The door opens, I breath in, lift my fists ...

A tiny woman walks in, sees me standing and with eyes that almost pop, begins to scream. My fists turn into flat palms as I hastily begin to reassure her there is nothing to fear from me. Oh why oh why was there no black haired, dark eyed Fixer available for this mission?

My Korean must be understandable, because when she finally hears me repeating my 'sorry's' and 'don't be affraid's' and 'I won't hurt you's', she calms down and closes her mouth. The tray she's carrying is like a shield in front of her and I'm slightly awed the contents are still on it. There is a bowl of water and a clean cloth.

"For me?" I point at the tray.

Her hands shake as she sets it down at her feet, a safe distance from me. When I move forward, she moves back and I hold still until she has stepped back far enough for her to feel safe.

My throat burns, so I almost fall down in my haste to kneel beside the tray and clumsily I drink the water. The cloth is wet and I use it to rinse my face and hands as best I can. I probably look like a scarecrow. A very pale scarecrow.

Self aware I touch my hair. I really should have brushed it before I left.

I look up and see that the woman is no longer alone. Beside her there is an elderly man, he has one arm wrapped firmly around the woman, so I guess he's her partner. Husband? I believe that's the proper term in most of history. I wouldn't really know, marriage was never a topic of interest to me.

"Hello, I'm sorry I scared you. Thank you for the clothes."

They stare. They blink and say nothing, simply look at me as if I'm some exotic animal. It makes me uncomfortable. After a few minutes the woman whispers something I can't hear and then she leaves. I make sure I stay perfectly still.

Is this the man who carried me last night? He's only a half foot taller than his wife, I doubt very much it was him. I have to find my way back there. Somewhere on the soil between the trees there is my little, silvery dot and I need that very much. So I sit, smile and wait patiently, because I need their help.

The woman comes back, and with her is a young man who eyes me with so much distrust, I am almost too afraid to admit he is the handsomest man I have ever seen. My heart helps me with that conundrum. It beats right out of my chest and if it hadn't been circulating all that extra oxygen, I would have run out of air much sooner. When he stops next to the old man, who is probably his father, and says nothing, I finally inhale and exhale.

With the tall, slim young man beside then, both elderly people visibly relax. I would too, if only he would look a little bit friendlier.

"Hello", I mumble, trying to break the tension. "Did you ... were you the one who rescued me, last night ... sir?" Am I saying this right? Did I use the correct honorifics? The expressions don't become more hostile, so I think I did. I bow my head and say: "Thank you very much, kind sir."

After a few very still moments, I carefully peak from beneath my eyelashes and see the dark look in that gorgeous face lessen. I breath out in relief.

My stomach grumbles, when was the last time I had a decent meal? Rations for Fixers are meager. They somehow always figure we eat in the places they send us to. Perhaps some Fixers get send to elaborate dinner parties, but that's no place I ever set foot in.

The woman again whispers something and I bite my lip when I hear the word food, could I really be so lucky? The pain in my left shoulder is bearable when I press my arm against my breast. With my right hand I shove a few curls behind my ear. A motion that doesn't go unnoticed by the younger man. What is it he thinks of me? What do I look like in his eyes? Have they ever seen a foreigner before? Probably not and even if they had, they would be from Japan or China and look kind of similar, meaning: black hair and dark eyes.

Suddenly, the young man moves forward, his steps are big and he only needs three to be right in front of me. He bends down on one knee, looks me in the eye and then grabs a fistful of my curls. Before I can scream or yell or even whimper, his arm moves forward, something shines and my curls are no longer attached to my head.

---

My mouth falls open when I see the large portion of hair in his tight fist. The knife is in front of my face, so close, I'm cross-eyed when trying to see the tip.

"Why?" I wail, clutching the strand that no longer reaches my shoulder. It's cut off just above my ear. He doesn't answer. A smug look appears on his face as he stands up again and walks away. He doesn't drop the hair, I wonder what he plans to do with it. Is he going to show it to someone? Someone who has money and is willing to buy a strange woman who strikes fear in the hearts of mortal men? If he sells me—a reasonable assumption—I will never find my way back home. I think I'd rather be dead.

