It was winter.
It was snowing and it was cold. They walked as long as they dared in the night before huddling together close and waiting out the darkness. He wrapped his heavy fur cloak around her and she nestled in close. She fell asleep hugging him and he rested while remaining alert to his surroundings.
They dared not light a fire. Those who hunted her would certainly see it and whatever small advantage they had would be lost. No, better for him to stay up the night and let her rest.
She rested a time before jolting awake as though from a bad dream. He searched her face for clues as to what she was thinking, but her face was always a mask of ice.
“We must go,” she announced.
“Where?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” she said, unhugging him and standing up. She wrapped her heavy white fur cloak around her and stood there breathing large clouds of mist into the cold night air.
“That way,” she said eventually.
“What do you sense?” he asked.
“A man in need,” she responded. “A good man. I dreamed about him.”
He frowned. Dreams were not just dreams when dreamed by her.
“Yes Milady,” he eventually allowed. “That way then.”
He adjusted the two swords on each side of his waist and his heavy black cloak. “Let us be away then. After me.”
The moon was not so dark that they could not see with its glow off the snow. Their feet crunched and made more noise than he liked. He knew better than to question any odd directions from her. He trusted her completely and vowed himself to her.
Still, the night stalkers hunted and they were not safe. He kept his senses alert.
Eventually they came upon a camp. They observed it for a time from afar at his insistence, but she commanded that they approach.
“He is a good man, and he is dying,” she told him.
“So you have said,” he told her back flatly.
The warriors in the camp heard them approaching and drew their swords and notched their arrows. There were six of them, although one of them was sick and unable to stand. Several others bore other visible wounds. This company of men was in ill shape.
When she entered the clearing and their light shone upon her, the night echoed with their collective drawing of breath. She was a beautiful sight to behold. Dressed all in white with long raven black hair. Her white fur cloak wrapped around her highlighting her beautiful face. Her powerful gaze set every man back.
“Who is this one?” she asked pointing at the one who could not stand.
“Gilead,” several voices answered at once, not sure what was happening. “Do you know him?”
“What happened to him?” she asked.
One man stood forward now, prepared to speak for the group. He was thick with muscles but his eyes were clear. “He got poisoned in an exchange with the red triad in a pub in Galastrow.”
“He is dying,” she stated flatly, reciting it as a matter of fact.
“Aye,” the man replied. “Can you save him?”
Her eyes for the first time saw the other members of the group. Their swords were drawn and they were afraid. She was not afraid. If any real danger lurked here, Morgan would protect her. Even six to one, Morgan would kill them all easily to protect her.
She kneeled and placed a hand on Gilead’s head. “He’s burning up. The poison consumes him.” Again, flat statements of fact.
“Can you save him,” the other man asked again, this time more urgently. “It’s my fault he’s hurt.” His head hung low. “He’s a good man,” he added weakly.
“The best,” the other men chorused.
Morgan rolled his eyes.
Gilead lay in a sleeping roll by the fire. He was sweating profusely and shaking. It was clear the poison was getting the better of him.
She stood again and turned to face her protector. “Keep me safe,” she ordered. “Keep the fire hot. Do not let anyone touch me.”
“As you say, Milady,” he responded firmly, putting both hands on the hilts of his swords.
Suddenly she removed her cloak and immediately steam rose from her warm body in the cold night. Beneath her cloak she wore a white leather tunic but it provided little protection from the brutal cold of the winter night.
She climbed into Gilead’s sleeping roll and gathered him up in her arms. Morgan frowned deeply and scowled at the other men who took a full step back at the palpable dislike the scarred warrior then emitted. She spooned him from the outside, slowed her breathing and gently fell asleep.
The armed men faced Morgan and wondered what to do. They saw a frightening man with heavy scars on his face over each eye and over his mouth. They saw in his eyes a man who had killed before and grown efficient at it. They sensed they were outmatched.
The night passed uncomfortably between these men as Alandra de Winter ushered Norman Gilead through the cold night. Morgan did not sleep, choosing instead to stand over her through the night with his hands on his swords. The other men could not sleep, choosing instead to huddle in their bed rolls and await the morning sun.
The sun eventually came and with it a new dawn for more than just a new day. The poisoned man awoke to find the most beautiful woman of his dreams sleeping with him and holding him tight. It was a memory that would never leave him.
He looked up and saw death himself staring down at him angry to be presiding over this baleful circumstance.
“Hello, I’m Norman Gilead,” the man announced. “I think you saved my life.”
“I’m Alandra de Winter,” she chimed back beautifully. “And I did.” Her words resonated with total honesty.
“This is Morgan. He protects me.”
“Indeed,” Gilead gulped, feeling death roll off this terrifying man. “A pleasure to meet you both.”