When a laugh broke from the woman's mouth, the herdsman was surprised, then glad. But quickly he realized her laughter was not from humor, but shock.

Carefully, he finished bandaging and set the leftover materials aside, then sat on the bench a ways apart.

"I know it may seem strange at first. But you truly are safe now. Nothing can hurt you here, for so long as you wish to stay."

Her eyes when they found his were disbelieving.

"Do not worry," the herdsman explained. "Just because I have given up violence does not mean we are not protected." He gestured to the swords and spears hanging on the walls around them, grinning wryly. "Trophies, taken from those who came to kill the 'giant of the mountain'."

He felt her eyes follow him as he stood to his full height and returned to the hearth. He laddled stew from the pot there into a bowl then returned, setting it before her.

"Eat," he said, gesturing to the bowl. "You must be hungry."

The woman did eat, ravenously. After she had drained her stew bowl she licked it clean before moving on to the cheeses and dried fruit. When those too were gone she moved onto the bread, and gnawed on it dry until he offered her another bowl of stew to dip it in.

The herdsman himself ate sparingly, finding himself more interested in watching her. He tried not to stare, but again and again his eyes traveled to her scarred cheeks, to her hands with their blue tattooed swirls, to her eyes that reminded him of the sea.

The woman seemed too preoccupied by the food to notice his stare. Finally, when the pace of her devouring seemed to slacken, he asked her about herself.

"You are from one of the Gaulish tribes to the north, are you not?" he asked, wondering if he used the correct name. Her people were many and varied, and not all answered to the same title.

In response the woman's chewing slowed and she pushed up one sleeve, pointing to a symbol tattooed on her forearm. Among the ornate swirls, the herdsman recognized a river bird hovering over pointed waves, a fish in its beak.

The woman's eyes snapped to his as he laughed.

"Forgive me, it is just a coincidence," he said. "I see. Jalintu. The river fisher." Her vibrant eyes took on a whole new meaning. "I have heard of your tribe. They say your chieftain wields dual axes, and is a whirl on the battlefield. Just like the bird that names your tribe."

The woman nodded and resumed eating.

"Perhaps when the snows melt, I can ask my trader friend to help return you to your people," the herdsman offered, reaching for a hunk of bread for himself and a mug of gala to wash it down.

The woman stilled, then resumed chewing.

"And what should I call you?" the herdsman asked, after finishing the bread and the milk.

The woman again pointed to the bird on her forearm.

"Jalintu." He raised his empty mug, as if in toast. "Alright then. Jalintu it is."

The woman took a dried fig and popped it in her mouth, then pointed a long finger at his chest.

The herdsman raised his eyebrows. "Me?" He smiled and leaned his chin in his palm, elbow on the table. "You can call me what you like."

The woman frowned, but, of course, made no answer. Then her finger raised to point to the feathers woven into his hair. A word formed silently on her lips.

"Fyar?" he asked, surprised. "You want to name me for the feathers in my hair?"

She nodded, and her lips mouthed the word again.

The herdsman laughed. "Never have I ever had such a delicate name." He put his chin back in his palm, smiling at her. "Alright then. Birds, the two of us."

The woman did not smile back, simply nodded once and continued eating.

When she had finished, the herdsman cleared the table and spread thick skins upon the floor before the fire.

"Forgive me for not being able to offer you a room of your own," the herdsman said, gesturing to the skins. "I think you will prefer it here though. It is the warmest part of my caves."

He finished cleaning their meal, then showed her where a pot stood with a ladle and water, should she grow thirsty at night, and also where to relieve herself.

"My room is just beyond this one," the herdsman said, gesturing to a curtain hung across an opening on one side of the cavern. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to wake me."

The woman watched him warily.

"Well, goodnight, Jalintu," the herdsman said, backing away from her as one would an angry animal.

Her eyes did not leave him, glowing in the reflected light of the fire, until he ducked behind the curtain.

*~*~*~*~*~*

In the morning he rose early and went to check the wards.

He crunched out into the frozen snow just as the last of the stars faded and the sky started to lighten. Up on the mountain the air was so clear that light seemed to glow from everywhere, unfettered by the dirt and dust of lower elevations.

He passed the goats, a huddled mass in the snow, and stopped at the first ward. A string of feathers, small animals, and a hawk skull, hanging from a wooden post bleached white by the sun and wind of the mountain. The wooden post was driven into the center of a stone pyre, but this was buried beneath the snow.

The herdsman checked the bones and feathers, counting their number. All in place. All whole. His fingers reached out and traced over the silk of a dark brown feather.

Fyar. He smiled. He quite liked the name.

He moved on to the other wards.

When he returned to the cave, the woman, Jalintu as she had asked to be called, was sitting waiting for him at the table.

She watched as he set out food, and when he went to clear it away, rushed to help him, correctly returning everything.

She seemed intent on assisting in other aspects of his life too. When he left to fetch his goats for milking, she tried to follow, bare feet sinking into the snow.

"Stop!" he said, rushing back. "If you want to help, wait here. I will fetch the goats."

Sitting her on the stool he crunched out into the snow alone, returning with the five mother goats who needed milking.

He showed the woman how to pull the milk from the goats teats. She seemed inexperienced, which confused the herdsman. If she had been a slave, surely she would have milked her master's livestock, whereas if she had been a freeholder, she would have milked her own. He wondered if she had been free but too impoverished to own any goats or herd animals.

"I did not milk them yesterday, after I found you, so they were eager for it today," he explained. "But usually they are stubborn, and try to kick the milk bucket over out of spite, so set it between your feet and hold it tight."

Despite her inexperience, she was a quick learner, and near fast as him by her second day, and faster by her third.

"You learn quickly," he told her, as she finished the final goat and let her wander back out into the snow to join the rest of the herd.

The woman's expression did not change, but he could tell she was pleased by his compliment.

On the fifth day, after they finished breakfast, he instructed Jalintu to stay seated at the bench while he went in search of scraps of sheep skin.

He found some big enough, and was able to make two fairly serviceable snow boots, carefully measuring and tying one around each leg.

She watched him work, green-blue eyes bright.

"That should do for the snow," he said, clearing his throat and standing. "Come spring, I'll get the materials for a pair suitable for the mountain roads."

Her eyes followed him always. At first it was out of wariness, and distrust. But over time he realized a sort of fascination also lingered there, as she watched him go about his daily life. An anticipation, as though she were waiting for something.

The herdsman thought he knew what it was. She was waiting for him to prove himself like most men, and show his cruel side, which he must, undoubtedly, have.

This only made him all the more determined to prove her suspicions wrong. He tried his best to glow under her gaze, always show a smile, a gentle word. Always patient, and ready to teach. Letting her learn at her own pace.

He could not recall a time other in his life had acted so, but he did not dislike it. Playing the hero.

He certainly did not dislike her company either. Silent though she was, Jalinth listened to his one-sided conversations, occasionally offering an eyebrow raise or a head tilt as an answer. She seemed disinterested in much of what he said, but listened out of politeness, and he wondered how well his Gaulish was remembered. Or perhaps he simply bored her.

Either way, he found himself looking forward to tasks that before would have been mundane, simply because they offered the chance to talk to her. To watch her, and see what she would do when faced with something new. He started to wonder if he had been lonely, and not realized it.

He thought, occasionally, that he would ask her if she wanted to stay beyond spring, if she liked. To stay with him on the mountain as long as she wanted.

But then, he would not wish such a cage on anyone.

Still, the idea floated around in his head, a fanciful cloud, till the sixth night, when she came to him.

ONC Word Count: 6264