When I wake again, an hour, a year, a lifetime later, the fog in my brain is a little clearer, but the heaviness still weighs. It feels like… like the first morning I woke up after being delirious with the Winter fever for a week. No energy, no life in me. Just random thoughts echoing in a shell. There’s light now, though it’s dim, filtering through my closed eyelids. A cough tries to rack through my body, but my throat is bone dry, parched like I’ve been wading through a silo of sawdust.
“Water…” I manage to croak out, my voice barely more than a whisper, not sure if there’s anyone to hear my plea.
The rocking I hadn’t even noticed this time stops, and a cool hand presses at the back of my neck, tilting my head slightly. A canteen is pressed to my lips, and I drink greedily, too thirsty to care about anything else. The water is cold, soothing, as it slides down my throat, but I barely have time to enjoy it before my stomach revolts.
With eyes still too tired to open, I lurch forward, grabbing my stomach with one hand, the other instinctively covering my mouth.
“Shit.”
The voice, that same deep voice, curses.
The next thing I know, I’m being lifted and then placed onto the ground. The sudden motion is too much, and there’sno holding it back. My stomach heaves, and I bend at the waist, my entire torso screaming in pain as I’m violently sick, retching up the water I’d just gulped down.
Well, that’s just great. I finally get some water, and my body decides it doesn't want it after all.
I lean back against… nothing. Leaning, leaning, until I feel a warm, solid…somethingbehind me.It’ll do, I think, as I drag a breath into my lungs, just in time for another fit of retching to rack through my already exhausted body. Once the tremors, I chance trying to crack an eye open and immediately regret it as the world immediately spins, my vision blurring.
I guess I’m not ready for that particular task yet. That difficult action of just seeing. It’s hard. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
My brain must agree because suddenly the solid something I’m leaning against starts to slide away. And the last thing I can remember before everything descends into darkness is that I hope someone catches me.
When I next come to,the light is brighter, harsh against my eyelids. My body feels better, still stiff, aching in ways I didn’t know it could ache, but better. For a few moments, I enjoy the now-familiar rocking beneath me; it’s become almost comforting. As is the radiating warmth against my back, steady and strong. I think I sigh. Then realisation hits me like a slap. And I have three thoughts, almost simultaneously: firstly, how rude of my brain to slap me when I’m down; secondly, I’m on a horse, I can’t remember the last time I was on a horse; and thirdly, other than me and the horse,I am not alone.
Panic flares in my chest, sharp and sudden. My eyes snap open, and I ignore the skewer that feels like it’s embeddingthrough my skull, and I struggle to push away from whoever, or whatever, is behind me. Strong arms that I didn’t realise were around me tighten, holding me in place. My pulse pounds in my ears, my mind racing through a thousand possibilities, none of them good.
“Let me go!” I shout, hoarse as the sound tears through my dry throat. A sore throat is going to be the least of my troubles if I don’t get off this horse. I twist in the saddle, trying to wrench myself free.
“Stop,” the voice commands, as firm and uncompromising as the arms holding me.
But I don’t stop. I kick out, thrashing with what little strength I have left, desperate to get away. “I said, let me go!” Tilting my head forward, I brace for impact. Then, with gritted teeth, I fling my head back, skull meeting forehead, with a dull, achingly hard thump.
“Fuck!” the voice curses gruffly as the arms loosen slightly for a split second, just enough for me to slip free. I slide off the horse, hitting the ground hard, the impact jarring every bone in my body. Pain radiates through me, but I force myself to scramble to my feet, looking up, blinking against the light, trying to make sense of my surroundings.
And then I see him—the guard from the village, Sir Scary, swinging his leg over the horse to join me on solid ground.
My heart stutters in my chest, that same visceral fear flooding back as it did the first time I laid eyes on him at the town square. He was terrifying from afar, but up close, his commanding presence is almost suffocating, paralysing. His face is set in easily the most imposing scowl I’ve ever seen, his dark, unreadable eyes fixed on me with something between annoyance and impatience. He looks even taller from this angle, looming over me like some kind of avenging spirit. I spinaround and scramble away, instinctively trying to put distance between us.
He grabs the scruff of my collar and holds me in place.
“Let me go!” I yell.
“No.” With a flick of his wrist, he spins me around so that I’m facing him.
Good gods, he’s scary. And strong. And… and handsome.
Wait,no. He’snot. I mean, he is, but that’s hardly something I should be noticing right now. I can barely speak, feeling his gaze focused on me. But I’ll be damned if he needs to know that. I mentally pull together what’s left of my sanity and square my shoulders.
“What do you want with me? And where are you taking me?” I demand, trying to sound braver than I feel, even as my voice wavers. “I don’t have any money. I don’t have… anything. You’re just wasting your time.” Then it dawns on me.Fucking Samfer. “Is this because of… because of the things I did?” I ask, pissed that my voice is wavering.
His expression doesn’t change. No flicker of surprise, no raised eyebrow, nothing. “No more questions,” he says, his tone flat, as if he’s repeating something he’s said a hundred times before. “You’re safe. That’s all you need to know.” Thankfully, though, he lets go of me.
Safe. Sure, and pigs fly south for the winter. “Safe from what?” I snap, pulling down on my clothes as I slowly back up a single step. And then another. “You didn’t answer my question. Where are you taking me?”
He takes a single step forward, eating up the distance I’ve put between us, and I’m reminded of just how big he is, how easily he could snap me in half if he wanted to.
“Somewhere you’ll be protected,” he says, and there’s a definite edge to his voice now, as if his patience is hanging by a thread. “Now stop asking questions.”
Protected. Not sure if that’s better or worse than “safe.” I narrow my eyes, trying to decipher his tone, but it’s like trying to read a brick wall. “Protected from what?” I press, crossing my arms over my chest, mostly to keep them from shaking. “Because it looks like you’re the one I need protection from. And just so you know, there was never any eviden—”
