Winter passed both slow and fast.

Everyday Fyar would wade out into the snow to check wards and scan for signs of the horsemen. There were none, but he could sense that they had not gone far.

Jalintu continued to make arrows, as though a passion had seized her. He was not sure if her enthusiasm came from the task itself or the fact that getting more fletching meant they could dine on goose every night.

He taught her how to shoot, using a target he set up in the snow. To his surprise she learned quickly, till he started to suspect that she did not need his instruction at all.

Still she asked for it, and every evening after his lesson she would stand at the entrance to the cave and shoot at the target, go out to fetch her arrows from the snow, and return to shoot again till the sun set and Fyar called her in to eat.

Jalintu also continued to share his bed. Originally, he had only invited her in to reassure her after her shock at seeing her tormentors once more. However it turned into routine, and Jalintu made it clear it was more than reassurance she craved.

A leg thrown over his own. A hand casually draped across a sensitive area. Rolling over in sleep, so her soft breath tickled his ear.

He was never sure which incidents were intentional and which were accidental.

At times such touches would cause the herdsman to freeze, and at others they would ignite a low fire within him, to the point that a few times he even left his own bed and went to sleep by the actual fire.

He was never sure who his restraint was for. Was it for Jalintu, out of consideration for all she had suffered? Or was it for himself, to protect his long barren heart from swelling with something that would most likely wither come spring and Jalintu's departure from the mountain.

*~*~*~*~*~*

The spring rains brought more snow to the mountain, instead of helping wash it away as they did at lower elevations. The nights, fresh and full of animal voices down in the valley, were still chill on the mountain. In the mornings in the valley the sun danced in crystal dew on freshly sprung grass, while on the mountain it still had to content itself with frost.

On one such chill spring morning Fyar rose to find his store of firewood had near run out.

He was surprised, for usually he cut enough to last him through the winter and until the next. He must have burned more than usual, in an effort to make Jalintu comfortable.

He went to the entrance of the cave. Outside, snow fell like rain, in thick sheets of whitish grey that limited the usually expansive view to just a few hundred paces.

"I will go down the mountain to cut some firewood today," he told Jalintu over breakfast. "May I leave care of the goats to you?"

Jalintu nodded, then looked at him, cautious.

"The mountain will protect you, even with me gone. Do not worry," he reassured her.

After breakfast he pulled a waterproof cape over his sheepskin jacket and set off, a sled dragging in the snow behind him.

It took an hour to make his way down to the tree line. There he stopped and picked several withered, already dead trees and felled them, then trimmed them down enough to lash to the sled.

As Fyar worked he became aware of eyes watching him. Sometimes boys from the village would dare each other to come spy on him. He knew they treated it as a game, or a test of courage, seeing who dared to get closest to the giant of the mountain.

He chuckled to himself. They find me fearful now. They should have seen how monstrous I once was.

But when he finally lashed the ax atop the cut wood and tied the sled about his waist to head up the mountain once more, it was not a pair of boys who stood watching him.

It was the horsemen, two of them, one astride his horse and the other before it, standing with one leg propped on a stump Fyar had cut earlier, arms folded atop his knee.

"Good day to you," the horseman said politely. "You are the immortal giant of the mountain, are you not? The villagers have told us of you. I hope we have not disturbed your work. "

Fyar narrowed his eyes. "Not at all, for I have just finished. If you will excuse me."

He started to pull the sled back the way he had come. It forced him to pass the horsemen, who both had bows strapped to their saddles, and swords at their sides.

He suddenly became very conscious of his ax, tied atop the wood, and wished he held it in his hand.

"Ah, but a question before you go," the horseman said, standing from the stump. Fyar turned back, eyebrow raised, but said nothing.

"My master is searching for something of his," the horseman continued. He had beads braided into his too long hair and beard, and they clinked when he spoke. "A bird, a pretty little thing, with silver plumage and bright green eyes. She flew away last fall, and my master is heartbroken at her loss."

They already know. Fyar's stomach dropped. That's why they are still here. His jaw clenched, and his eyes when they met the horseman's spoke of death.

The horseman grinned triumphantly. "If you should happen to know her whereabouts, my master would reward you most handsomely for help in her recapture. Providing she is still whole."

Fyar thought it a blessing he had lashed the ax to the sled, for if he still held it, he would have thrown it straight through the horseman's skull.

"I have seen no such bird," he managed to grind out. The sled rope was gripped so tight in his hand he thought it would be crushed.

The horseman grinned wider. "I know it may be hard to part with her. She is such a pretty thing. She used to sing prettily as well, you know. We all enjoyed her singing. Till she stopped." He glanced back at his comrade and said something in another tongue, and they both laughed.

Suddenly, Fyar was transported back, hundreds of years and thousands of miles away.

A crowd had gathered to watch the fallen king, laughing, cheering, jeering at him where he lay in the dirt beneath the sun, paralyzed by the sickly poison that had seeped into his veins, leeched there by arrows shot by a treacherous hand.

