Little Fox

Kritter

Kritter

The one and only...
Ch.1:

The plains in the northern lands stretched out for miles, flat as milled paper with tufts of brown grass that swayed in the ever present breeze. The sky there was never blue. It sat between the beige of morning and the lupine gray of afternoon, and at night, the stars were cloaked by a ceiling of clouds. Mountains blackened the thinnest edge of the horizon to the west, and if you followed the dirt road out towards Dorning in the south, you’d eventually pass through a pine forest, but as far as Oren Brady knew, to his north and east, the plains went on forever.

Pockets of ice crunched beneath his buckskin boots as he walked, his head and eyes lowered against the biting cold. His hands were plunged deep in the folds of a thick sheepskin coat, his right hand clutching the reins of his horse, which walked with disinterest behind him. Oren's soft voice formed a puff of vapor as he glanced back at the lumbering shire. “Just a little further, Pea.”

Peabody was small for a draft horse, a runt among giants, barely standing a head above his master’s sturdy frame, but he was all the horse Oren would ever need, remaining healthy and unaffected by the icy winter winds. He was, however, hungry, and as they passed by another empty trap, Oren felt the cramp of hunger himself. He removed one gloved hand just long enough to brush a tangle of brown locks from his face and then gave his horse an encouraging pat, nodding towards a distant stream.

Patches of snow and dried brush dotted the muddy banks of Old Smith Creek, where a sliver of water trickled between a maze of broken sticks, ice and rocks. Cold soaked through the knees of Oren’s pants as he bent to fill a jug, his eyes tracing a line of fresh paw prints to where they disappeared in the grass. His eyebrow rose, the lean muscles in his legs lifting him silently back to his feet.

“Ahhh,” he whispered, taking a few slow steps in the direction of the brush. “Where are you, little fox?” His eyes caught a sudden lurch of movement. “Hey!” he shouted, his hand reaching over his shoulder for his rifle as he bound after the animal, his lungs filling deeply, his feet a blur of speed, his eyes locked firmly on the flashes of red fur. He just had to keep up a little further. His prey would move into the open. He’d have one or two clean shots. Tall grass whipped across his burning calves as he ran, oblivious to everything around him. And then suddenly he tumbled forward, falling to his hands, the cock of his rifle slamming into his cheek bone.

“Devil be damned,” he growled, glancing back to where his foot had caught on a log, but it wasn’t a log. His eyes narrowed on what appeared to be a lump of worked black leather. He sat up, his fingers tenderly rubbing the budding swell on his cheek before turning on hands and knees. “What’s this then?” he whispered, his hand trembling as he reached out to touch the smooth curved surface, his eyes widening with realization and wonder. It was legs and the hip of a human body, which lay face down in the dirt.

Oren pressed the grass away, taking in a pale, white hand that poked out beneath a worn jacket. His breath sucked back in. The fingers were slender and delicate, and they bore three silver rings. Cautiously putting his hand to the shoulder, he turned the body over. The face was distinctly female, framed with long curls of chestnut hair that spilled out from beneath a dark suede hood.

At once, he wrestled off his gloves and reached to feel for a pulse, although he didn’t expect to find one. Her lips were purple, and her skin ice cold and baring a bluish pallor. Unable to feel anything, he lifted her hand, which was spattered with drops of dried blood. He patted it a few times, his eyes nervously tracing over her body, trying to determine if she was wounded. It was then his upper teeth pressed deep into his lip. Her foot sat twisted and bloodied between the claws of his own trap.

“It's okay,” he said, attempting to calm himself as he pried open its jaws. “It’ll be all right.” He had checked that trap the morning before. She couldn't have been exposed for more than one night, although he knew the temperature had sat well below freezing that entire week. Curling his hands under her body, he lifted her lithe form and carried her gingerly over the muddy banks to where his horse stood idle.

“You'll never guess what I caught,” he joked to Pea in disbelief, as he hoisted the young woman head first over his saddle.
 
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Kritter

Kritter

The one and only...
Little Fox

Ch. 2:


Big John Smith stood against the wall of his cabin with tightly crossed arms, his mouth set in a grim line. His wife, Marie, kneeled over the frozen woman’s body, carefully removing her bloodied boot to inspect the injured foot. Oren paced anxiously between the two, pausing on occasion to crane his neck around Marie’s stout form.

