Snow Mountain

- 11 -

The fire in the kitchen was merry and bright compared to the darkness of the recesses of the mountain.

The herdsman watched Jalintu feed it logs and stoke it higher, then set about warming milk for them and stirring the soup pot. Then she fetched bandages and other medical tools from their basket and crouched before him.

Fyar was struck by the irony of the reverse in roles. Just a few months prior, he had kneeled before Jalintu and bandaged her wrist and the cut on the forehead.

Now she wrapped white linen around his arms and pulled it tight to staunch the blood. He winced. "Do not waste bandages, I heal quickly-"

Jalintu's head snapped up, her glare silencing him.

After she was done she served him a cup of warm goat's milk and settled on the bench across from him, inquiring eyes waiting.

He sighed, looking down at the warm cup of gala between his hands, debating the best way to begin.

"I told you last night that I had not told you everything..." he started hesitatingly. Jalintu's green-blue eyes narrowed. He worried what he would say would cause them to narrow further, and flash with dislike, or distrust.

He took a deep breath. The warm cup cradled between his hands did nothing to steel him. "I am not... entirely human. Well, not at all, actually."

Her expression did not change. The only change was the firelight, flickering across her face.

"I was born from the earth and sky. Sometimes we are called 'Palio Paidi', 'The Old Children'. Sometimes 'Thrakians' after our homeland." He shifted on the bench, cup held carefully. "But most commonly we are known as 'gigantas'. 'Giants', as you say."

Still Jalintu's expression did not change, and Fyar grew bolder. The firelight in her silver hair made it look like copper, and he imagined how it had felt beneath his fingertips the night before.

"Because we are born from the earth, we draw our strength from it. Some of us can also in turn give our strength back to the earth, and command it as we will."

He gestured to his bandaged arms. "That is what I was doing earlier. My hold over the mountain has grown faint, and I wanted to try and strengthen it before the horsemen come."

He did not tell her that it had taken far more of his blood than it used to. That he had grown weaker.

That this weakening was the immortal equivalent of dying.

Jalintu looked up from his arms and bit her lip. Then she raised a hand to her own short hair and made a long, trailing gesture to the floor, like locks falling.

"The woman? You saw her?" Fyar asked, surprised. "That is surprising. She is only seen when she wants to be."

Jalintu's eyes narrow further.

Fyar laughed. "She is my mother. She... was worried I was using too much of my strength, and tried to stop me. But I didn't listen. I was always a very headstrong child," he grinned.

The anger in Jalintu's eyes did not abate with his explanation, and Fyar realized he could see fear there as well. "Were you worried... for my sake?"

She shook her head in denial and looked pointedly away, her beautiful lips set at an angry angle.

"Is this why you are angry?" he asked, gesturing to his bandaged arms. He was filled with relief. "There are far worse things to be angry about. I have concealed much from you. Did you know I used to be a king? Or that I had seven wives? None were as fair as you, of course," he added quickly. "Mainly I married for wealth. And land." He grinned. "I was ambitious."