens today and gives us some answers."
Freya glanced down at the man, noting the slight rise and fall of his chest. His face, though pale and bruised, seemed less ghostly now, the lines of pain around his mouth softened. Her relief was tempered by her frustration. This stranger had thrown her patrol into turmoil, and yet she could not deny the curiosity burning in her chest.
As if in answer to her thoughts, Blake's chest suddenly hitched, and his eyes snapped open. He sucked in a sharp, ragged breath, his gaze darting wildly as he tried to make sense of his surroundings.
"Holy shit… I'm… I'm alive," he rasped weakly, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Fram frowned, turning toward him with a scolding expression. "Lad, I'll not have such language with a lady present—shieldmaiden or no," he grumbled, though his voice carried more relief than reprimand. "But aye, you're alive. Thank the Valar for that. You were nearly beyond saving." He allowed himself a small, proud smirk. "Luckily, this old man still knows a thing or two."
Blake didn't respond immediately, his head lolling slightly as he processed the information. Freya's frown deepened as she watched him struggle with the realization. "Were you so prepared to die, soldier?" she asked quietly.
Blake blinked at her, his gaze hazy but steady. "Every mission… we're prepared to die," he said simply. His words were calm, almost detached, but there was an undercurrent of raw honesty that struck her. "Yesterday, with how bad I was… yeah, I thought I was a goner for sure." He paused, his breath rattling as he forced the question. "How bad is it?"
Fram snorted, his weathered hands busying themselves with the pot of herbs. "Oh, are ya a healer now, lad?" he said, his voice thick with skepticism. "It's bad, if you must know. Your ribs are nigh shattered—at least four or five. Your leg's taken a cruel blow; the bone inside is cracked, though it still holds." He motioned to Blake's head with a shake of his own. "You hit your head hard enough to rattle your skull, and I reckon you've swallowed enough blood to make even a troll queasy."
Blake lay still, his jaw tightening as he absorbed the information. "Yeah… actually, I am what we call a combat medic, so, yes, I am a healer," he said, his words edged with sarcasm despite his obvious pain. "So you're telling me… most of my ribs are broken, my right leg's got a crack in the bone, I might have swallowed half a pint of blood, and I've got a brain injury bad enough to give me a splitting headache for weeks. Is that your diagnosis, Master Healer?"
Fram grumbled under his breath, though a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
Freya pressed her lips together, trying to stifle the smirk that threatened to spread across her face. "You would do well to mind your tongue, stranger," she said sharply, though her tone lacked true malice.
Before she could add more, Blake spoke again, his voice quieter this time. "Then Master Healer… thank you. You've saved my life, and for that, I owe you a debt."
The sincerity in his words gave Fram pause. He glanced at Blake, his sharp eyes softening for a moment. "Bah. No debt owed," he muttered gruffly, though his expression betrayed his pride. "I've done my part, that's all. You'll need time and more than a bit of luck to heal fully."
Blake closed his eyes briefly, nodding weakly against the ground. "Well… I'll take the luck if you've got it. But seriously… thanks. Both of you."
Freya studied him carefully, noting the sharp intelligence behind his exhaustion and the faint trace of humor even in his battered state. This man—this stranger—had survived where most would not, and despite his wounds, he carried himself with quiet strength.
"You are an enigma, Blake Takahashi," she said softly, her voice half-lost to the gentle rustle of the grass.
"I aim to please," Blake said simply, leaning back against the makeshift support they had propped him up with. His tone was dry, almost casual, but his face betrayed exhaustion and pain.
The conversation ended there, and Freya let it, sensing that he needed rest. Throughout the day, they brought him water and broth to help him regain his strength. He took everything without complaint, eating and drinking methodically, though it was clear his body had a long road to recovery.
For most of the day, he slept. The color slowly returned to his face as Fram's healing skills worked their slow magic, but Freya remained uncertain. The man was still a mystery—too strange to ignore, too wounded to cast out. The only clear course of action was to take him to Edoras. They could not turn him loose, not in his state, and not in these dark times.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Freya sat near the campfire with Fram and Éothain, the three of them quietly tending their own thoughts. The plains stretched out around them like a vast, endless ocean, their campfire a lone beacon in the growing night. Blake sat propped against his pack, his gear arranged carefully beside him. Though he still looked battered, he seemed more alert now, his eyes clearer than they'd been since they found him.
