Chapter Text
Frederick should have known better.
He had known the storm was coming when the temperature had suddenly dropped that morning. He had grown up on this mountain, and he knew full well how capricious it could be. Still, he had decided to go out to check his traps. He had figured that anything he’d caught would be snapped up if he waited, and that the storm would not hit until early afternoon. And he had been right. But he had not anticipated how the cold would stiffen his leg, or how slow his descent would be.
He was not halfway down the mountain when it began to snow. Within minutes, he was caught in a storm far worse than he’d anticipated, the wind sinking its claws into his skin. Frederick pressed onward, but the going was treacherous. He could see only an arm’s length in front of him, and a single slip could mean death. Worse, his leg was growing more and more useless—now he could barely bend it at the knee. The cold was in his lungs, and every step, every breath, was excruciating.
Then a miracle, a small mercy—a knoll that blocked the path of the wind. He shuffled along its edge always keeping a hand to it, as if the land itself might be lost to the snow. And for a moment, he thought it was. Suddenly there was nothing under his hand but air. He stumbled into the space and found himself in a cave. No, he realized, running his hands along the earthen walls. A creature had dug this space out with large claws. It was a den.
But an empty den, at least for now. For a moment, Frederick wondered if he should leave before its occupants returned. But he was exhausted, his body frozen and aching. He all but collapsed, wincing as he stretched his leg out. He would rather risk bears or wolves than brave the storm again. Though what a strange thing, he thought, that a den should be so large. It was too tall and its mouth too wide to snuggly hold an animal’s heat. Still, though it wasn’t warm, shelter was shelter. He would wait the storm out here. And if he was lucky, he would not be eaten.
Chrii!
A sharp chirp jolted Frederick awake, and he shivered violently. Outside, the blizzard still howled, the cold air scouring his face. When had he fallen asleep? How long had he been here? His thoughts returned to him sluggishly. He was so tired.
Was he dying?
Chrii?
In front of him stood a bird, all round and feathers. It cocked its head, dark eyes fixed on him. Unreadable.
“What is a bird doing out in a storm like this?” he murmured, struggling to sit up. “You must be as frozen as I am.”
The bird did not startle when he moved. It lacked the shyness of a wild animal, and if Frederick didn’t know better, he would have thought it was trying to decide what to make of him. But it was likely just stupid with cold, as he was.
Frederick rummaged clumsily through his pack. His fingers were numb, and things seemed to avoid his grip. Finally, he removed a crust of bread. It was the last of the food he had packed, but if he was going to die, he doubted it would be from starvation. He held it out to the bird, which eyed the bread suspiciously.
“Come now, it’s not poisoned.”
He raised the bread to his own lips and nibbled off a bit. The effort left his jaw feeling heavy. His chest ached.
“See?” he said, holding the bread out again. This time the bird hopped toward his hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, began to peck at the bread. “That will probably be of more use to you than to me.”
Che-rii?
The bird hopped onto his pack, worrying the canvas with its beak.
“Don’t be greedy now,” Frederick said. “There is no more in there. Just frozen rabbits.”
He lifted the bird up, and it sat calmly in his hands. It was a tiny, short-beaked thing, weighing almost nothing. He could not, he realized, identify the species.
“What are you?” he wondered aloud. “You sound like a robin, but I have never seen a robin with black feathers before.”
The bird continued to stare placidly at him. Perhaps the cold really had damaged its brain. As muddled as his own thoughts were, Frederick knew how dire his situation was. He understood that he might die. But for whatever reason, he did not like the thought of the bird perishing with him. He melted the frost from its wings with his breath and rubbed its feathers to full fluff. Then he tucked it between his body and his coat.
“At least you can fly away from here when this is over,” he said. Then the cold dragged him into sleep again.
He woke, much to his surprise. The storm had blown itself out overnight, and thin morning light seeped into the den. It was snowing, but lightly, and the temperature in the den was almost pleasant.
The bird was gone. Of course it was. It had probably flown away as soon as the wind had died. Or maybe he had dreamt it, though its weight in his hand had felt real.
Frederick stood, bracing himself against the wall of the den. He nearly pulled back his hand in shock. The earth was warm, nearly hot. It was not the heat of dirt warmed by sunlight, but that of the ground beneath a put-out campfire. It must have been that warmth, he realized, that had saved his life. But how could that be?
Under better circumstances, he may have taken the time to puzzle over that. His leg was not as bad as it had been, but it would still be a slow descent, and he needed to get home before the storm picked up again. Frederick thanked whatever god of good fortune had seen him through the night and stumbled out of the den. As he trudged through the snow, he did not feel the round, dark eyes watching him from above.
Over the next few days, the sky continued to dump snow onto the mountain. Frederick could not remember the last time winter storms had been so incessant. Still, his preparations had been meticulous, and his leg did not ache so much if he stayed near the fire. It was tedious to stay indoors without much else to do but knit, but barring calamity, he was confident in his ability to weather the winter.
The knock came on another stormy night. At first, he mistook the sound for branches rattling in the wind. But it continued, growing more urgent. Alarmed, he hurried to the door. Was someone actually out in this weather?
A woman stood on his doorstep. She wore a dress far too thin for winter, and the snow had bitten her bare ankles red. Long white hair whipped across her face, and for a moment Frederick thought she was an old woman. But when she spoke, her voice was youthful.
“May I stay here?”
Later, he would be ashamed to recall how he’d hesitated. There were stories, after all, of wraiths that stalked the night and needed permission to enter their victims’ homes. But, no, that was ridiculous. He could not let someone freeze over old superstitions.
“Of course,” he said. “Come in.”
Frederick led her to his seat by the fire. Her skin was frozen to the touch, but she did not shiver. Hadn’t he eventually stopped shivering when he’d been caught in the storm? Didn’t that mean her life was in danger?
