I clutched at his shoulders automatically, hyper-aware of every point of contact of his skin against mine. The breadth of him. The easy strength in the way he held me. The earthy smell of him.
This is fine. This is just practical. He's helping.
But my face burned anyway.
He carried me out of the shelter into bright morning light. I squinted against it, catching glimpses of the camp as we moved. Shelters made from hides stretched over wooden frames clustered around fire pits. People moving between them—men and women both, dressed in layers of fur and leather. Children running, laughing. Someone skinning what looked like a deer.
A few people glanced our way, but no one seemed surprised or concerned. If anything, they looked accepting. Like the sight of their healer carrying an injured stranger was perfectly normal.
Because it probably is,I realized.This is what they do. They take care of each other.
The thought made my chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with fever, and for a moment, I longed for my mum, the only real family I’d ever had.
Daska carried me down a slope toward the sound of running water. The camp sat in a valley, sheltered from the wind by low hills on either side. Snow still clung to the higher peaks, but down here the ground was mostly clear, brown earth dotted with patches of tough grass. Trees clustered along a low, wide river, and I heard the rush and gurgle of fast-moving water over stones.
It should have been cold. It was only early spring, the air still carrying winter's bite. But wrapped in Daska's arms, surrounded by his warmth, I felt safe from it.
He took me to a place where the river widened, deep at the far side, but on this side, it eddied into a shallow pool, sheltered by an outcropping of rock that blocked the worst of the wind. Sunlight reflected off the surface, steam rising in thin wisps where the water ran over sun-warmed stones.
He'd chosen this spot deliberately. Of course he had.
Daska set me down carefully on a flat rock near the water's edge, making sure I was stable before he let go. Then he straightened and gestured to the pool, saying something I didn't understand but could guess the meaning of.
This is for you.
I nodded, suddenly aware of how exposed I felt. The thought of undressing, of being naked in front of him again, made my stomach flip. But I also desperately wanted to be clean.
Daska seemed to read my hesitation, because he said something briefly, then turned and headed back the way we’d come, leaving me alone.
Oh.
The relief was immediate and embarrassing. Of course he'd thought of that. Of course he'd give me space.
I looked at the pool and then down at myself, wrapped in the fur like some kind of prehistoric burrito. The water looked cold but inviting, sunlight catching the surface in little diamonds of light. I could see the bottom. Smooth stones in shades of grey and brown, the water maybe knee-deep at most in the shallower parts near the edge.
Right. Baby steps. I could do baby steps.
I loosened the fur and let it fall around my waist, keeping it bunched in my lap while I tested the water with my fingers. Cool but not biting—whatever geothermal quirk warmed those stones took the worst of the chill off. I could work with this.
Getting undressed was harder than I'd expected. Every movement pulled at the wound on my thigh, and my muscles had that wobbly, overcooked-noodle quality that came from days of fever and inactivity. I managed to unwrap the fur completely and set it on the rock behind me, folded so it wouldn't get wet. The morning air hit my bare skin and I shivered violently, goosebumps racing across every inch of exposed flesh.
Don't think about it. Just get in.
I eased myself off the rock and into the shallows, gasping at the temperature but once I was in, once the initial shock passed, it felt good. Invigorating, and more importantly, clean. The grime lifting away, the stickiness dissolving.
I scrubbed at my skin with my hands, wishing I had soap, wishing I had a washcloth, wishing for any of the thousand modern conveniences I'd taken for granted, hot water most of all. But even without them, the simple act of getting clean felt like reclaiming something. Like washing away the worst of the fear and pain and leaving room for something else.
There was a slight sound behind me and I looked over my shoulder. Daska had returned. I gasped, my hands flying up over my naked breasts, but his eyes were locked on mine and he washolding something out to me. It was a small pouch made of woven plant fibre and a carved, smooth wooden bowl. He mimed washing, and when I took it from him and squeezed, foam bubbled out.
Soap. Some kind of natural soap.
"Thank you," I breathed, and his mouth curved in the smallest smile.
He gestured to my hair, then to himself, making a washing motion. Offering.
He wants to wash my hair.
"Okay." He cocked his head, not understanding, so I nodded.
