The Fall Of Snow: Guard Your Heart

2. Two

Two

Suspicious Sanctuary

A s dusk settles, the chill in the air turns to a crisp bite, bleeding right through my cloak. I hug the fabric tighter around my body as I trudge through the living woods, pulsing my fingers hoping to keep the blood circulating as I pass rocky terrain. The last thing I need to add to my list of problems is frostbite.

I'm already racking my brain over how long I can last before I need to hunt again. The further west I go, the harder it will be to find food. I'm miles away from any towns, but I have my bow and my wit. That's all I need to keep myself fed . . . for now. That, and the frost apples—the only fruit to withstand a winter frost.

I smell the rain before it comes. When I look up to the purple clouds rolling in, I curse the stars peeking through and the first drops falling from the sky. The wind picks up, carrying the raindrops with them. They hit the side of my face as I crouch beneath a tree for a moment, contemplating my next move. They pelt me like ice as they hit my cloak, slowly soaking through. I need to move—find shelter. The sky is angry, and the air is heavy with the threat of stronger storms. Thunder rattles my bones as it booms through the darkness, so loud it sounds like it's cracking the sky into pieces. The deep purple clouds turn to gray and the lightning disorients me. Night comes prematurely, giving me less time than I expected to find a new temporary home.

The wind thrashes, carrying leaves and branches through the air. I pull my hood close and decide to make a run for it. If I'm lucky, I'll find a cave or some equivalent to wait out the storm. I barely get to my feet when a loud crack explodes behind me, rattling my insides. I jump as the tree trunk splits in two right down to the roots buried beneath the earth. Charred bark singes my nose as I stare like a startled deer at the damage.

If I were any closer…

Black bleeds from the tree's open wound, and my knees weaken at the thought that it could have been me. How many times will death try and find me before it finally sinks its teeth in?

Before I can contemplate it further, I run through the storm's wrath, fighting the wind whipping through the trees. Gnarled branches grab at me like clawing fingers as I pass. Small scratches bloom on my face. With the dark skies and the wind blowing anything that's not deeply rooted into the ground, I can barely see in front of me. Fear keeps me from falling as my muscles ache, pushing me onward. The wind tries desperately to sweep me aside, but I don't stop. One more lightning strike and I'm done. I can only fight death for so long, and right now, I can feel it on my heels.

I can barely hear my own heart beat over the howling wind and the rustling of the trees above. They bend and sway in the storm, some snapping mere feet from me, but I keep running, my eyes searching for any kind of protection. I have a vague hope that the dark creatures of the forest that typically roam the night are hiding from the storm's wrath instead of hunting for prey like me.

Before I fully understand what's happening, I'm tumbling to the ground, rock smashing my cheekbone. A sharp sting shoots up my leg, and I know at the very least my ankle is sprained. A burning spreads outward from the joint but I don't have time to further investigate. I turn back and see the fallen branch sticking out from a raised tree root. Mother above.

Now I have another problem on my hands. I get up from the wet ground and step on the injured ankle, testing its limits, and nearly fall again at the pain lancing up my leg. I look around in the dark, searching for any kind of salvation. I can't make it very far on this ankle and the squishy, wet feeling in my boot tells me I'm losing blood. My standards for shelter have gone from a simple need to desperation. At this point, I would settle for a hole in the ground. At any moment lightning could strike again. A branch could impale me, or an entire tree could pin me down, crushing me beneath its weight.

Just for the hell of it, I stop and try my magic on my aching ankle, gathering a bushel of dandelion heads into my palms from a patch on the ground. I close my eyes and summon my power, waking it from its slumber. It unfurls from its cocoon of dormancy, slithering around my body lazily. I focus my energy and for a moment it ignites in my veins, shooting through vessels towards my fingertips.

Too soon it sputters out almost as quickly as it came alive and I huff, dropping the yellow flowers to the ground, knowing the effort was futile. My body is too worn, my mind too unfocused. Even if I had the proper training back home, I still wouldn't be able to turn my magic into anything useful. Not now, not today. There are limits to my magic, and fatigue is one of them. When my mother cut my lessons short, she also left me to figure out my limits on my own. She left me stranded and heartbroken.

I didn't want to leave the only home I'd ever known, but what other choice did I have, really? Our housemaid's dying breath was used to tell me to leave the manor at once. To run from my mother and never look back. So I did.

I left with nothing but my clothes and the cloak on my back, a thick maroon cloth that has since seen better days. That and the ruby ring my father gifted to my mother, an heirloom from his own mother who had died years before. Its rich red facets always shine bright, even in the darkest of times. I didn't know I was going to steal it from her vanity until I was already in there, looking at my reflection in the large oval mirror, trying to see where my mother's features ended and my father’s began. I took it out of spite, or maybe out of revenge. Or maybe I just wanted something from my father before I left the home that held so many memories of him within its walls.

After what feels like hours of running—more like hobbling through an endless forest, I see a small yellow light flickering in a clearing. A cry escapes my lips at the sight, and for a moment I think my mind is playing tricks on me, but as I near the edge of the woods, the blurred outline of a cabin with a small lantern sitting in the window comes into view.

