In My Arms Again

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

I have no idea how long I’ve slept when an urgent banging on the door jolts me awake. My head shoots up and I peer through the window, but the outside is even darker than before. The wind howls more ferociously than ever, sounding like a pack of angry nightwolves outside the walls of my cabin. Rain pelts my home from every direction, smattering against the walls, making the glass in the windows rattle.

More banging chases me to my feet. I cross the floor in a few long strides and pull open the door.

Someone falls in and collapses before me in a drenched heap. The person doesn’t move at all, as though banging on my door had stolen the last breath from their body.

I shove my hands under the person’s arms and pull them fully inside so I can kick the door closed. My rough handling doesn’t stir the stranger, so I keep pulling until they’re as close to the hearth they can get without catching fire before I allow myself to look at who had knocked on my door in the middle of the night.

It’s a man. He’s tall and lanky with dark, almost black, skin and even darker tangled, waist-long hair; it’s so black it’s shifting in blue. His face has a grayish tinge to it, with the exception to two bright red spots on his cheekbones, and the full lips are chapped and scraped. The narrow chest rises and falls irregularly, showing none of the usual steadfastness of a steadily breathing man. His skin is cold and clammy to the touch, and he shivers under my scrutiny.

I lay my hand on his forehead—a rough and hardened palm against his delicate features—and snatch it back immediately. He’s blazing hot, just like the fire.

My burning palm kicks me into action, and I cup his shoulder, shaking gently.

“Esteemed visitor.” I wince at the roughness of my voice, but he doesn’t move. I shake again, speaking louder. “Honored stranger, wake up for the sake of the Maidens.”

When he doesn’t as much as twitch, I spring into action and pull his wet clothing off his shivering body. Despite the bedraggled state of the garments, I recognize that they’re of good quality, the finest silk woven in ornate patterns. Far too thin for the season, but valuable and beautiful, nonetheless.

I pat him dry and collect his hair into a piece of cloth before hurrying to the chest of clothes and digging out a floor-length, thick nightshirt, socks reaching over the knee, and a pair of fur-lined moccasins that are far too wide for his narrow feet, but they’ll keep him warm all the same.

With careful movements, I pull the garment over his head and coax his uncooperative arms through the sleeves. His limbs are soft, as though every bone in his body has vanished. When he’s dressed, I cover him with a woolen blanket and push a pillow underneath his head.

He would be more comfortable on my bed, but my first concern is to warm him.

I move the cauldron of broth to the side of the hearth and pour water into the kettle that I hang in its place over the flames. As I wait for it to boil, I hurry to the cabinet and search my stores for the tin of Alvea needles. When I find it, I grab a few sprigs and put them into a drinking bowl, add a big helping of golden honey, and pour the steaming water over it. As the tea steeps, I hang his clothes to dry next to mine.

I try to wake the man again. A slight twitch to his eyelids is all the reaction I get.

After removing the sprigs of needles from the tea with a small wooden spoon, I sit on the floor and carefully maneuver the stranger’s head and upper body onto my lap. When another shake to the man yields no results, I cradle his head in my arm and drizzle a few drops of tea into his slack mouth. I set the bowl on the floor, close his mouth, and massage his throat to make him swallow the tea, wincing as the bow-string calluses on my fingers scrape against his soft skin.

Again and again, I repeat the procedure until the bowl is empty and the worst clamminess of his skin starts to disappear.

I’m probably imagining things, but his breathing appears to be a little less labored than before. It shouldn’t be possible because the effect of the tea takes some time to set in, but maybe the Maidens are keeping watch over both of their lowly servants this night.

Except, the stranger is not so lowly. Save for the pallor caused by his illness and the rough weather, his skin is free of blemishes and close to perfect, and his teeth are straight and flawless. He’s thin like a reed, but in a healthy manner, not like he’s emaciated. Despite his lean stature, his arms and legs are wiry, and I’m certain he’s much stronger than he looks.

I gaze down on his face. His features are relaxed, the tea definitely helping by now. His cheekbones are high and defined, his chin broad with a deep dimple to it that softens the angular jaw. His nose is wide but straight, his brows immaculate arches over his eyes, and his lips—where they’re not parched and chapped—are full and pillowy. The blueish black hair is even longer than mine and shines bright now that the fire has dried it.

He’s a study in contrasts. Hard angles versus soft lines. Straight and severe versus soft and plush.

He is the most beautiful being I’ve ever laid eyes on, and a sense of calm floods my chest. A sense of…peace.

I c**k my head and look closer. There’s something vaguely familiar about him, as though I’ve seen the curve of his upper lip before, the angle of his jaw, and the faint freckles underneath his eyes. As though…

I push away the thought. He’s clearly not from around here; there’s no way I could have seen him before.

There’s also the matter of the clothes. Never in my life have I seen such finery, such delicate fabrics. And the vibrant blue color is most unusual; it rivals the cerulean of the Maidens’ Springs and is difficult and expensive to replicate.

Whoever this strange man is, one thing is certain. He’s undoubtedly nobility.

The realization gives me pause. What is such a man doing here, in the middle of the forest, far away from his home and his kin? We’re plain and simple people here—plain enough to even keep away most of the magical beings—and the nearest township where people are more well off is far away.

I noticed no signs of violence to his person when I stripped him out of his garments; the fever and his roughened state is most likely caused by exposure to the harsh weather conditions for too long. No one should be outside in nothing but a thin kaftan when snow is looming on the horizon.

So why is he here? And is someone looking for him? Can I expect a small army banging on my door any day now, demanding I return him?

I shake my head and will away the thoughts. It’s no use sitting here in the middle of the night, pondering questions whose answers I have no way of figuring out. No, the questions will have to wait until he wakes up.

With a sigh, I get to my feet, lift the man into my arms, and carry him to my bed, where I cover him in the rabbit fur blanket, worrying about the coldness of his skin despite spending time in front of the fire. Then I add more sprigs to his bowl, refill the kettle and hang it to the side, keeping it over the heat but not close enough to the flames for the water to boil. When everything is prepared for making more tea should he need it, I retake my place in the rocking chair.