The bear howled in agony, rearing high on its hind legs.Then, one final, thunderous swipe brought its fury down on him.
Dancing Fire crumpled.Blood poured from a ragged gash across his chest.He hit the earth with a sickening thud, a sound that stole the breath from my lungs and ripped the world out from under me.
Everything narrowed—to his still form, to the blood beneath him, staining the earth in crimson sorrow.
The bear, wounded and seething, turned from us.A low growl rumbled in its throat like distant thunder threatening to return.Its eyes, dark and vengeful, locked on mine—a promise of retribution.Then it vanished into the forest, leaving behind nothing but torn earth and the memory of blood trailing into the snow-melted waters of the stream.
I fell to my knees beside Dancing Fire, my hands already stained with his lifeblood.His breaths came in ragged gasps, his eyes fluttering open to meet mine—pain and gratitude swirling in their depths.
“Stay with me,” I begged, my voice a broken whisper.“Please, don’t leave me.”
His chest rose and fell, each breath a fragile battle, life clinging to him by a thread thinner than spider silk.
This was the moment—the test.I could not falter.
My hands shook as I tore at the leather of my garment, stripping it into rough bandages.Pressing them against his wounds, I fought to staunch the bleeding, to keep him anchored to this world.His blood soaked my hands, but I would not stop.
Night fell cold and cruel, wrapping around us with icy fingers.But the fear in my chest was colder still.
I built a fire, coaxing flame from tinder with trembling hands.As Dancing Fire drifted in and out of consciousness, slipping toward a darkness I could not see, I whispered prayers into the flickering light—pleas to any power that might hear me to spare his life, to give him back.
Memory became my guide.Yarrow to staunch the bleeding.Plantain to ease the inflammation.I worked silently, a sentinel holding the line between life and death, refusing to surrender him to the void.
And as dawn broke, painting the sky in hues of hope, I felt the fever break beneath my palms.His brow cooled, and a true breath—slipped from his lips, as soft as the first light of morning.
He would live.
At that moment, beneath the newborn sun, I dared to believe that healing was possible—not just for him but for both of us.In this wild, unforgiving land, far from where my story began...something new could rise.Something strong.Something whole.
My stomach growled a plaintive cry that matched the whimpers of my heart.By the third day, hunger clawed at me with desperation nearly as vicious as the bear that had mauled Dancing Fire.The forest teemed with life, and I knew I must become part of it—not just an observer, but a survivor.With hands that had once only known the softness of silk and lace, I fashioned a crude snare from the sinews of my tattered leather garments.
“Please,” I whispered into the wind, “let this work.”
Luck—or perhaps fate—guided a rabbit into my trap.Its soft brown eyes met mine for a brief, agonizing moment before I did what was necessary.I remembered Dancing Fire’s patient voice as he taught me how to honor the life taken—to use every part of the animal and waste nothing.
I cooked the rabbit over the fire I had tended, its warmth a small bastion against the encroaching chill of the wilderness.The scent of roasting meat filled the air, and I watched as Dancing Fire stirred, drawn back from the brink by the promise of sustenance.
“Thank you,” he rasped as I helped him sit upright.His eyes met mine, wide and searching, filled with something I could not quite name.Gratitude, perhaps.Or awe.
“You’re here,” he said, his voice steadier now.“You saved me.”
“I couldn’t let you die,” I murmured, the weight of those words anchoring deep within my chest.“I had to help you.Besides, you were the one who saved me first.”
Shock flickered across his face, quickly replaced by something quieter—respect, deep and unspoken.
“You’re stronger than you know, Elizabeth,” he said, his voice like the crackling fire between us.“I’m grateful to have met you.”
As the days passed and his wounds began to heal, I reflected on the bond that had grown between us.Dancing Fire had become more than the man who offered me shelter.He was my best friend, my anchor in a world that was no longer foreign but no less wild.He had rescued me from a life that might have ended or been twisted into something unrecognizable, bent by another’s will.
When he could finally stand, we decided it was time to return to the tribe.Our journey back was quiet, the silence between us no longer born of fear or pain but of something else—something steadier.A silent understanding forged not with words but with firelight, survival, and the unspoken weight of what we had endured together.
As the sky darkened and stars bloomed above us that evening, we sat beside the fire again.Sparks rose into the night, vanishing into the endless dark like fleeting wishes.Dancing Fire turned to me, his face illuminated by the gentle flicker of flame.
“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice low and sure, “you’ve brought much to my people.Your heart and your hands—they’ve given healing, peace, hope—more than you know.”
His words wrapped around me, gentle and unexpected, like the warmth of the fire between us.I looked at him, truly looked, and saw a depth in his eyes that had nothing to do with the pain of the past few days.Something else lingered there—respect, perhaps—or something deeper.
“You’ve given me something, too,” I murmured, fingers tightening around the edges of my deerskin shawl.“A place to belong.I never had that before.Not with my father.Not in England.”I paused, the truth pressing hard on my tongue.“Not until here.”
