How did I not even notice I’d wandered so far from the village? Frey wonders for the hundredth time. It must have been at least a few miles through thick snow and dense woods from the edge of the Wastes to the edge of home.

It’s near dawn when she finally makes it back to the village, exhausted and panting. The girl, now covered in Frey’s coat, hardly weighs more than a feather, but still her arms ache as if they’d done a day’s woodcutting. 

The morning watchman sits with his back to the woods, poking at the remnants of the night fire with a stick when Frey emerges and calls out. Her knees have set to trembling and she’s not sure how many more steps she can take. 

It’s Thrym, the village songwriter and builder. He turns from the dying embers and his eyes widen in surprise.

“Frey? By my horns girl what are you…”
But whatever he says after, Frey doesn’t hear. Like the girl she carries, she collapses, exhausted into Thrym’s strong, ready arms.


Warmth.
That is the first thing the girl feels.

Heavy, soft furs are draped over her, and above her the ceiling is a lattice of dark wooden rafters. A lazy wisp of woodsmoke curls toward the smoke-hole, catching gold flecks of dust in a beam of sun. The scent of it fills her nose along with dozens of other thick, heady smells. Strange. Herbal. Potent.

One scent stands out, something rich and savory that makes her stomach growl.

Alive, she thinks. I must still be alive.

She tries to lift her head, but pain flares; muted, but still there, and the world spins a bit. A low sound slips from her throat, half-groan.

A woman’s voice answers. Low, warm, rich with age, but still strong. A weathered face enters her vision; lined with decades of wind and wisdom, yet her eyes, deep, dark pools, gleam bright as wet obsidian, alive with a youthful spark untouched by time.

For a moment, the girl thinks she’s wearing a ceremonial headdress of some kind but then realizes: the antlers are real.

Tall and elegant, branching up and back out of her dark oak hair like strong branches at the base and polished bone near the tips. Threaded with tiny hanging crystals and carved with simple runes. The girl can’t look away. She has to fight the urge to reach out and touch one.

The antlered woman speaks in a language the girl doesn’t know and gently but firmly helps her sit up, tucking a cushion behind her. Then… She feeds her.

The spoon and bowl are carved wood and the stew is simple, but rich with flavor and with each swallow, warmth and strength seep back into the girl’s limbs. The woman never stops speaking, or perhaps singing a soft, rhythmic chant that loops and loops like a river-song.

Her hands, wrinkled and steady, are inked in curling symbols from her fingers up to her wrists that disappear even into her sleeves.

A healer, the girl thinks, and relief washes over her. Gratitude follows close behind. She tries to speak, to say thank you, but only a ragged croak escapes.

The woman lays gentle fingers to the girl’s lips and shakes her head. A stern gesture… but her eyes are kind. The girl nods, and accepts the next spoonful.

When the bowl is empty, the healer sets it aside and lifts a small cup of dark, steaming liquid. The smell stings the girl’s nose and she flinches, prompting a soft string of words that, while unfamiliar, carry the exact cadence of a mother gently scolding a stubborn child.

The girl is not a child… but she yields.

The drink burns at first, thick and bitter, but then melts into warmth. A tingling, slow-spreading fire that travels to her fingertips, to her toes. She exhales, and sleep begins to creep over her… not the sleep of someone exhausted beyond their limits, but true, restful slumber and her eyes grow heavy.

The old woman smiles, her teeth dazzlingly white, and she helps the girl lie back down. Her fingers gently trace through the girl's hair, soothing and hypnotic while she starts to sing ... a winding lullaby that rises and falls in haunting, but soft refrains, over and over until the world fades away.