Ididn’t scream. I made a sound, though, something between a gasp and a prayer, and the instant it left me, he was on his feet, face eclipsed by shadow, hands held wide in a gesture that was neither threat nor greeting but a kind of truce. The fire painted the hollows of his cheeks and threw his eyes into deep shadow, so that I could not be sure if they were open at all, or if he was just waiting for me to move first.
“Easy,” he said, voice pitched low. Not the language of my world, but I understood the intent. “You’re safe. I won’t hurt you.”
I tried to answer, but my jaw wouldn’t work. My tongue had turned to oak. Instead, I watched him circle back to the pallet, slow and deliberate, like he was tracking a wounded wolf that might still have teeth.
“Easy, now,” he said.
He settled at the edge, folded his arms across his knees, and looked at me without blinking. Up close, his face was a map of old pain—broken nose, scar across the cheek, beard that grew in black and gray patches. The marks on his arms were not dirt but ink, blue-black lines that twisted around the muscle in shapes I did not recognize. His clothing was of a substance I had no name for, black and battered, studded here and there with rivets and buckles like armor but soft, with the look of skin worn thin by many seasons.
He didn’t speak for a time. When he did, it was with a care that surprised me. “You twisted it bad,” he said, nodding to my foot. “I fixed it the best I could. The fever’s from the cut. But you need to keep off it.”
I tried to sit up, failed, and then tried again. He offered a hand, palm out, waiting for me to accept. After a moment’s war, I took it. His grip was warm, almost gentle, but the calluses on his palm were rough as bark.
“You’re not from here,” I said, the words gritty in my throat. It was meant as an accusation, but it came out small, almost a plea. “From my world.’
He half-smiled, the lines at the corners of his eyes bunching in a way that did not match the rest of his expression. “Neither are you,” he said. “Not anymore.”
I should have been afraid, but something about the way he watched me made the fear pool in my gut, not race to my throat. I studied him, let myself catalog the impossible: the boots laced to the knee with rawhide thongs, the leather jacket, so outlandish, so fitted, it seemed to belong to a world that did not tolerate cold, or modesty, the ragged T-shirt beneath, stamped with words I could not read. The arms were bare to the elbow, and every inch was tattooed, not just with shapes but with pictures of animals, weapons, symbols, even words written in a harsh, angular script. One arm bore a wolf’s head, snarling, jawsopen wide enough to swallow the bone of his own wrist. In the firelight, it seemed to move, to draw breath and bare its teeth.
He watched me watching him, and after a moment, offered up an explanation as though reading my thoughts. “It’s called a tattoo,” he said. “Don’t worry, it’s just ink.”
I blinked. “We have them. Or something like. The sailors, sometimes. Criminals. But not like yours.”
He shrugged, as if it was of no consequence. “Where I come from, everyone has them. Means different things. Mine... mine are just reminders.”
Of what? I wanted to ask, but there was a weight in the question I could not lift. Instead, I looked down at my ankle. It was wrapped in a bandage so clean and white it looked like linen for a christening, not the rough, blood-streaked rags I’d have used myself. The skin around the joint was already less red, though the swelling had turned it blue. He had used some kind of salve as well, a clear, bitter-smelling ointment that tingled even now.
“How did you—” I started, but he cut me off.
“First aid,” he said. “I was trained. Doesn’t matter. You’re lucky you made it through the storm.” He looked at the small window, where snow drifted in thick, silent bands. “You wouldn’t have, if you’d kept going.”
I remembered the storm, the pain, the way the world had bent sideways, and the trees seemed to lean in and whisper. I remembered, too, the voices of men, the certainty that they hunted not just for me, but for a lesson to teach the rest. The thought made my hands fist in the straw.
He noticed, of course. He noticed everything. “You running from someone?”
I nodded. “They want me back. To punish, or to wed. I’m not sure which is worse.”
He snorted, not unkindly. “Always the same, isn’t it?” He drew a breath, let it out slowly. “I won’t let them find you. Not unless you want to be found.”
This, more than anything, made the tears prick behind my eyes. I didn’t want to cry. I had not cried, not once, since I’d left the house and crossed into the woods. I wouldn’t start now.
I busied myself with the pallet, trying to shift my weight without wincing. He reached into a pouch at his side, withdrew a small, flat packet, tore it open with his teeth, and produced a strip of sticky fabric, like a plaster but thinner, cleaner. He pressed it to my ankle, his fingers steady and sure, and smoothed it into place.
I watched his hands, the veins that ran beneath the skin, the lines inked on the backs of his knuckles, one hand marked with a cross, the other with a word that meant nothing to me. The hands were strong, but not cruel. They reminded me, oddly, of Father’s hands when he was working in the field, hands that had killed, but also planted, healed, and forgiven.
“You need to eat,” he said, standing. “There’s not much, but I found some jerky. It’s safe. Better than nothing.” He pulled a flat package from another pocket, tore it open, and offered a strip of brown meat. It smelled of salt and smoke, and something sweet I didn’t recognize.
I took it, more to please him than from hunger. I chewed, and the flavor exploded in my mouth, sharp and alive. It was so unlike the food I knew that for a moment, I did not know if I liked it or hated it. But I swallowed, and then reached for another.
He smiled again, this time a full smile, and it was not ugly at all.
“What are you?” I said, the words out before I could bite them back.
He considered, then tilted his head, as if measuring me. “What do you think I am?”
A witch. A demon. A thing out of legend, sent to barter for my soul. But I looked at him, really looked, and all I saw was a man who carried his wounds on the outside, not hidden like the rest of us.
“I don’t know,” I said, finally. “But you’re not from here. Not from my world.”
