The Fall Of Snow: Guard Your Heart

5. Five

Five

A Sheep in Wolf’s Clothing

F our days go by with more or less the same routine. Day by day. The warriors leave before dawn, I escape to the forest to hunt for food and return to my closet before they make it back to the cabin for supper.

Until yesterday, when my weakened ankle slipped on a branch and cut my head open on the way down a tree trunk. My head hit so hard I thought for a moment I might have a concussion, but now with the dizziness and the ache in my skull, I’m certain I've suffered a concussion. I even tried my hand at fuzing my magic into a mushroom growing at the base of a tree, with no luck.

I could feel my power unfurl and awaken from within, feel it creep through my veins as I summoned it to the surface, to my fingertips, and into the mushroom. But just as I manifested my intentions for my magic, as I willed it to transform into something useful to stop the bleeding or dull the ache, it stopped, just as it always has since I ran from the manor, like a stone wall has prevented my magic from releasing from my body. I can't manage to get past the mental block that has built in the last several months.

If only I could have had a proper teacher to show me how to fuze.

The third and most recent attempt on my life, the one where she poisoned me with an apple tart, came when I was eighteen. I was helping my mother in the Fuzion Shoppe of the orchard, and I was getting pretty good at it.

Not only is Madam Evangeline known for her large and glorious orchard, but she’s also known for the incomparable items found in the Fuzion Shoppe. Frost apples are our most popular fruit on the orchard due to their resistance during the winter months and are our most used apples for the shop. My mother and I imbue apple products with things only the wealthy can deem to purchase; healing, physical alterations, sleep aids, infatuation, relaxation, and the like.

Reluctantly, my mother had been teaching me how to use my magic since I was young so I could help her in the shop. But when a frequent customer commented on my talents surpassing her own, the look in my mother's eye wasn't one of pride. Instead of continuing our lesson, my mother banished me to my room for the evening. I was too stunned to argue with her, so I did as she said, a nagging feeling tugging at me the entire evening .

Frustrated at my failed attempt at fuzing to close the fresh cut, I clean my head as best I can, but the wound refuses to clot, refuses to stop spilling down my face. So I let it trickle, too angered to care until I can get back to the cabin to rest and cover the wound with my stocking. I've just barely begun to recover from the last injury, and now this. I can't afford to have anything else slowing me down.

With every day that goes by, the more comfortable I become with this routine—which makes me unsettled and on edge. I cannot stay here and live in a closet for the rest of my days. It's only a matter of time before I'm discovered or before the cold settles in and then my travels will have to wait until spring. No, that is not an option. I will leave this land before the first frost, not to mention, food is scarce in these parts of the woods. It simply isn't sustainable.

I need to devise a plan for how I will make it the rest of the way to the coast. I need to figure out how I will pay for passage on a ship across seas. But part of me feels stuck here knowing that this last part of my journey will be the hardest.

I have no idea if my mother's wrath has reached the docks out here—if I am walking into a trap the moment I set foot on the shore or a ship under someone else's control. Something about that uncertainty makes me uneasy, which is why I haven't made a move yet and why I've been willing to gamble my life here in this cabin for days. Ever since the storm that pulled me here, I feel stagnant, not quite ready to move on again.

Sometimes during those nights in the forest where the cold wind cut through the trees and the howling of creatures kept me alert, a small part of me missed the stability of home, of the manor. But then I remembered that to call a place home, it must feel safe—a place where you feel protected—and the manor hasn't truly been a home for me in ages. That human part of me that I loathe longs for a home, a place I feel safe.

Or maybe I just don't fancy being hunted down like a rabbit.

Dawn approaches and I can still hear foot beats as the warriors make their way to training for the day. So far, I've learned that a few of them were born with abilities that surpass that of an average human, like my mother and I have. Only their abilities seem to be more acute, more . . . fit for battle. It has me curious as to what abilities the other warriors in the other cabins have.

Last night the group barged into the cabin like a pack of wild beasts singing an ancient war tune, drunk and off-key. Coy's harmonica was the only thing keeping them in some kind of harmony with one another. Whatever they were commemorating must have been substantial because even Huck joined in on the fun. It kept me up much later than I would have liked. But I made it another night undetected, so I can't complain. Although, I'd give my right arm for a cup of hot coffee this morning.

