The pale sunlight slanted through the small-paned window, illuminating the young woman standing beside a table. Its rays caught the tips of her fiery hair, turning them into molten copper, so bright that it was nearly painful to behold. The simple, brown work-dress no longer sagged comically around her frame, but pleasantly hugged the delicate, feminine curves that had recovered with time, patience, and the hearty fare of the farmer’s home. Her hands were working diligently upon the carcass of a freshly slaughtered hen, yanking handfuls of white feathers from its flesh and depositing them into a small wooden bucket.
The man called Griz had been standing near, observing her in silence from the next room. He doubted his impulse to approach her. He doubted his motives and intentions. But he found that he could no more take his eyes from her than he could stop his own pulsing heart. He stood still for a while longer, examining his own thoughts until he felt reassured that he was not acting out of selfish wont. There was little stealth to be had for such an enormous man, and the first step brought an objecting groan from the floorboards.
The woman turned her head at the sound of movement behind her, but did not look backwards. “Hullo,” she muttered.
“Good morning,” he replied, coming up to stand beside her at the table. His tongue immediately failed him, and he distracted himself by idly plucking a feather from the pile beside her.
“You have questions?” she said. “Go on then. I know you. It’s always questions.”
Griz roughly cleared his throat, dropping the feather. “I hear you’ve been improving. Your memory is better?”
“Sort of,” said the woman with a little shrug. “There’s still a big chunk missing.”
“What of the faces you drew? Do you remember who they are now?”
The woman’s hands continued to work without slowing, though she didn’t answer right away. Her head canted to the right, and she sighed. “Aye.”
“That’s wonderful news. I’m pleased.” Griz rested the tips of his thick fingers on the table and turned his slate-brown eyes to the window.
“Are you?” she said, yanking another handful of plumage. It was difficult to tell if the sharp, hard jerks were out of her own vehemence or the effort that was required to remove the feathers cleanly. “You want to hear the sad story for each one?”
“Are they all sad stories?”
She gave another shrug, continuing with her task, keeping her eyes bowed.
Griz glanced at her. “Will you remain here?”
“No.”
“Have you told them?”
She paused at this. Bracing her palms against the table and leaning over it slightly while her feet shifted. “Not yet.”
The man tilted his head low, attempting to find her face beneath the shining, coppery locks that slipped forward over her cheek. When he could not, he reached over and gently lifted them with a single finger, tucking them behind her ear. “Where will you go?”
The woman closed her eyes momentarily, leaning her head ever so subtly towards the touch before it vanished. Her posture straightened all at once, and she seized the half-naked bird again. “Back to Bree, I guess.”
“They will miss you,” said the man, and though his feet remained stationary, his shadow fell over her, inch by inch. A large, weighty hand landed on her far shoulder, surrounding her small form with his arm. “And so will I.”
She felt her throat constricting. A peculiar sort of numbness bit at her skin, her ears felt odd and deaf for half a beat before her pulse thumped in her chest again, and the world came back into focus. “There’s nothing to miss,” she mumbled under her breath. “Crazy woman with nothing to say. What will you miss? Our dazzling conversations?”
“Hrm,” grunted Griz. His opposite hand came around, and the calloused tips of his fingers grasped her chin lightly but firmly, turning her eyes up to meet his. The angled beams of the rising sun struck against the sea-blue irises in a mesmerizing way. “You’ve come far in a short time,” he said quietly. “You should take pride in this.”
Her errand was forgotten once more as he gently guided her face towards his. The corners of her mouth trembled and turned down slightly. Her eyes roved about his rugged features as if searching for something, and the only response she offered was another shrug.
Griz gave a heavy sigh through his nostrils. The pad of his thumb stroked a short path along her freckled cheek and down to her chin, before he leaned down and planted a kiss upon her forehead. Pulling away just enough to allow himself to speak, he murmured, “Would that I could help you more than I have. I would see you let go of all these ghosts and shadows, and find your freedom.”
The woman’s chin trembled violently, and the spasm passed through her, shuddering down her spine. She reached up and took hold of his hand, gently removing it. “You’ve helped me plenty. I can’t ask anymore from you. And I won’t.” She let go of his fingers and turned back to the half-plucked bird, taking it in her hands to give herself something to hold onto.
The man remained where he was, mere inches away, looming above her. He spoke slowly, in a voice so low it was nearly inaudible. It sounded as if he might be speaking as much to himself as to her. “You know, sometimes kindness is simply given. The care of one soul for another does not have to be a bargain or a negotiation.”
She yanked a fresh handful of feathers from the chicken’s belly and tossed them into the pail. “I might have believed that once upon a time,” she replied in a soft, bitter tone. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Griz, but when it comes to a man, nothing is ever simply given. I only ever knew one fellow who...who just loved me as I was.” She sniffed harshly. “And that was a long time ago.”
The man’s feet had not moved. But the shadow of his bulk receded slightly as he leaned back from her. He remained silent for several minutes, at first examining the flaming tapestry of her hair in the sunlight, before turning to frown at the window and the scene beyond the glass pane. Overhead, the timbers creaked as other members of the household awoke and began to stir.
“Are you just going to stand over me all morning?” the woman asked. The words might have sounded harsh, but her voice was not.
“I’ll come see you again before you depart,” he answered.
“But you don’t even know when…” she started, but upon looking up, he was already turned on his heel and striding away, vanishing into the next room with slow, heavy footfalls.
She turned back to the table and the feathery mess. Pressing her knuckles into the wood, she bit her lips together in frustration and grumbled, “Fecking hell.”
