The man screamed when he woke, a howl in the darkness that woke Rey from her sleep like a stab in the heart.
She threw back the covers of her bed, reaching for the knife she’d kept under her pillow, heart hammering in her chest. This was what she’d feared when she’d gone to sleep with the stranger in her home. And though she did not doubt she could hold her own against a wounded man, it was pitch black, save for the dying embers in the hearth, and she could neither hear him nor make out his form.
“Are you all right?” Her voice sounded too loud in the silence, and the only reply was a low groan. Dagger firm in her hand, Rey stepped forward, sock-clad feet on the cold plank floor as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.
There—a huddled form on the ground. He’d thrown back the blankets, crouched down on his haunches like some kind of feral creature. And the noise he made, it was like all of the parts of his throat and lungs and mouth had somehow forgotten what it meant to work in concert. A broken bellows in a disused forge. Despite herself Rey felt her hand tremble. The man seemed to be flexing his arms, writhing, noises of frustration and rage wrenched out of him, until—
“What did you do to me?”
His growl was inhuman, and it chilled her far more than the storm. But she did not lower her guard. “I saved you, brought you in from the forest. You were hurt, unconscious, you—“
“Liar!” The wind seemed to echo his words, rattling the windows as it beat up against the cabin. “What have you done?”
“I’ve done nothing!” Rey replied. “What possible motive would I have to harm you, and then bring you into my home?”
The man turned his head upwards, and Rey has the distinct feeling that he was watching her. As if he could see her much more clearly in the darkness, see straight through the shift and drawers and sweater she’s put on for the cold night. He stilled his body, save for one of his hands, which Rey can see is trailing up and down his arms slowly, fingers curled into claws.
“You would’ve died.” Rey said. “If I’d left you where I found you, the storm would’ve taken you.”
“And you knew about the storm?” The man seemed almost… bemused by this, his mercurial mood shifting as quick as the wind.
“Course I didn’t know.” Rey scoffed. “You think I’d have gone out to hunt if I had known about it? You can go ahead and go back out there, if you want to leave! Go on!”
“Hm.” The man grunted faintly, a low growl of resignation, or annoyance, deep in his throat.
And then, the man shivered. He seemed to relent, and fell back against the discarded blankets, gathering them up around himself like a confused bird trying to put his feathers back on. “I’m hungry,” He grunts, as if this is supposed to be a command, not a request.
Rey nods towards the hearth. “Stew’s in the pot.”
The man looks up at her—she can see the dark glint of his eyes now, and she lets the dagger fall back to her side. But does not sheathe it.
“It’s in the pot, there.” Rey knows, now, he can see her; she points at the hearth behind him, and the man, after a moment, turns. “I’m not serving you.”
It might be her imagination—or the wind—but it sounds like he huffs in annoyance as he turns away from her, lifting the lid on the little cast-iron pot and collecting the spoon atop it before it can roll off into the embers. He scrapes the stew up, tests it with a little bite, and then makes another dissatisfied noise. This makes Rey want to grind her teeth together in frustration; what a rude creature, to turn up his nose at a meal freely offered, a bed, warmth by the fire. He looks back up at her, but must be able to see this in her face, for he says nothing at all. Just works down, bite after bite, of the whole of the rest of the stew, scraping the spoon around the edges, gathering it all up.
And then he looks up at her again. “I’m cold.”
“Then put a log on the fire.” Rey has to grit her teeth to keep from yelling this at him. She watches, incredulous, as the man searches for a log, placing it directly onto the embers—which instantly suffocate, and then die out.
“You have got to be kidding me…” Rey strides over to the hearth and crouches down beside him, too angry to be wary now. “Have you never built a fire for yourself? What are you, some little princeling, lost in the woods?”
He doesn’t answer this. Just watches her as she works, brushing out the now-dead ashes, arranging the kindling, stacking the logs just so, reaching for the flint and steel that hang from a little peg set into the stone face of the hearth. He seems especially entranced by the sparks she can make with it, and Rey, casting a sidelong glance at his curious expression, decides that he’s either pretending, or truly had been hit in the head harder than she thought. She hangs the flint back up, takes a little shim of wood and fans in at an angle; a moment later the fire jumps from the tinder, radiating warmth and heat, and the smoke begins curling lazily up the chimney.