"You said you were on a rescue mission, Blake Takahashi," Freya said suddenly, breaking the silence. Her voice was calm, steady. "Can you tell me about it?"
Blake nodded slowly, shifting to sit up a little straighter. His movements were deliberate, every gesture careful to avoid pulling on his battered ribs. "...I guess first things first," he began, his voice low but steady, "my world… at least I think it's much different from yours."
Éothain frowned, his skepticism plain. "How so?"
Blake glanced at him, noticing the challenge in his voice but letting it roll off. "So, I'm guessing everyone here uses armor and horses?"
"No one uses horses like the Rohirrim," Éothain said firmly, pride creeping into his tone.
Blake held up his hands in a gesture of peace, the corner of his mouth quirking faintly. "I meant no offense," he said. "But I mean the level of technology. People here use bows, and armor, and swords, and the like, yeah?"
Fram nodded, his calm gaze flicking to Éothain as if warning him not to rile the patient. "That's right," Fram said.
Blake nodded back, gesturing vaguely toward his M4 resting nearby. "We were using stuff like yours… oh, a couple hundred years ago, roughly. Our level of technological advancement has been staggering. Look, I don't know how old your world is, but us—what we consider modern humans—have been around maybe three hundred thousand years. My planet itself? Much, much older. We went from stone and wood tools to plate armor and swords… to this."
Gingerly, Blake lifted his M4, the black metal catching the faint light of the fire. "Ain't gonna look like much to you guys till you see it in action. But armor like yours? Ain't anything to this." He ejected the magazine with a smooth motion, plucking a single 5.56 round free and holding it between his fingers. "This little thing," he said, tossing it lightly to Freya, "can kill."
She caught it easily, turning the small object over in her hands, her eyes narrowing in confusion and wonder. "This little thing can kill?"
Blake nodded solemnly. "Not gonna go into the details, but in the casing… there's a fire. It propels the tip at insane speed—faster than any arrow can fly. Goes right through any armor you got. Like I said, we've come by leaps and bounds."
Freya studied the round with growing unease, then tossed it back to Blake, who caught it and slid it back into the magazine. As he slapped the mag back into his rifle with a metallic click, he said softly, "With that advancement, our wars have become… deadly. Very deadly."
Éothain opened his mouth to speak, but Fram silenced him with a glance. Freya's gaze never left Blake's face. "What does this have to do with your mission?" she asked.
Blake took a long breath, his eyes distant, his voice tinged with sorrow. "I was slotted to join a SEAL team on a rescue mission. A SEAL team is an elite special forces unit. We have normal soldiers who go through rigorous training, and then we have special forces who go through years of brutal training—training that's meant to break men, weed the weak out."
"But you are a healer," Freya interjected. "Why would you be forced to join?"
"Because I'm one of those special forces," Blake said simply. "I'm Pararescue. We're called PJs for short. When the special forces need aid, when men are pinned down and dying, when no one else can get out, when there's no hope and only a prayer to the heavens is your answer… they call us."
He smiled faintly, though the expression didn't reach his eyes. "I've been told we come from the sky like the guardian angels of the battlefield. I've never thought of myself like that, though. I've also heard, more humorously, that we're one of the few groups that'll be stacking bodies with one hand while hauling our comrades out of the grave with the other."
The faint humor faded as his expression grew distant. "Some people we call aid workers—people who go to help those in need—were taken prisoner. A local warlord wanted to ransom them or kill them. We did what's called a HALO jump—a dangerous high-altitude jump to stay stealthy. We hit the ground, got to the aid workers. There was a girl… Miranda. She had a bullet wound in her leg. I patched her up." He paused, his voice catching slightly. "Pretty thing. Hadn't even started her life yet, and she was in that hell."
Freya's hands clenched at the story, her expression growing stormy, but she said nothing.
Blake's voice dropped, quieter now. "The rope got hit. Couldn't hold us both. I made a call. My life… or hers. Easy choice."
He paused again, his gaze far away as the firelight flickered in his eyes. "I told her to find my parents. Then I unhooked. I don't know how far I fell… but I lived up to the Creed. So Others May Live."
He blinked, looking back at them. "What is my life to hers? What is the life of one broken-down soldier to a girl who could grow up and do something great? A scientist, a doctor—anything."