“It’s bad,” Marie said, glancing over her shoulder at her husband, before settling her dark gaze on Oren. “Her ankle is badly broken.”

“So she...she’s alive?” Oren asked, the corners of his lips lifting slightly.

“Yes.” Marie turned her eyes back on her husband with concern. “She is alive.”

Big John grunted, his hand reaching up to scratch at his beard, his face mirroring his wife’s apprehension. “Tell me again how you found her, Ori.”

Oren sighed at his friend, more interested in the woman’s state than in recounting the story. “Can you at least give her more blankets?” he said, slowly taking a seat at their table.

Big John gave a tense nod to his wife, allowing the accommodations, but he clearly had misgivings. “So you say she was just laying by the stream.”

“Yes.” Oren gave a distracted nod.

“And you saw no other people? No horses?”

“No. No, there was nothing.”

“And she had no weapons on her, Ori?” Big John took the chair across from him, his large hands clasping together as he leaned forward on the table. “No pack?”

Oren turned his head towards the man, catching the look of suspicion in his eyes. It was the same look the man had directed at him when he first showed up in the northern lands. Fiercely territorial plainsmen didn't take well to strangers, especially ones that trespassed on their land. “No, there was no pack.” His fingers traced briefly over the dagger in his pocket, giving its mention a moment’s consideration, but he knew what kind of conclusions the large man would draw. “No weapons.”

Big John took a deep breath and turned his troubled gaze towards the frozen woman. “She does not look Dornish.”

“Well, who’s to say?” Oren sputtered out nervously, masking his own concerns. The woman looked nothing like the buxom, blonde, round-faced girls who filled the streets of Dorning. Her body was slender, her face diamond-shaped with a delicate nose. Her lips, he had noted, formed a little bow. She was a foreigner most likely, from the west, he guessed, as that’s where the mountain people lived.

Marie smoothed her hands down the front of her dress, which looked wide as a bell over thick woolen leggings. She pulled her long hair over her shoulder, nervously twisting her graying curls before leaving them to draw her sweater closer. “I suppose I should put another log on the fire,” she said, heading for the cabin door.

“No need to waste the wood.” Big John stayed her, rising from his chair, his bear-like frame stretching skywards. “Bring her to the outpost, Ori. They can take better care of her there.”

“What?” Oren gasped, jumping out of his seat. “No. She’d never survive the trip. It’s too far, John, and who’s to say they’d even take her. You know what they think of me. Marie.. please,” he begged, turning to the woman. “You’re the best healer I know. Please...make him see reason.”

“It’s not up to her,” Big John snapped, and then he swiftly turned his face to the wall, mumbling something skywards. His great shoulders heaved as he took a deep breath, and then he turned around and lowered his head. “I’m sorry. You’ve been a good friend, Ori, and you don’t deserve my anger. But we know nothing about this woman. Someone could be looking for her. There may be search parties.”

Oren walked over to their hearth and leaned a hand against the mantle, staring into the flames. Big John was right, of course. Outside of the natives, no one came to the northern lands without a reason. Most foreigners there were fugitives, hiding from the law. He reached in his pocket and fingered the dagger, before glancing back at the frozen woman.

“I’ll bring her to the outpost,” Oren finally said in agreement. “As soon as she is well enough to ride.” It was half a concession, but he felt it was fair. And it bought him a little more time.

“Well, she cannot stay here,” Big John said, glaring at Marie, daring her to disagree.

“I didn't intend to leave her, neighbor,” Oren said, swiftly returning to the woman, carefully removing all but one blanket, lifting her bundled form into his arms. “I’m taking her home with me.”
 
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M

Mysty

Veteran Member
Awesome! Thankyou Kritter. I was so excited when I saw this, I sat down to read it, then stopped and thought.. no way.. This needs to be enjoyed right. Went and got a cup of coffee, got all comfy and began to read. Woooo!! thanks :D
 
Kritter

Kritter

The one and only...
Little Fox

Ch. 3

Smoke rose from a white stone chimney, filling the night air with its sweet scent. From his log pile, Oren took in the cabin’s warm glow, before rubbing his sleeve across his face to keep his nose from running. The cold stung the tiny spaces on his neck that his scarf failed to cover, the flaps on his fur cap doing little to save his earlobes. He couldn't imagine the woman surviving even an hour under such conditions, let alone at night. But they were hearty stock, those mountain people, if that’s where she was actually from.