She turned back to look at him. His eyes, beetle-black, glitter in the firelight, flames dancing in their reflection. Rey felt a shiver of discomfort pass through her; had he been this close to her when she’d sat down? The blankets are pooled around his hips, but otherwise he is bare, bare and unselfconscious. She resolutely did not let her gaze travel further down than his waist, and when she brought it up to meet his eyes once more she finds herself wishing for her dagger.
He looked hungry. Predatory.
He tilted his head, watching her. “What kind of a woman lets a strange man into her home, and expects no harm to befall her?”
Rey licked her lips, and bit them, before answering: “The kind of woman who drugged your stew.”
The man blinked in confusion. His question had been more teasing than anything, but now, his brow furrowed as he looked over one shoulder at the little three-legged stew pot, then back at Rey. “What?”
The word slurred in his mouth, like syrup stuck to his teeth. He touched his face with one large hand, expression shifting slowly between confusion and rage and… fear? And then, without preamble, he slumped forward, a puppet with the strings cut, directly into her lap. Rey made a noise of surprise, but he’s out cold. She pushed him back down to the floor, laid him on his side and covered him back up with the blankets. Rey had no qualms using some of her herbs on him, and the only real question had been in estimating the proper dose—and at any rate, an injured man needed rest. She wasn’t stupid; she knew what could happen to a woman in her situation.
Rey prodded at the fire with the poker, watching it dance for a minute, and the man on the floor slipped into soft snores. After a time, and making a mental note to scrub the pot very well the next morning, Rey got to her feet.
When she slipped back into her own bed, the sheets were once again cold. Rey burrowed in, laying on her side, watching the man’s shoulder rise and fall, rise and fall. Watching the fire die down.
Even with him drugged, even with her dagger beside her, sleep was a long time coming.
Re: FILL 2/? - The Wyrm of the Woods
She threw back the covers of her bed, reaching for the knife she’d kept under her pillow, heart hammering in her chest. This was what she’d feared when she’d gone to sleep with the stranger in her home. And though she did not doubt she could hold her own against a wounded man, it was pitch black, save for the dying embers in the hearth, and she could neither hear him nor make out his form.
“Are you all right?” Her voice sounded too loud in the silence, and the only reply was a low groan. Dagger firm in her hand, Rey stepped forward, sock-clad feet on the cold plank floor as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.
There—a huddled form on the ground. He’d thrown back the blankets, crouched down on his haunches like some kind of feral creature. And the noise he made, it was like all of the parts of his throat and lungs and mouth had somehow forgotten what it meant to work in concert. A broken bellows in a disused forge. Despite herself Rey felt her hand tremble. The man seemed to be flexing his arms, writhing, noises of frustration and rage wrenched out of him, until—
“What did you do to me?”
His growl was inhuman, and it chilled her far more than the storm. But she did not lower her guard. “I saved you, brought you in from the forest. You were hurt, unconscious, you—“
“Liar!” The wind seemed to echo his words, rattling the windows as it beat up against the cabin. “What have you done?”
“I’ve done nothing!” Rey replied. “What possible motive would I have to harm you, and then bring you into my home?”
The man turned his head upwards, and Rey has the distinct feeling that he was watching her. As if he could see her much more clearly in the darkness, see straight through the shift and drawers and sweater she’s put on for the cold night. He stilled his body, save for one of his hands, which Rey can see is trailing up and down his arms slowly, fingers curled into claws.
“You would’ve died.” Rey said. “If I’d left you where I found you, the storm would’ve taken you.”
“And you knew about the storm?” The man seemed almost… bemused by this, his mercurial mood shifting as quick as the wind.
“Course I didn’t know.” Rey scoffed. “You think I’d have gone out to hunt if I had known about it? You can go ahead and go back out there, if you want to leave! Go on!”
