The warrior’s gaze follows me as I shift onto the spread jacket, my movements stiff against the aches searing through me.
If he hears my winces, the groans catching in my chest, he doesn’t acknowledge them.
Instead, his steps start slow, a gradual pace. “Before you dress,” he says, disinterested, “use the oil on your flesh.”
My frown flicks to him, to his uncaring gesture—and I trace that to the brown jar next to the pile. I almost didn’t notice it, a camouflage on the disturbed snow of the forest floor.
I don’t reach for it.
The cold one doesn’t care, or doesn’t notice, not now that he’s circling me, his gaze dragging over the trees, like he’s keeping watch, walking the perimeter.
Before I strip down to my bare skin in this stagnant cold, I sift through the clothes folded neatly on the foliage.
Next to the pile, a pair of thick, brown socks is nestled beside a boulder, as though it has fallen from the neatly stacked sorting of clothes.
With a fleeting glance at the socks, I decide they are soft and thick enough to keep me warm in these godforsaken boots.
I start sifting through the pile.
A grey cable-knit sweater, soft to the touch, but about two sizes too big. The long-sleeved top is thinner than it should be for such a cold winter, but then again, it might be thermal, since it’s got that strange satin-like feel to it but without the gloss of satin.
I peel the top layers off the pile and tug out the pair of tights.
A bud of relief blooms in me.
Not everyday tights, these ones are fleece-lined and cosy to the touch, maybe brand new and fresh out of the packaging, or washed with the lushest fabric softener.
I tug them off the pile to reveal the bottom folded layers—and my cheeks flame.
The strappy camisole isn’t what heats my face, but what’s next to it.
Plain cotton knickers folded over three times.
I pinch the edge of the fabric and lift. They unravel a few inches—and I guess these are about the right size.
I toss them aside, then grab the thick black material, the final layer.
That bloom of relief tickles with something new, something lovely.
Plush, thick sweatpants, the expensive kind, the kind I want to hug, melt into, like I’m on an advert for the market’s best fabric softener.
These are new, too.
Without tags, but obviously brand new with that faint store smell that’s part perfume and part dust.
This beastly fae could have chosen anything, like slacks or even jeans. And that would have added to my nightmare. So uncomfortable for long wear, and not warm enough for this weather.
But he chose sweatpants and fleece-lined tights, and a cable-knit sweater, and thick socks, and…
It strikes me.
Fingers snapping in my head.
Hechosethese.
Actually picked them out.
These clothes weren’t in his bag when I watched him pack up from the last camp.
