She is sure the herdsman understands the plea in her eyes, and after a moment he sighs, nodding.

"Alright then," he stands, motioning for her to follow him. She does shakily, under effects of the wine.

She does, and they both go through the curtain into his sleeping area. Once there, the herdsman strips off his upper tunic, then moves to the bed.

For a moment, in the dark, she sees two lines of lighter colored skin on his back. Scars, symmetrical, intentional, running parallel to his spine. She wonders what could have caused such scars.

She reaches to her hem to strip off her shirt as well, and he motions her to stop.

"No," he says. "Leave it on."

She follows him to the bed, then slides under the covers, settling in the space he indicates.

"Stay still," the herdsman orders, positioning himself next to her. Taking her shoulder he gently turns her, so she is facing away from him, her back to his stomach.

He lays his arm over her own stomach, balancing the weight over her hip bone so his large arm is not too heavy.

"Goodnight Jalintu," he says, breath by her ear.

She bites her lip in frustration. If simple warmth were all she sought, she could have stayed by the fire.

She wants something more.

She turns toward the herdsman.

Her arms reach up threading around his neck. He catches them, holding them there, both her wrists easily swallowed by one of his hands.

"Stop." His voice is firm, firmer than she has heard it. "You are drunk. I just brought you here to sleep. Just sleep."

She bites her lip harder, then frees one of her wrists and brings his hand to her own scarred cheek.

He understands her question. "It is not you. You are, uh, very beautiful." She hears the blush in his voice and smirks.

"It is me," the herdsman continues. "I... I have been alone on this mountain for a very long time. I worry..."

Her hand trails down his chest, a question. He catches it laughing.

"That is not what I am worried about. I worry...," the pause waiting for the herdsman's words was painful. "...I worry that I have been alone too long to truly care for another."

She stills, because the sadness in his words, and the sentiment it expresses, are so at odds with what she has come to see... does he not realize how kind he is? How caring? How much he has opened his heart already?

And even if he wasn't, was it really necessary for what she wanted?

But she does not want to force him. She turns, contenting herself with bringing one of his large hands to rest under her tunic on her bare stomach, warm and comforting.

His thumb makes a little circle above her navel, just once, twice, but it is enough to send shivers dancing over her skin.

"Goodnight Jalintu," he says again.

She lays her hand over his own in response.

*~*~*~*~*~*

In the morning she rises before the herdsman and sets out the breakfast items.

She has found he is a late sleeper. She wonders if it is because it is winter, or if it is because he lives alone, and according to his own schedule.

She eats on her own, then sets off to comb the caves. The herdsman inhabits only a fraction of the caves, and there are many more. Some are too deep and dark and damp for habitation, or too narrow, or lined with spears of rock that make it impossible to set anything anywhere.

But many are simply empty, save for weapons. The herdsman has saved them all. It is a strange paradox, a man who says he has sworn off violence, yet surrounds himself with weapons of every type and variety.

She wanders through the caves until she finds what she seeks. A bow, made of two white horns polished and bound together in the middle by glue and linen. It is different from the bows of her people, but with practice she will be able to use it.

The herdsman seems content to leave their protection up to the mountain, but she is not so sure.

The bow is bolted to the wall, like all the other weapons the herdsman has taken. She returns to the kitchen to wait for him to awaken.

"Good morning, Jalintu, did you sleep well?" the herdsman greets her when he pushes through the curtain with a yawn. He is dressed, save for his bare feet. She has noticed he is always barefoot in the caves.

She nods, and motions for him to eat. When he finishes, she quickly clears away the breakfast things, then motions for him to follow her.

She leads him to the bow and points to it looking up at him entreatingly. He understands her meaning. "You wish to learn how to shoot?"

She is already an excellent shot, but does not feel the need to correct him. And it is true she will need some instruction on the different style of bow. She nods.

To her surprise, the herdsman reaches his bare hands to the metal brackets. With strength that shocks her, he pulls them from the wall, the metal screaming. Her breath catches in her throat.

He drops the metal brackets to the cave floor with a clatter and wipes a bead of sweat from his brow, then holds the bow out to her. She grasps the bow in her hands, still dazed.