Considering I have nothing to loose, I rise and run after him, yelling: "I need to go back, please take me back to where you found me."

He turns around and the knife in his hand slashes through the air, but I am fast. I duck, squat and kick at his feet, while leaning on my right shoulder. He didn't see that one coming, and his eyes widen, just before his behind hits the ground.

He's back on his feet though, before I'm fully on mine again and this time I'm not fast enough. I feel the blade against my throat and if I'm not mistaken, a drop of blood trickles down. It this it? Is he going to kill me right here?

With every bit of strength I can muster, I look him in the eye. Can I communicate what I'm feeling without words? My mother always said I could, right until the end, when she died after my fourteenth birthday, following my father.

My eyes are so light, she used to say they were windows into my soul. I hope this man can see my soul right now; can see the fear, the plea, the need to return.

He sees something, that much is sure, because the pressure on my throat lessens. "Please, sir," I whisper, "let me go back."

My lips tremble and when his eyes flash down and up in a fraction of a second, I hold my breath. Finally he lowers the knife. Over my shoulder he makes eye contact with his parents, I dare not turn around. After a few agonizing moments, his eyes click back into mine and he says: "I will take you back, in exchange for this."

He holds up the strand of hair and I don't know how fast to nod. My hair for my life? Fine, take it, it will grow back, I'm not a vain person.

That that's not entirely true gets proven when he doesn't wast any time, but grabs another fist full of hair and one by one, cuts off my curls, until there's only a short bob left. Weather it's from the pain of the tugging, or the humiliation, I feel tears running down my cheeks. A brief look of shame crosses his face and then he turns and walks away.

A sob escapes me, my shoulders go up and down and angry at myself for showing this weakness over some stupid bit of hair, I wipe my sleeve over my face. The fabric is coarse, but it gets the job done. It's no big deal. As soon as I'm back, I will spend all the money I have left on a hairdresser and get it fixed in a nice, short coupe.

Defeated, my right hand picks at the uneven strands that tickle my ear. I bow my head.

Soft footsteps make me spin around, but it is only the woman. I see her husband eyeing me from a distance, fear in his eyes. The woman is cautious, but seems a little less afraid. She saw me kick over her son, would she think I'm some kind of warrior woman? She passes me, then beacons me with both hands to follow her.

We enter the main house and I follow her example by leaving my boots outside. On bare feet I walk over the clean mats that cover wooden floorboards and sit down when she motions me to. Her son is nowhere to be seen.

For a moment she looks at my head with squinted eyes. Then she rummages in a basket in a corner, pulls out a white cloth and hands it to me. Her fingers shake when I reach forward. What am I to do with this?

My clueless face makes her shake her head and after a few seconds she conquers her fear. I can see the exact moment she decides that I'm not a daemon sent to annihilate her, but simply a lost, little girl. I'm nineteen, way to young to be left to fend for herself in a hostile, ancient world.

She walks over to me, her skirt swishes by me when she grabs the cloth from my hands and begins to wind it around my mangled head. I wish I had a mirror, perhaps I could borrow a knife?

Next time she stands and faces me, she nods with satisfaction and I smile. In silence she busies herself with making something to eat and I wish I knew how everything worked, so I could help her. Yet my cooking skills exist of nothing more than pouring hot water over powder. I'm positive making bread in this era is a little different.

The men come in when the meal is ready. The older one from outside, the young one from behind a curtain I hadn't noticed before, there must be a second room there. He looks at me, then sits down cross-legged. There is no table. A round tray on short legs is set in the middle of our little circle. On it are several bowls of rice, one with watery vegetables and one with herbs. It doesn't seem like much, but considering they're sharing it with me, I'm very grateful.

Some remnant memory of etiquette lessons tells me to wait for the others to begin eating, so I'm the last one to grab my bowl. It warms my hands and for a moment I close my eyes. When I open them again, two chopsticks put some of the boiled roots on my rice. I almost drop the bowl, but manage to hold on to it. It was the old man and I quickly bow my head and mumble: "Thank you, sir."