I emerge from the closet, cramped, crumpled, and slightly woozy, and snag a hunk of cheese from the kitchen. I savor the taste of the sharp flavor in my mouth and the crumble that turns to cream. Before I head out through the back door of the cabin, my eyes catch on a glossed picture wedged in between the slats of Huck's bed. The morning sun illuminates the portrait like a spotlight, or maybe I'm hallucinating from blood loss. It looks expensive.

My feet carry me forward towards the picture like a magnet. A beautiful woman sits under a tree, cradling two babies wrapped in a blanket. Her blonde curls are falling from her shoulders; her smile is wide and inviting. Without knowing who this woman is, or where she is now, I can sense the photo is heavy with importance. Its worn edges are soft with time. My feet barely make a sound as I travel to the bed, free hand outstretched towards the picture ready to grab it. Does Huck have a family of his own?

I pop another bit of stolen cheese into my mouth when the front door bursts open, bringing with it a cool gust of wind . . . and Coy, the shy timid warrior. I have no time for a response before his eyes meet mine.

Shit. I’ve been caught.

A tingling sensation runs through my fingertips as I blink at him. My mouth buzzes with a copper tang and it’s not from the cheese. Unable to move, I just stare, struck still by fear. But he hasn't gone for his sword or dagger strapped at his sides so at least his first instinct isn't to kill.

He blinks back at me, his face visibly shocked into stillness. But then it morphs into curiosity, his eyes widening with intrigue. We stare at each other for what feels like an eternity—a match of who will blink first. Once the fear and adrenaline dissipate slightly, I find our predicament almost comical, fighting the urge to laugh, and I’m acutely aware that I'm holding the stolen hunk of cheese in my hand.

Coy breaks the connection first and bends into a deep bow, "My lady." His voice is deep and warm, calming my pulse further. I almost believe I am in the clear. His eyes meet mine once again as he greets me and straightens. It seems even Arion Warriors can be gentlemen. Again the urge to giggle rises in me at the predicament. This man . . . this soldier has found a stranger unexpectedly in his cabin, eating his cheese, and instead of fileting me alive, he has decided to bow? To greet me with kindness?

Of all the warriors who could have found me here, I couldn’t be luckier that it's Coy. He seems to be the kindest of the bunch. But his comforting baby-like eyes still do not negate that he is a lethal warrior, a trained killer. And I am in his cabin, uninvited.

I lower my arms and take a step back, but the fog in my head gets the best of me and I stumble for a moment before catching myself on the counter. Embarrassment heats my face but I mask it as well as I can.

"Don't be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you." He reaches out as if to steady me, to keep me from running away like a stray doe in the woods in the presence of a hunter.

"You're hurt." His statement holds such concern that my heart aches for a moment at the kindness in it. Absently, I touch my fingers to my head, feeling the slick blood that has again begun to flow. He has every right to want me gone, to harm me, but instead, he's worried for me. Such a stark contrast to what I believed the warriors would be like here. Not that the actions of one warrior speak for them all .

"I . . . no." I reach for my head, forgetting about the wound, "It's nothing. Just a cut." My voice comes out much stronger than I feel, masking my startled nerves. I wish I could tell him that I always look this pale. That my fair skin has nothing to do with the blood trickling down my face. He stays silent so I continue, "I'm sorry, I was caught in the storm and the wind was ripping at my cloak and I was so tired and hungry, I—" I stop myself, but not soon enough. Not before I gave away that I hadn't just wandered in here this morning, but days ago during the storm. I offered up information to him that I had no intention of sharing.

"You've been here for days?" His question comes out sincere instead of accusing as he closes the door behind him, taking another step in. Shame fills my cheeks regardless. There's no use in lying about it now.

"I have. I didn't intend to stay this long. I only needed shelter. A place to rest until the storm passed over." Shame coils in my stomach. It takes everything in me to stay put when every instinct in my body is telling me to flee, to run from a potential threat. But everything about him seems safe—kind. His eyes rove over me as I speak, assessing me in a way that makes me believe he is searching for injury, even though I told him I'm unharmed.

"You could . . . stay, if it will help."

I nearly gape at his words, not understanding how a man who was raised to fight and kill—how a man who was trained to harden his skin so humanity cannot penetrate—could be so sincere. The stories from the infamous Battle of Gibellina told tales of Arion’s ruthless infiltration of the enemy's base camp, how they silently entered their sleeping chambers like ghosts in the night, slitting their throats before they could even wake. The man who stands before me seems anything but a killer. His cheeks flush crimson as he says the words like he's embarrassed for being so brazen. The only thing that makes a modicum of sense is that the Arion Warriors swear an oath to serve and protect their people of Roselaria.