Oren walked back to the door with a log under each arm and lowered his head as he entered. He’d had a dog, Buck, who used to greet him at the door each time he returned. The animal’s death the month before had been hard on him, and every time he crossed that threshold and was met with nothing but silence, he still felt the loss. He laid the logs by the hearth and removed his gloves, rubbing his hands against the fire, taking in the comforting scent of the soup that boiled above it. And then he glanced at the young woman laying bundled on his bed and smiled.

He knew she wouldn't remain there, if she even survived at all, but it didn't stop him from imagining it. Her companionship, even fleeting, was welcome. He turned his head to locate a chair and carried it to her side. Every blanket and skin he owned was piled over her body, in the hopes he could thaw her out.

“I wish I knew your name,” he said, taking a seat, bending forward to lightly brush the hair from her still pale face. He had checked all her pockets when he first found her, but she’d had no identification. There was just the dagger, affixed to her belt, along with a small bag of dried beans.

“People were suspicious of me too, when I first got here.” He chuckled, shaking his head at his timing. “Right after the King’s assassination. To say I was suspect...” His eyes rolled, remembering the cool reception he’d received at the outpost. “It took a long time for me to earn their trust...well...John’s trust,” he added, knowing the outpost denizens were still wary of him. Oren paused a moment, listening to her faint, soft breath, eyeing her ashen tone with concern.

“I wish you would wake up,” he whispered, rising from the chair to attend to his dinner. Potatoes boiled in milk with onions, and a small piece of bread spread with butter. The milk and butter, Marie had given him. Bounty from their last remaining goats. When next he bagged an elk or mule deer, he would repay their kindness, but the game in the north lands had been dauntingly sparse that month. He dusted his bowl with salt and pepper, and carried it back to his seat by the bed.

“John scared the hell out of me the first time I saw him,” he said, smiling poignantly at that memory as he took a spoon full of soup. “The folks at the outpost assured me no one lived over here by the creek. So when this big man walks up to my tent with a rifle in his hand, towering over me by a foot...” He laughed, taking another sip, pressing one foot against the thick straw mattress, tilting back his chair. “I didn't know what to think. He walked right up to me, his chest this far from my face.” He displayed the three inch gap with his fingers. “You’re hunting on my land," he said, imitating John's deep voice with a chuckle. "And I just stood there, shaking in my boots.”

A part of him was glad the woman couldn't hear that bit of the story. He wasn't a coward (nor could one last a day in the brutal north) but he truly hadn't expected an armed confrontation. “And, then...he saw my traps.” Oren grinned, scraping the last bit of food from his bowl. “Turns out, he was a bit more of a farmer than a hunter, and he’d been having a problem with coyotes. He told me I could stay if I would share my game and help him cut down the predators. Not long after that, I helped him build an addition on to his cabin, and last summer, he helped me build this.” His eyes ran along the sturdy log walls, proud of what they’d accomplished together.

“It’s a good home,” he said, putting his bowl down on the floor and reaching forward to take the woman’s cold hand, trying to warm it between his palms. “I could get Marie to make it curtains,” he offered, looking down at the frozen woman's fingers, noting for the first time there were words stamped on her silver rings. Oren leaned in and squinted, studying them closer. The first one said "King," the second one "Justice."

He twisted the third ring around and slowly whispered, “Death.”
 
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stjwelding

stjwelding

Veteran Member
Kritter Thanks for the new chapter it looks like there may be more to the frozen woman. Thanks for sharing.
Wayne
 
Kritter

Kritter

The one and only...
Little Fox

Ch. 4:

Frigid air filled Oren’s lungs as he walked out to the stable, leaving a trail of footsteps in the freshly fallen snow. He struggled with the gate, nearly shaking it from its hinges, a bucket of water sloshing in his left hand. “The things I do for you,” he mumbled to Pea, placing the bucket on the ground and reaching for a scoop of oats to fill the animal’s feedbag. His face scrunched as he straightened, his palm pressing against the arch of his back. His sleep had been fitful the night before, in part due to the floor’s unyielding hardness, and in part due to his endless ruminations about the woman.