"Cut them! Cut them!" the crowd chanted.

The same hand that had shot the arrows raised the sword. And brought it down.

He blinked, and the memory cleared, though the rage remained. He clutched harder at the sled rope, using it to anchor himself. One breath, two, three... til the red that filled his vision disappeared.

He glared once more at the still laughing horsemen. "Step foot on my mountain," he managed to bite out. "And I will kill you."

*~*~*~*~*~*

By the time he had arrived home, the rage that had filled him had cooled.

Jalintu ran out to meet him, a goose clutched in her hands.

"Another," he asked, exasperated. "Are you not tired of eating goose yet?"

Happily she shook her head.

He felt equally happy watching her eat. After spreading the new cut wood out to dry, he sat beside the fire, a flagon of wine in one hand, and watched in amusement as Jalintu tried to pick more meat from already clean bones.

"Perhaps I should have called you wildcat," he laughed, watching her knaw on a spatula.

Then he turned his thoughts to darker topics.

The horsemen had spent the winter here, perhaps in the village. That signaled a determination he had not anticipated. And they knew Jalintu was here. They must have seen her, as she followed him about the mountain, or practiced archery outside the cave.

And yet, they had not attacked, or attempted to retrieve her, knowing that just the few of them would not be enough. That suggested more organization and discipline than a simple bounty mission. It suggested...

They must be waiting for reinforcements.

Of the three original horsemen, he had seen only two today. The third must have gone to fetch their 'master' and more men now the roads are clear. He remembered the horseman's cocky attitude. Perhaps many more men.

Fyar muttered a curse. It was his fault. He had not been careful enough. He had lived alone on this mountain for so long, without fear for death or what came after, he had forgotten what it meant to protect something.

His thoughts immediately turned to defense. The horsemen would come, that was certain. He debated briefly sending Jalintu away with someone, to her tribe, but dismissed the idea. The horsemen had offered a reward today for Jalintu's return. He could not trust anyone else to withstand such temptation.

No... the best thing would be to protect her here on the mountain. But he was not even sure he could. He had dealt with singular hunters before, or small bands, but never with a large force.

Not since coming here you haven't, he thought to himself. But you used to command armies. Destroy kingdoms.

But that was a long time ago. And it ended in failure.

Jalintu must have noticed his mood, for she stopped eating and came to him, crouching by his stool beside the fire.

He smiled down at her worried expression. "I am fine. Just thinking over some ...logistical things." He frowned. "I hate to have to ask you this but... the men who kept you before. The horsemen. How many did they number?"

Jalintu's eyes searched his face. He had come to adore her eyes. Not only for their color, but for the bright intelligence, their inquisitiveness, that seemed to seek and find out whatever it was she could not ask in words.

Now he worried about that inquisitiveness, and was relieved when she looked away, and moved to trace a number in the ashes by the fire.

His relief disappeared when he saw the number. "10,000 men?" he tried to keep the alarm from his voice.

Her eyes returned once more to his face, studying it. He quickly feigned indifference. She scratched more things into the ash, and he leaned forward to read it.

It was a mixture of runes and pictures, spread out across a field of ash. He realized it was a map of the distribution of men, much as a commander would draw, along with symbols for major rivers and mountain ranges, as well as a few settlements. He recognized his own mountain, drawn on the western edge.

Jalintu circled one group, with the number '1,000' written below it, and dragged a line from it toward the mountain.

"You think only 1,000 men will come here?" he asks. "Why?"

She drew two more images; a man with a sword, and a man mounted on a horse with a bow. She circled the man with the sword only.

"Infantry? They have only 1,000 infantry? And you think it is they who will come here?" It made sense. Horsemen would be at a disadvantage on the mountain.

"Hmmm," he raised a hand to his beard, idly pulling at it. "Thank you. This is much help. I am sorry to make you talk of it."

She continued to watch him, then stood and came to him, settling upon his thigh. She looked up at him, as though bringing her eyes closer could better help her pull the answers from him.

He was reminded of a bird, perching upon a branch.

He sighed. "I met two of the men we saw last fall today as I was cutting wood. They offered me a reward if I helped return you. They..." he ground his teeth, thinking of the men's laughter, their cruel smiles.

"They will not touch you," he finished with surety. "Not ever again. I promise you."

Her eyes widened at the force in his words, then filled with another emotion. She turned on his thigh to face him, then put both her hands on his shoulders and drawing herself up, biting her lip faintly to show her desire.

Fyar smiled at her obvious eagerness. In the firelight her silver hair was like a halo of frost around her head, and her eyes seemed to glow. Turquoise seas, or the feathers of river birds, he was not sure which was a more apt comparison. Regardless, the shade had become precious to him. A spark of color in an otherwise faded world.

He craved that color. He could deny himself no longer.

So he didn't. He brought his mouth to hers.

ONC Word Count: 14182