Snow Mountain

- 4 -

She is surprised by how soft the tunic is.

The wool tunics she has worn in the past have all been rough, and if the wool was not cleaned properly, greasy enough to leave a feel of oil on her skin.

But the goat's wool is soft, and clean. It feels like a caress against her freshly washed skin.

It is large though, clearly made for the goatherd himself. The tunic comes down to her knees, and the pants cascade around her ankles.

Slowly she shuffles off down the cave.

She goes the opposite direction from where she went before, thinking she is going deeper, and is surprised when she comes to another entrance to the cave.

It looks out from a different direction. Dusk has come, the snow covered mountains around coloring pink and blue and purple with the fading light. The mountain falls away far more steeply here, and she can see down into the valley below. Lights are coming on in the villages there, warm yellow lanterns to light the way home.

The wind blows shrilly, and the woman withdraws with a shudder.

She goes back down the tunnel, to where she saw a branching path. She takes it, and the first room she comes to seems to be a storeroom of sorts, filled with baskets and boxes and chests of all kinds.

A huge figure looms in the corner.

The woman starts, then recognizes the figure for what it is. Armor, glinting dully in the faint lantern light.

The woman plucks a lantern from where it hangs from a bracket near the entrance to the storeroom, holding it high. The armor is old, she can tell from the pattering of age on the bronze. But the metal still holds strong. A bronze breastplate, ironically carved to mimic a male chest, complete with folds of muscle and a navel. A worn leather skirt studded with bronze hangs below the breast plate, and below that stand boots with metal greaves, to protect the shins.

Atop the armor stand rests a helmet, great bronze cheeks almost meeting save for a thin slit for the nose and mouth to breath through, and the eyes to see. Atop the helmet is a great crest of amber-red feathers, the color no doubt dulled with age, yet still bright.

A little way behind the armor a spear leans against the wall, so long it is propped sideways, into the corner, for even the tall ceiling of the cavern is not long enough for it. The leaf shaped blade is dented from use. Just beside the spear a short sword is sheathed. She knows that for the warriors of the warm lands to the south the sword is a secondary weapon, used only when their spears will not serve.

Picking her way through the storeroom she places the lantern on a crate, then tries to draw the sword. It does not give, so instead she lays her hand on the metal of the breast plate. Just like the blade of the spear it is well dented, with wounds that would have killed the wearer should they have landed on a real chest.

Her fingers feel the dents, the scars, the grooves of muscle, tenderly as they would a lover's chest.

Returning the lantern, she leaves the storeroom and goes in search of the herdsman.

The armor confirms her earlier suspicions. The herdsman is of the south, where cities with white pillared temples stood besides blue seas, and food was always plentiful. For surely such huge armor could be no man but his.

A soft humming reaches her ears as she turns another bend in the tunnel. Before her is another cavern, large, and widened further by human hands judging by the chisel marks she sees in places. Bright light glows from a variety of lanterns, and from a large fireplace for which a natural chimney seems to have been found, for no smoke fills the cavern.

The herdsman stands beside the fire, stirring a pot, his back to her. Between them is a table, on which several plates of cheese and hard bread and dried fruits rest, as well as two mugs of the frothy goat's milk she drank earlier.

She sits.

He hears her, and glances up, a smile appearing through his thick beard. "Ah, you picked one. It's a bit large, I'm afraid," he says, nodding at the tunic bunched around her legs. "I have some spare wool, I can weave you another. And some sheepskin to fashion shoes."

He stops what he is doing and goes to a small box beside the heart, from which he takes a small bottle and some strips of cloth.

Then he comes cautiously toward her.

"For your wrist. And your head," he says, gesturing to his own left eyebrow. "There is a cut.

She reaches up, feeling the crusted scrab, somewhat softened after the bath. With the pressure of her fingers, she feels pain, and when she takes her fingers away they are red. She lowers her hand and nods. She cannot remember how she got the injury. Perhaps in her struggle to escape.

She realizes has become so accustomed to pain, she would be more likely to notice its absence than its presence.

The large man squats beside her, and she turns herself on the bench. As he carefully cleans and bandages her wound, she is better able to study him. Most of his face is hidden beneath his thick curly beard, or beneath the similar hair on his head, which he has drawn back in a braid in order to cook.

She notices that in addition to his dark locks, he has feathers interwoven in his braid, of the same dark color as his hair. She wonders at the style choice. It seems superficial for a man otherwise unadorned, and she has not heard of southern men wearing feathers in their hair, for war or fashion.

Her eyes travel to his face. His skin is weathered, most likely from the harsh elements of the mountain, and olive colored from the sun or naturally she cannot tell. His eyes are dark and sit under thick brows, as bushy as the rest of his hair. He wears an apron to cook, again a surprise for a man living in such humble surroundings.

She cannot guess his age, but does not think he could be much older than herself. She thinks, if he were to shave and tame his hair somewhat, he might be rather handsome.

She smiles faintly.

He notices, and grins. "Glad you're less afraid of me now," he says. "I truly mean you no harm. Nor anyone. I gave up violence long ago."

She frowns at that.

He does not see, and carries on bandaging, humming as he goes. His voice is deep, and she feels the vibrations of his hum in her chest. "Your wrist is only sprained," he tells her, as he spreads a cool paste from a jar on the swollen skin. "This salve plus the wrap should have it healed in a day, a day and a half at most."

He seems to be enjoying taking care of her. Healing her hurt. It is such a strange contrast to the men who kept her before that she wants to laugh.

So she does.

ONC Word Count: 4646