"What?" The question slips through my lips. No doubt disbelief paints my face. He dips his chin to his chest, too shy to look at me now. For such a strong warrior, his demeanor is quite a contrast.

"You're injured. Let me help you." His boots thud lightly on the wooden floors as he grabs a metal box from the top shelf near the empty stone fireplace and finds his way to the worn sofa. "That wound needs to be stitched. Let me clean it out for you and patch you up," he explains, opening the metal box and begins threading a needle. "I'll hide you from the others . . . if you decide to stay."

A cloud of white dust particles float through the air as he finds his seat. Finally, he lifts his gaze again. He raises his hand—palm up—gesturing for me to sit. But I can't seem to move past the words he just spoke. Not about the stitching. I am well aware that the wound will heal faster if it is stitched closed. Not to mention infection. But I’m stuck on his offer to let me stay. I am torn between believing him and finding the lie. I've been burned before.

Why would he be willing to help me? Am I such a fool that I would be tricked by the kind features of a soldier? Or is that nagging need for a home so strong that it outweighs all the logic telling me to run ?

Instead, I sit across from him and allow him to clean out my wound before applying a numbing salve on my skin. I instantly feel the tingling sensation begin and it reminds me of when I was little and slipped on the marble floors of the entryway, breaking the skin on my knee open. Violetta took care of me then—my mother nowhere to be found, even when I cried for her.

"Why?" I peer up at him, needing to understand him better. A small smirk appears as his lashes flutter.

"Let's just say I have a soft spot for a girl on the run." He pauses before deciding to give me more. "It is clear you need help, and I couldn't live with myself if any harm came to a young lady when there was something I could have done to prevent it. I swore myself to protect the people of Roselaria and I don’t take that oath lightly." The emotion that laces his words tells me something personal is driving this kindness. I try to understand this man. A trained killer with a heart of gold? Can such a thing even exist?

Beyond all reason, I trust that this warrior isn't going to kill me. At least not right now. If he was, he would have done it already. No sense in patching someone up just to end them.

He works meticulously, taking care with every gentle tug of the string. The clink of metal from his armor is soft in the quiet space.

"If you're running from something, I can't think of a better place to hide than here in these barracks." He flushes red beneath his collar like it's hard for him to talk to me.

"More like running from someone ," I mutter to myself, realizing too late that I offered up a sliver of truth out loud .

Sorrow lines his eyes as realization settles in. I am not running towards something, but from. I am not on some wondrous adventure, but a runaway trying to survive. In truth, I don't have much of a plan ahead of me, and staying here until I do is enticing. This man is giving me a lifeline—an alternative solution—at least until I get my bearings. I walk over to the cushioned seat, sitting slowly as I keep my eyes on him. It is then that I see his eyes aren't just brown as I originally thought, but hazel. A small ring of green hugs his large pupils, making him all the more comforting, like looking into a window to the forest.

"I'll leave you some food and bandages tonight." He ties off the last of the stitch and cuts the excess string. "You are safe here."

"I-I . . .thank you," I whisper, trying not to think too much about this situation I've gotten myself in. How long can this arrangement actually work for?

"Coy." His voice pulls me from my train of thought. I nod in understanding, not letting on that I already knew this information. Not quite willing to give up my name in return, I swallow my fear and decide to give it anyway as a sign of good faith.

"Thank you, Coy. Truly. You can call me Snow."

His lashes flutter as his cheeks flush pink, and I get the vague sense that he is generally very uncomfortable around women or maybe just strangers. No better place to be then than in a warrior camp full of the same faces every day.

Coy grabs his glove off the brass hook on the wall and bows a farewell before leaving me alone in the cabin.

That night when I sneak back into the cabin before the warriors come home, I find a bowl of roasted potatoes and a warm roll of rosemary bread on a shelf in the closet wrapped with a cloth napkin and two fresh sets of bandages for my head. How he knew where I was stowed away these past few nights isn't too difficult to figure out, but how he was able to spare the time to leave me a bowl of food is beyond me.

I look down at the food left out for me by Coy and smile as I unwrap the neatly covered bowl. Maybe I have found one of the very few good men left. Maybe I have even found a friend, but the voice in the back of my mind tells me to leave before I grow any more roots in this place. I should leave tomorrow.