“King.” He removed the shire’s blanket, giving his tawny coat a pat before looking him in the eye with inquisition. “Which King?” It was a question that had haunted him all evening while he studied the girl’s dagger by the fire, running his fingers across the smooth steel and over its carved wooden handle. It was no Dorning blade, of that he was sure, as the prideful Dorning smiths always stamped their names in the metal.

“Justice,” he said with theatrical flair, raising his fist high in the air, giving his horse a smirk, and then he frowned, glancing back at his cabin. “Death,” he whispered again. It was such a morbid word to find on a young woman’s finger. So out of place from the tender words that had filled his head since he found her.

“You don’t suppose she’s the...” he started to Pea, his head lifting at the sound of a wagon approaching. He peered cautiously around the side of the stable and then stepped out into the open. “Marie!” he shouted, extremely pleased to see his neighbor visit. John’s home was only a fifteen minute’s ride from his, but aside from the times when Oren was ill, she rarely came alone.

“How is she?” the woman asked in a serious tone, lifting her chin towards the cabin.

“Still unconscious.” Oren took charge of her horse as she climbed down from the wagon, a leather satchel clutched between her mittens.

“I’ll see her now,” she said, walking straight past him to the door.

“All right.” Oren bit back a smile and followed her inside. The air of the cabin was warm and smoky, the smell of coffee evident from the kettle on his makeshift stove. Tins of dry goods cluttered his shelves, most of them close to empty, as he hadn't been to the outpost in over a month. A hunting bow hung from the wall by the door with a quiver of arrows beneath it, and next to that, he had a crate with tools. There was a chest he’d made to hold his clothes next to his bed, and two chairs and a table, but outside of that, there wasn't anything else.

“Her ankle will need to be set. I’ll need warm water and a rag.” She took a seat on the chair by the bed, laying out a needle and thread and a long roll of cotton linen.

“It was nice of John to let you come,” Oren said, pouring water from the kettle into a basin and laying it by her side.

“He expects you to go to the outpost next week,” she said, not looking up from what she was doing.

“I know.” Oren lowered his head, staring down at his feet. From the time he had arrived, the four hour ride to the outpost had become his responsibility alone. He didn't mind, really, as he liked to browse the traders' wares after haggling for fair prices on his furs. He just hated the guards' suspicious glances, and he wasn't ready to leave his latest acquisition alone or part with her just yet.

“She’ll be in pain when she wakes. I brought along some leaves. Give them to her in tea,” she said, scrubbing the frozen woman’s leg before starting to sew closed the wounds.

Oren watched in fascination. He considered Marie’s gift to be mystical, as she had a habit of burning herbs when she worked, sometimes rolling her hands in the smoke. She reminded him of the carnival performers that used to ride into Dorning once a year. Dark-haired and dark-eyed with strange, faint accents that he could never really place.

“Will you still be by for dinner on Sunday?” Marie questioned.

“No, not this week,” Oren said, knowing she knew his reasons.

There was a long stretch of silence while she finished her work, bandaging the leg with wooden splints. And then she removed the woman’s jacket and shirt, leaving only a camisole top. Immediately, Marie’s breath sucked in with an expression of frightened shock, lifting an amulet from around the woman’s neck. “She bears an Anarian crest.”

“Anarian?” Oren repeated, narrowing his eyes.

“Yes,” Marie said gravely, quickly gathering her things. “It’s a small village to the east. Be careful around her, Ori. Don't trust anything she says.”

“But...why?” he questioned as she hastened to the door, but he didn't follow after her. Instead, he circled back to the bed, where the woman had just murmured and moaned.
 
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Kritter

Kritter

The one and only...
Little Fox

Ch. 5

Oren sat by the woman’s side for an hour, watching her lips make tiny movements, as if she whispered in a dream. Her flesh was warming, her fingers no longer icy to the touch. Her dark lashes fluttered, her head turning against the pillow, but she didn’t rouse from her sleep. Oren held her hand in his, running his thumb across her rings, before deciding he should remove the one that said “death,” disliking its ominous presence.

