Snow Mountain

- 2 -

It is warm.

That is the first thing the woman thinks. The next is that she must not be dead.

The third is that someone's hands are gently holding her head, softly tugging at the tangles there.

She hears the slide of metal.

Eyes snap open, and she takes in the scene with a glance. A cave, she can tell by the rough rock walls. Habited, she guesses, judging by the pots and baskets here and there, the tapestries on the wall. The large copper tub she sits in.

Above her a huge man looms, metal shears held in one hand. The other pulls at her hair, tugging her head to the side and exposing the soft flesh of her neck.

The woman reacts instantly.

Her good hand clenches into a fist and snaps up, slamming into the hand holding her hair. The man grunts and his grip loosens enough for the woman to jerk her hair free. She shoots to her feet and grips his other wrist. Theirs is a quick scuffle, and then the shears are knocked from the man's hand and clatter across the floor.

The woman goes after them, stumbling from the bath and near slipping on the smooth stone floor. Her fingers clench around the handle and she spins into a crouch, shears held point first toward the man.

It is only then that she notices what she failed to before; along with tapestries, weapons mount the wall. Swords and spears and metal gauntlets, hung from brackets driven into the stone, all within easy reach of the man's hand, should he wish to reach out and take them.

The man shrugs, gesturing to the walls around him to show the futility of her trying to threaten him with the small blade of the shears.

"I mean you no harm," he says holding up his empty palms. "I was only going to cut your hair, for I cannot remove the tangles. But if you object I will not."

She realizes he speaks her language, or a dialect of it. She glances down at the blue swirls on her skin, some near washed away by the bath. She is surprised he knows she is from the tribes from that alone, and more so that he speaks her language.

She raises the shears point higher, considering him.

He is big, more so than any man she has seen, and she has seen the giant men of the north that tower like trees. His face hides beneath a mass of thick hair, his head similarly hidden. He wears rough spun wool trousers and tunic, and his feet are bare on the cold stone floor.

His eyes are dark, like his hair, and watch her intently, hands still raised.

The woman frowns, confused. She can feel her guard lowering, her will to fight fading. She realizes it is because she has become accustomed to seeing cruelty on men's faces, and yet she does not see it on his.

Yet still, men can be deceptive. She grips the shears tighter, trying to still the shake of her arms.

The man raises his hands higher. "I will not touch you again, if you don't wish it. But get back into the water. I will fetch you clothes and something to dry yourself."

Hands still raised, the man backs away and disappears down a turn in the tunnel.

Immediately the woman dashes to the entrance to the cave, toward the faint glow of natural light. The man does not mean her harm now, but that does not mean he will not in the future.

Her feet slow as she approaches the entrance to the cave.

The light is bright, flooding into the cave and casting the stone in stark shades. Beyond the mouth of the cave the world is even brighter. Nothing but white as far as the eye can see. White peaks blending with a white sky, from which snow was starting to fall faster and faster.

The woman stands, naked, and looks at the snow a moment longer before going back down the tunnel.

ONC Word Count: 2271