My throbbing ankle has turned into a throbbing leg and feels quite swollen in my boot. Coupled with my hunger and fatigue, my head is light with blood loss and is telling me I need to address it fast. Lightning fractures the sky, brightening the darkness for a moment with electric purple. I waste no time running to the wooden door of the dark cabin, absorbing the shooting pain with every step, my boots sinking into the soft earth as I approach the structure. No movement or sound aside from the glowing lantern, I turn the knob on the door and push.

The wind grabs the door, and I nearly fall across the threshold as leaves and debris follow me in. I'm immediately assaulted with the scent of old pine. Quickly, I turn and push the door shut, using both hands to combat the fierce wind fighting me on the other side. With my back against the door, I slide down to the floor and wait for my heaving breath to calm and the pulsing in my leg to subside. I push my hood back and take in my surroundings.

As I suspected, the log cabin is empty save for me, but not abandoned. No, this is a lived-in space. Not only does the lit lantern give it away, but the beds are haphazard as if they have been slept in recently. Leather boots line the bottom bunks, some caked with dried mud, some worn through the toes. All are distinctly male. It smells of sweat and roasted garlic, of life. This cabin is someone's home. Or rather, many people's home from the looks of the beds.

When I look to the wall on my left, I know exactly who lives here. I know exactly where I am.

The various weapons that hang from the iron hooks near the door all bear the symbol of the Arion Warrior Camps. The sharp lines of the sword’s blade breaks the sunburst on its hilt into two, representing the halves of protection and perseverance. The Arion Warriors are known for their brutal training and unmatched skills. Only the best of the best serve to protect our lands and our people. Our country is under constant threat of invaders from other lands trying to take what is ours. It’s a war of attrition, but the warriors do a good job of not letting it affect civilian lives.

I've made it to the camp without even realizing it in the storm. My guess is that the warriors who usually reside in this cabin got caught in the storm and had to ride it out until the earth settles enough for them to continue home, which gives me time—time to breathe, time to warm my frozen bones, time to hide. And time to address this wound.

As my pulse settles, exhaustion sinks like iron in my veins, weighing me down but I know I need to check the damage to my ankle. I can barely stand, let alone trek further west tonight. My aching muscles remind me of the long summer days I spent on horseback, knowing it was better to stay as far from the manor as I could .

Grabbing the black ledge of a windowsill, I pull myself to my feet and further inspect my surroundings. There are eight beds in total—four bunks along opposite walls. An eight-point stag is mounted on the wall near the entrance. His black marble eyes stare stoically. To the back of the cabin is the kitchen. Pots and pans line the rear wall with pine cupboards surrounding it. A small fireplace sits to the right of me flanked by a few pieces of dark, worn furniture. I limp towards the back of the cabin where the kitchen is and notice a small bathing room and a few closets. Simple. A good use of space without feeling too cluttered. I can only imagine what this cabin feels like with eight burly warriors living in it.

I wonder if all of the cabins in this camp are identical, if some are larger than others or more luxurious, depending on the ranking of the soldiers that live inside.

Finding a cheesecloth on the wooden surface of the kitchen, I tear it into strips and tie them together in haste. I’ve long forgone feeling guilty when stealing things from others in less trying predicaments than I am. My survival instinct has gotten quite relentless over the last six months. When I have the closest thing to a bandage I can hope for, I finally remove my worn boot and take a look at the damage. As suspected, my entire leg is crimson with smeared blood, and I wish more than anything that I learned more about how to use my magic properly. I wish I would have had more time, or maybe a less selfish teacher.

As a feeble attempt, I reach for my power, feeling it stir deep within me, and I pull it towards the surface of my skin, hoping I can maybe fuze it to something in this cabin. But even I know that I am in no shape to fuze. I'm injured, hungry, fatigued, and if I'm being entirely honest, too weak in the mind to focus on much. My magic feels like it's underwater—muted and distant. Sluggish. Even if I could bring it forward, I've never tried my hand at mending an ankle. I wouldn't have the faintest idea for how to begin. With my luck, I'd probably end up doing more damage than anything.

I peel back my soaked stocking to reveal the torn skin, cursing my broken power for being of no use to me. Bile rises in my throat and I swallow it back down. I've seen worse than this, having hunted on my own, but something about seeing my own body this way has me on edge. Or maybe it's just my empty stomach. I wrap the wound tightly, praying infection doesn't settle in before the storm breaks and I can properly clean it out, but I can feel my body shutting down. I'm going to pass out.

The storm seems to have weakened to a steady rainfall now. The cold drops clink against the fogged windows with an occasional drum of thunder. I drag myself to the fireplace and notice the orange glow buried within the ash. My heart skips a beat at the unexpected warmth coming from the dying embers, and I nearly cry as my hands begin to thaw, the heat giving me life.

A large black pot that smells of savory spices hangs from the swinging arm, keeping its contents warm. My mouth waters like a hound, and I suddenly cannot remember the last thing I ate. I peer over the top of the simmering pot letting the steam rise to my face when I hear muffled voices from outside and my stomach drops. Shit.

They're back.