It was odd though, that the rings should mention both “king” and “death,” considering not even a year ago, his King had been assassinated. He wished he knew more about the event, but he hadn’t paid much attention at the time, having had a host of problems of his own. He remembered that day though, well.

“Do you have a spring feast in Anaria?” he questioned, pulling a blanket higher over her shoulder. “In Dorning, everyone gets together on the last day of winter and they have this...huge party,” he enthused, “...with tons of food and cakes and pies.” He smiled, recalling all the bright decorations that graced the town’s square and storefronts, with the residents in their fine holiday clothes of velvet, silk and lace. “Families would get together and give each other gifts. I...” he paused, his voice growing softer. “I didn’t have a family anymore. Just friends.”

He glanced over his shoulder through the window, to where the hazy light was starting to cast long shadows. The days were shortest this time of year, and if he had any hopes of getting meat for them, he would need to go hunting soon. But he hated the idea of her waking up alone. He picked up her jacket, looking it over, thinking to stow it away so she couldn’t just run off into the cold. It was well made, he noted, with a ton of small pockets, not unlike his hunting coat.

“Where is Anaria?” he asked, folding the jacket and tucking it under his arm. “I don’t recall ever hearing of it.” He raised an eyebrow at the sleeping woman. “You would think someone would have spoken of it once or twice.” He stood, his hand dropping down to touch the amulet on her neck. It was black with a silver inlay of a lion holding a decapitated head. “They look like real friendly people,” he joked, biting his lip, before turning to sling his rifle over his shoulder. “Don’t wake up,” he whispered, before opening his door and heading out into the cold.

Peabody’s heavy breaths puffed out like dragon smoke as he galloped full steam across the plains. Oren didn’t normally ride him this hard, but time was of the essence. He’d hidden the woman’s jacket in the stable, inside a bag of oats, but he wasn’t sure that was enough to keep her from leaving, even with the use of one foot. Something told him she was more than capable of doing so if she wanted.

His first two traps had been empty, but the third one netted a gopher and the forth held a raccoon within its jaws. Luck was on his side, he believed, as he came upon fresh antelope tracks, but it was luck that was short lived as it he came upon its decimated carcass in the snow. “Damn you, Demon,” he growled, scanning the horizon, using the name he’d given the large coyote who still managed to evade his capture. He’d seen the animal many times, lurking in the distance - big as a man and swift as a falcon, and easily as dangerous as both.

Demon had been responsible for the deaths of some of John’s livestock, and it vexed Oren that he still remained alive. He sighed down at the carcass in hopeless frustration, and then turned his head at the sound of another horse.

“Ori!” Big John greeted him from the distance, sounding more jovial than normal. “Any luck?”

“Not much,” he responded, gesturing towards the blood trail. “The demon strikes again.”

Big John rode up beside him, his hand fishing through his pocket to pull out a small bag. “Marie asked me to give you this. More medicine...for your woman.”

“Thank you,” Oren said slowly, taking the bag, narrowing his eyes at its contents. It was gnarled black roots that looked more like dead human fingers than medication.

“She hasn’t woken up yet, has she?” John asked, leaning forward in his saddle, casting a shadow that covered both Oren and Pea.

“Not fully,” Oren said.

Big John nodded, a ghost of a smile touching the sides of his lips. “Well just chop those up and put them on her food. And if you need us for anything...” he added, in a sympathetic tone, leaving the rest of the offer unspoken.

“Thank you again,” Oren said, tucking the bag in his pocket. With little to show for his few hours time, he trotted back home in solemn contemplation. It was unusual for John to track him down out in the plains. He could recall him doing it only once before. And it was odd that Marie had given him this medicine after expressing such grave mistrust of the woman. He reached for the bag and examined the roots, rolling them against his fingers, glancing back over his shoulder at the road that led to his neighbor's home.
 
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stjwelding

stjwelding

Veteran Member
Hello Kritter, thanks for the new chapter. If I had to guess I would say it was poison also, but this is your story and it is up to you weather it is or not. Love the story thanks for the time and for posting it for us to read.
Wayne
 
Kritter

Kritter

The one and only...
Little Fox

Ch. 6:

Oren sat at his table, crushing the dried leaves Marie had given him earlier that morning. She’d brewed this tea before for him, when he was nursing a fever, so he knew it worked well for discomfort. Water boiled in the kettle behind him as he measured the leaves into a mug and scraped the last of his sugar from its tin.