Freya brushed a tear from her cheek as Fram lowered his head solemnly. Éothain sat quietly, no longer skeptical, his earlier arrogance silenced by the weight of Blake's story.
Blake finished softly, "And somehow… you found me. Don't know why, don't know how. But I'm here."
The fire crackled, filling the silence that followed. Freya's gaze lingered on Blake, and she said softly, "Your Creed… it's an honorable one."
The fire crackled, filling the silence that followed.
Blake sat motionless, his gaze distant, staring into the flames as if searching for something long lost. His fingers absently turned the metal clasp on one of his pouches, a restless habit, but his expression was blank—his mind elsewhere, still tangled in the memories he had just spoken aloud.
Freya sat back slightly, her arms resting on her knees, her fingers curled into loose fists. The story sat heavy in her chest, pressing against her ribs in a way she hadn't expected. It was one thing to hear tales of battle from her own people, of honor and sacrifice on the open field. Those were the stories she knew—the kind her father told her, the kind she had lived. But this… this was something else entirely.
It wasn't just war. It wasn't just glory or valor. It was loss. Deliberate, personal, chosen loss.
She swallowed, turning her gaze toward Fram, whose usually sharp, shrewd face had softened into something unreadable. He sat hunched forward, hands clasped loosely before him, staring at the dirt as if searching for words that would not come.
Éothain, the youngest of them, looked different than she had ever seen him. He sat stiffly, his mouth pressed into a tight line, his hands clenched around his knees. His earlier skepticism was gone, stripped away like chaff in the wind, leaving only quiet contemplation behind.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Freya finally exhaled through her nose, slow and measured, before turning toward Blake. His eyes had not moved from the fire, the orange glow reflecting off his dark irises like embers in a dying hearth.
"You meant what you said," she murmured at last, breaking the quiet. It was not a question.
Blake blinked, as if pulled from some faraway place, but he did not turn to her. "Yeah," he said simply. His voice was quieter than before. Tired. Hollow. "Every word."
Fram rubbed a hand over his beard, shaking his head slightly. "By the gods," he muttered. "I have seen warriors make their peace with death. I have watched men ride into battle knowing they would not return. But you, lad…" He trailed off, his voice thick with something Freya had never heard from him before. Respect? No, something deeper.
Blake still didn't look at them. His hands had gone still, his fingers curled loosely over his lap. "It wasn't hard," he said after a moment. "Not really."
Éothain frowned, his voice rough when he finally spoke. "You threw yourself into death as if it were nothing. How?"
Blake's lips twitched, just barely, in something that might have been a smile in another life. "Because I made my peace with it a long time ago," he murmured.
The words sent an odd chill through Freya, though she could not place why.
Another stretch of silence settled over them, heavy but not uncomfortable. The fire popped, sending tiny embers swirling into the night air. Somewhere in the distance, a lone nightbird called, its voice lonely against the vastness of the plains.
Freya inhaled deeply and let it out slowly. She still didn't know what to make of this man. He was unlike any warrior she had ever met—bold, yet unshakably selfless. Hardened, yet somehow still carrying something good inside him, something that had not yet been burned away by war.
And perhaps what unsettled her the most was that, despite all his differences, she could understand him.
She turned her head, her sharp gaze settling on Éothain, whose own thoughts were playing across his face like shadows on water. His fingers flexed against his knees, restless, but he said nothing.
Freya lifted her chin slightly. "What troubles you, Éothain?"
The young rider hesitated, jaw working before he finally shook his head. "I do not know," he admitted. "It is strange." His gaze flickered to Blake, who remained lost in the fire. "I thought him mad. I thought his words false. But now…" He exhaled sharply, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I have heard of warriors giving their lives for their kin. For their king. But not like this."
Freya studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Nor have I."
Fram made a thoughtful noise, leaning back slightly. "I have lived many years," he mused. "Seen men fight and die for their people, for their homes, for honor and duty. But this? This is something else." He shook his head again, staring into the flames. "To give one's life for a stranger, without hesitation… it is not the way of Men."
Freya glanced at Blake once more, taking in the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. The lines of exhaustion on his face. The way he carried himself, as if he had already left something of himself behind long before he ever set foot on this land.
"No," she murmured. "It is not."
And yet, the longer she sat beside this man, the more she wondered if that was exactly what made him different.
Exactly what made him stronger.