He smiles, nodding to the bow. "I have sinew for the string. As for arrows, I have reeds to make the shaft, and flint for the heads, but we will need to shoot a few geese for fletching, for I am near out of feathers."

She points to the feathers in his hair and he laughs.

"No, these are not for arrows." His smile turns mysterious.

She helps him gather the materials from various baskets, then they go to sit by the cave's entrance. The herdsman spreads a rug and they both sit upon it, fixing the arrowheads to the hollow reed shafts and the feathers to that, waiting for another v of geese flying south.

"Summer reeds are best for arrows," the herdsman comments as they work. "Some think winter reeds are better for they are far stronger."

Jalintu watches his hands, huge, yet deft as they select the flint heads and tie them to the reeds.

"But stronger does not necessarily mean better," he continues. "For summer reeds are lighter, and more supple, and will follow the curve of the bow better. If you are truly a skilled archer, they are far better."

She smiles. She knows this and more already, but she likes him teaching her.

There is no wind today, and the sun is warm in the still air. Soon, she is so warm that sweat pricks at her back beneath her thick wool tunic. She strips off her wool pants, crossing her bare legs before her in the sun.

She is satisfied to notice the herdsman's eyes trailing over her legs before quickly looking away. She bites her lip, wondering wildly if she can entice him enough to take her right here on this carpet beneath the open sky.

Unlikely, but she cannot resist trying.

She stretches her legs out, then folds them under her, moving toward him on her knees in a supplicating pose. As she does her tunic rides up her legs, exposing her bare thighs, covered with scars and blue swirls alike.

His eyes widen, once more fixed on her legs. She hides a smile, then holds out her arrow, pretending trouble. "Do you need help with the fletching?" he asks.

She nods, and he carefully takes the reed and the feathers. He shows her how to trim and then cut the feathers so they can be locked together inside the shaft in such a way that minimal force is needed to fix them there.

This also is new to her, and she practices once, then asks him to show her again. It is useful knowledge to have.

"Here. Cut the notch just here, then there, and they will fit together in the shaft." His eyes as he work are focused on his hands, and so she studies him. His face, usually so warm, is actually quite severe in profile, sharp and angular. With his hook nose and the dark eyes deep-set beneath their brows, she is suddenly reminded of the cruel face of a bird of prey.

Till now he has shown her nothing but soft smirks and gentle smiles, and with a not entirely unpleasant shiver she wonders what it would be like to have such a severe expression turned on her.

He holds the knife out to her, handle first. "You try."

She scoots closer on the rough mat, till her knees rest against his thigh. It is big around as her waist, and she can feel the heat of him, the hardness of his muscles, even through the thick woven fabric of his woolen pants.

This close she is reminded again of his size, and how much larger and stronger he is then any man she has ever met.

And yet gentle.

Taking the knife she cuts the feathers and successfully notches them together, then holds them up to show him.

He is watching her, and their eyes meet when she looks up. His expression is even more transfixed than when he looked at her legs.

My eyes, she realizes. He likes my eyes.

"Good job." His fingers point toward the fletching, eyes still on her own. They seem darker than normal, hooded beneath their thick brows, and his beard makes it difficult to read his expression.

A sudden honking above startles them both. "Quick," he says, handing her the freshly strung bow. "Try your luck. This is your chance to test that arrow and get us some new fletching."

She springs to her feet. The bow is stiffer than those she is used to, and her arrow misses the white and grey shapes, slowly arcs up into the blue sky toward the sun, then dives to the snow a little way down the mountain.

"Here," the herdsman holds out his hand for the bow. She gives it to him, and he nocks another freshly made arrow to it and bends the bow back easily.

Then he waits. The geese pass overhead and start to move away. Still he waits.

Finally he lets the string go with a twang. It looks as though it has gone right over until one of the honking shapes falls to earth.

He chuckles with satisfaction and she frowns. He tousles her short hair with one hand.

"Don't worry. We'll have you shooting whole flocks before you know it."

She watches him trudge through the snow to retrieve the goose. As he bends to retrieve the fallen bird from the snow he pauses a moment and bends his head, as if in prayer. Then he stands and returns to her holding their prize by the neck and grinning.

"Roast goose for dinner then?"

ONC Word Count: 12081