“Hm.” The man grunted faintly, a low growl of resignation, or annoyance, deep in his throat.
And then, the man shivered. He seemed to relent, and fell back against the discarded blankets, gathering them up around himself like a confused bird trying to put his feathers back on. “I’m hungry,” He grunts, as if this is supposed to be a command, not a request.
Rey nods towards the hearth. “Stew’s in the pot.”
The man looks up at her—she can see the dark glint of his eyes now, and she lets the dagger fall back to her side. But does not sheathe it.
“It’s in the pot, there.” Rey knows, now, he can see her; she points at the hearth behind him, and the man, after a moment, turns. “I’m not serving you.”
It might be her imagination—or the wind—but it sounds like he huffs in annoyance as he turns away from her, lifting the lid on the little cast-iron pot and collecting the spoon atop it before it can roll off into the embers. He scrapes the stew up, tests it with a little bite, and then makes another dissatisfied noise. This makes Rey want to grind her teeth together in frustration; what a rude creature, to turn up his nose at a meal freely offered, a bed, warmth by the fire. He looks back up at her, but must be able to see this in her face, for he says nothing at all. Just works down, bite after bite, of the whole of the rest of the stew, scraping the spoon around the edges, gathering it all up.
And then he looks up at her again. “I’m cold.”
“Then put a log on the fire.” Rey has to grit her teeth to keep from yelling this at him. She watches, incredulous, as the man searches for a log, placing it directly onto the embers—which instantly suffocate, and then die out.
“You have got to be kidding me…” Rey strides over to the hearth and crouches down beside him, too angry to be wary now. “Have you never built a fire for yourself? What are you, some little princeling, lost in the woods?”
He doesn’t answer this. Just watches her as she works, brushing out the now-dead ashes, arranging the kindling, stacking the logs just so, reaching for the flint and steel that hang from a little peg set into the stone face of the hearth. He seems especially entranced by the sparks she can make with it, and Rey, casting a sidelong glance at his curious expression, decides that he’s either pretending, or truly had been hit in the head harder than she thought. She hangs the flint back up, takes a little shim of wood and fans in at an angle; a moment later the fire jumps from the tinder, radiating warmth and heat, and the smoke begins curling lazily up the chimney.
She turned back to look at him. His eyes, beetle-black, glitter in the firelight, flames dancing in their reflection. Rey felt a shiver of discomfort pass through her; had he been this close to her when she’d sat down? The blankets are pooled around his hips, but otherwise he is bare, bare and unselfconscious. She resolutely did not let her gaze travel further down than his waist, and when she brought it up to meet his eyes once more she finds herself wishing for her dagger.
He looked hungry. Predatory.
He tilted his head, watching her. “What kind of a woman lets a strange man into her home, and expects no harm to befall her?”
Rey licked her lips, and bit them, before answering: “The kind of woman who drugged your stew.”
The man blinked in confusion. His question had been more teasing than anything, but now, his brow furrowed as he looked over one shoulder at the little three-legged stew pot, then back at Rey. “What?”
The word slurred in his mouth, like syrup stuck to his teeth. He touched his face with one large hand, expression shifting slowly between confusion and rage and… fear? And then, without preamble, he slumped forward, a puppet with the strings cut, directly into her lap. Rey made a noise of surprise, but he’s out cold. She pushed him back down to the floor, laid him on his side and covered him back up with the blankets. Rey had no qualms using some of her herbs on him, and the only real question had been in estimating the proper dose—and at any rate, an injured man needed rest. She wasn’t stupid; she knew what could happen to a woman in her situation.
Rey prodded at the fire with the poker, watching it dance for a minute, and the man on the floor slipped into soft snores. After a time, and making a mental note to scrub the pot very well the next morning, Rey got to her feet.
When she slipped back into her own bed, the sheets were once again cold. Rey burrowed in, laying on her side, watching the man’s shoulder rise and fall, rise and fall. Watching the fire die down.
Even with him drugged, even with her dagger beside her, sleep was a long time coming.