“I’ll have to go to the outpost soon,” he said, frowning over at the woman, who had begun to toss and whimper in her sleep. Her lips had gained a pinkish color, but they looked dry and cracked, and he worried that she grew dehydrated. He pulled the bag of black roots from his pocket and held them to his nose, wrinkling his face at their odor. His eyes lifted to the mug of tea and then back to the roots, and then he closed the bag and stuffed it into the empty tin, placing it high up on the shelf.

It felt strange mistrusting his friends, as they’d been more than kind since his arrival. Meals at their home were filled with good conversation and laughter, mainly with John, as Marie spoke little, but her delicious cooking more than made up for her silence. He knew it was possible, though, for people to be deceptive. He himself had lied when they asked him how he came to be in the north lands, not wanting to recount his sad story.

He carried the cooling mug to the chair by the woman’s bedside, dipping a rag into the tea and pressing it against her lips, hoping she would take in some of the liquid. His eyes fell on the amulet again, squinting to make out the words beneath it, which were written in a foreign language. “In munerium reges,” he whispered, having no idea what it meant.

The woman stirred slightly, her lips parting a fraction to close around the rag.

“There,” Oren said, his smile growing wide. “That’s good. Drink up.” His hand ran across her forehead and down the side of her hair, feeling more like a parent overseeing a sick child than a man nursing a woman. “What were you doing way out here, little fox?” he pondered, stroking her hair again, gazing at the soft, pinkish flush of her cheeks. “Whatever you were running from, I don’t even care. You’re safe here.”

It was hard to imagine her being on the run, but she carried so few supplies with her, he couldn’t help but believe it. The guards at the outpost were well-trained in tracking criminals who fled to the plains in desperation. More often than not, they would soon be found dead; frozen or starved or torn apart by the claws of a hungry scavenger.

“You’re lucky I found you and not the Demon,” he said, refreshing the cloth in the liquid, watching with warm satisfaction as she suckled on it again. He glanced over his shoulder out the window as the sound of a wagon rolled up outside.

“Ori?” Big John’s voice called to him.

Oren stood and looked for a place to set the wet cloth, feeling mildly flustered. He reached for his coat as John peered in the window, giving him a friendly nod before settling his eyes on the woman.

“What’s up?” Oren asked, confused to see him again.

“Thought I’d come give you a hand with that broken gate.” Big John’s head tilted towards Oren’s stable, displaying two fresh hinges in his hand. “Made a new post for it too,” he said, walking over to his wagon to heave the large block of wood over his shoulder, tossing it down in front of the badly rotted fence.

“I’ll go get my shovel.” Oren smiled, glad to have his assistance. The gate had been dangling from its hinges so long, he’d grown used to his daily struggle with its unruly, stubborn movement and the nightly loops of coiled wire he’d been using to keep it shut.

“So,” John said, helping Oren to lift and free the gate. “Marie tells me the woman is Anarian.”

“So she says,” Oren answered, not entirely comfortable with the subject.

“So she says?” John repeated, his voice raising in ire. “The woman wears an Anarian crest, does she not?”

Oren stopped what he was doing and straightened, giving the man an even stare. “What’s your point, John?”

Big John stood stunned for a moment, his face a cross between anger and befuddlement, and then his expression eased, his tone dropping to a whisper. “There can be only one reason why a woman like this is out here.”

“You think she’s the assassin,” Oren said plainly, having gone there himself.

“No Ori, don't you see?" he said, his voice picking up an air of warning. “She’s the hunter.”
 
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M

Mysty

Veteran Member
ooo , I didn't know you had the swing zone on amazon! Just bought it only 2.99$. I always wanted to buy that book, but the last people you had handling it broke it up so much I couldn't justify it. Now its mine, all mine!!!
 
S

Sneaker 11

RECONDO
Kritter............thanks for the new story. I really enjoy your writing. Looking forward to mooooooaaaaaaaaar!

Sneaker 11
 
Kritter

Kritter

The one and only...
Little Fox

Ch. 7:

Oren sat with his feet propped up against the hearth, the fire’s orange glow flickering across his serious face. His head turned to the woman sleeping on his bed, studying her in the darkness. She wasn’t a beauty queen - at least, not like the Dorning princesses with their toothy smiles and big blue-eyes - but she had both a toughness and vulnerability in her face that he personally found attractive. If Big John hadn’t mentioned his suspicion of her, he doubted he would have imagined it himself, but now he was forced to reconsider.

There was a bounty for the assassin’s capture, and the people at the outpost thought him a suspect, and here this woman shows up just a half mile from his home. He doubted she’d intentionally stepped into his trap, but what if she was looking to befriend him and get him to talk? An admission of guilt is all it would take.

“I didn’t do it,” he said to her, shaking his head in frustration, and then he glanced back at the sugar tin that held Marie’s black roots. He had always thought that she and John believed him when he said he didn’t do it, but now he wasn’t so sure, as they seemed to want to protect him from the woman. It wouldn’t surprise him really, that the northern folk would give safe harbor to an assassin, as none of them were particularly fond of old King Phillip. He attempted to tax them on their lands since Dorning maintained their outpost, and he forced city laws on the people there, despite their angry objections. Big John often referred to King Phillip as ‘that dead tyrant,’ an attitude reflected by most of the north land residents.

“I’m probably one of the few people who liked him,” he added, remembering how King Phillip once patted him on the head when he was a child. “In any case...” Oren sighed, knowing his words were pointless, as the woman was still unconscious. He stood up and pulled on his coat, needing to step out into the frigid night to grab more wood for the dwindling fire. The moon was full, lending a silver edge to the lonely, dark clouds which seemed to drift perpetually towards the south. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the Demon howling. It was a depressing sound, that mournful wail, and it cut deep into his soul. Sometimes he felt a connection to that one elusive coyote, even knowing it would kill him if it could.

He returned to his home and laid down his coat as a mattress, shivering on the floor by the fire, still clinging to his fantasy that the woman would wake and remain with him, although he knew it was just wishful thinking. Big John was lucky to have a wife who didn't mind their isolation. Even though there was no proof of their dire concerns, he knew he would need to be cautious around the frozen woman until he could divine her true nature.

--

Oren woke to the sound of pained moans early in the morning, his head lifting towards the woman who writhed uncomfortably in his bed. “I’m going to make you some tea for the pain,” he said, going for his jug to pour water into the kettle. He lit the fire under his stove and blew on it a moment, trying to get it burning. “It’ll just be a few...” he started, then stopped, glancing over his shoulder, noting her eyes were open.

“Oh,” he gasped, taking a few steps between the kettle and the bed, not sure what he should do.

Her eyes widened at his movement, her body tensing against the bed, her bottom lip trembling in fear.

“No, no, you’re okay,” he said with gentle reassurance. “I’m...uh....I’m Oren.” He took a slow step forward. “I found you by the river.” He paused, watching her eyes dart nervously around his cabin, giving her a few seconds to absorb her surroundings before trying to continue. “You were frozen. You were nearly dead.”

She bit her lip, her breath growing heavy, her chest visibly rising and falling. He could see her turn slightly under the covers, her hand feeling for her knife, and then her eyes traced carefully over the room again as if she was trying to locate it, a sharp incline in lucidity in her face. Her gaze lingered on his bow on the wall before focusing back on him.

“You...you were stuck in a trap. Do you remember that? What were you doing out here?” he said, guessing she was looking for an explanation, but there didn’t appear to be any recognition in her eyes. If anything, she looked confused and lost, like he was speaking in a foreign language.

“Do you even understand Dornish?” he asked, scanning her puzzled face, waving the question when he saw the pain in her eyes. “The tea...” He nodded, pointing to the boiling water. “It’ll make you feel better.” He rushed over and pulled out a handful of the leaves, crushing them into a powder, occasionally peering over his shoulder, noting she silently watched him.

“Do you have a name?” he tried again, hoping to elicit some response. He carried the mug to the bed. “Careful, it’s hot,” he said, extending it to her. “I’m Oren. Oren...” he repeated slowly, gesturing to himself.

Her eyes narrowed at him as she cautiously took the tea. “Hanah,” she whispered hoarsely, in an accent that sounded very much like Marie’s.
 
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