“Here,” he said, draping his coat over her. “My apologies—it isn’t washed, but it is warm, if you can abide the smell.”
She pulled the coat tight around her shoulders. She seemed lucid enough—not like someone who was freezing to death. Her dark, interested eyes surveying the room. He had not entertained company in this house before, and he was suddenly aware of how meager his possessions were. In the light, he had seen that her dress was made of fine material, unlike the coarse stuff he wore. He waited for her face to stiffen with judgment or pity.
“You have a loom,” she said instead. Her gaze had come to rest upon the bulky contraption he’d kept the corner.
“Oh. Yes.”
“Your wife’s?”
He might have laughed had he not been so caught off guard.
“No. As you can see, I live alone. It was…it was my mother’s, when she lived her. She left it for me.”
“Do you use it?”
“I never learned how.”
“Then she probably left it in anticipation of you finding a wife.”
“…Yes, I suppose so.”
Frederick had never given it much thought, but that had been the implication, hadn’t it? His mother had assumed he would have given her grandchildren by now. But she had assumed many things about him.
“She’s not dead,” he said suddenly. “My mother, that is. She was simply moved in with my brother’s family when she could no longer live on her own. The loom was too bulky to carry down the mountain, anyhow.”
The woman stared at him, and Frederick suddenly felt very silly. What was he doing? Was he really so lonely that he felt compelled to share the details of his life with a woman he’d just met? Had a year on this mountain made him so desperate?
He cleared his throat.
“My name is Frederick,” he offered. “And you are?”
“You mean my name?”
“…Yes.”
He did not think it was a particularly difficult question, but the woman took her time answering it. She stared into the fire, her brow furrowed in deep thought.
“Robin,” she said at last.
“Robin?”
“Do you not like it?”
“No, it’s a fine name. Just unusual, is all.”
“Good,” she said, a relieved smile spreading across her face. “I’m glad you like it.”
Frederick put the kettle over the fire, and when it boiled, he poured her a mug of hot water. To his surprise, she downed it quickly, though it must have been scalding. But she didn’t seem hurt, at least. Perhaps the water was not as hot as he’d thought it was.
“How are you feeling?” he asked. “Have you warmed up a little?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Thank you. If I hadn’t found your house, I’m not sure what I would have done. You are very kind.”
“That is a very courteous thing to say. But it is common decency to help someone during a blizzard.”
“Common?” Robin was smiling, but her eyes seemed to harden slightly. “I don’t think it is. Most people aren’t decent.”
Another odd response. In fact, now that the shock had worn off, this whole situation was eminently strange. It had been storming since yesterday, and one did not simply wander out into the snow on accident, much less in her state of dress.
“What were you doing out in this weather?” Frederick asked. “Are you…in some kind of trouble?”
“I don’t remember,” she said, as casually as she may have commented upon the warmth of the fire. She combed her fingers through her hair, snowmelt dribbling down her wrist. “I don’t remember a lot of things.”
“You mean to tell me that you don’t know why you were alone on this mountain in the middle of a winter storm? Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“That is…rather concerning, is it not?”
Robin nodded, in his opinion, unconvincingly. It sounded like little more than an excuse not to talk about herself. Well, he thought, she either was involved in some sort of trouble, or she was going to slit his throat while he slept. He figured he would take his chances. After all, neither his life nor his possessions were worth much anymore, and his conscience would not let him send the girl back into the cold, no matter how strange she was.
Frederick sighed and ran a weary hand over his face.
“You may sleep in my bed tonight,” he said. “I shall take the chair. Tomorrow…well, I suppose that will depend on the storm.”
By morning the winds had weakened, but snow continued to fall steadily. Frederick would have hesitated to send a well-equipped traveler into that, and Robin was equipped with nothing. If she was to be believed, she didn’t even have a place to return to.
For her part, Robin did not seem bothered by her situation in the slightest. She seemed content to curl up in his coat and watch him knit. What was he supposed to do with her, Frederick asked himself. Even if the winter miraculously turned mild, could he send her off by herself? Perhaps he could escort her as far as the village. But the journey down the mountain was not short, and with his leg, he did not dare risk it in winter.
Had he stored enough food for two in the meantime? Perhaps, but it would be cutting it close. He could lay out more traps, but maintaining that many could prove difficult, and he did not want to risk being caught in another storm. Fishing? He could cut a hole in the frozen lake and set out a line—
“What are you making?” Robin asked.
“A tunic.”
“It seems a bit small for you.”
“It is for you. You need something suited for the cold.”
Robin was quiet long enough for him to look up from his work. She was staring at his face, not quite smiling, but a softness around her eyes and lips. She was rather pretty, he realized.
“See?” she said. “You are kind.”
“It is mere chivalry.”
But Frederick had spoken recklessly. He should not have said that word, which had no more use of him. With great effort he tamped down the bitterness that surged through him. It was alright. He had no use for that word now, either.
“I would also like my coat back,” he added. “And the sooner I finish this, the sooner I’ll have it.”
“You may have it now.”
“You’ll be cold,” he warned, but it was too late. She was already draping the coat over him, the fabric still heavy with her heat. Her hands lingered on his shoulders. It was nice. When was the last time he’d felt another person’s touch?
“I want to repay you,” she said. “For helping me.”
“I did not do it for money.”
“I do not have money.”
“Then—”
“But I could be your wife.”
Frederick stood, the chair’s ugly screech tearing the room in two. Her hands fell from his shoulders. The coat, too, slid off the back of the chair into a heap to the ground.
“What game are you playing?” Frederick demanded. “Did someone put you up to this?”
“What? No, I’m—"
Robin frowned. She seemed genuinely upset by his accusation. Stricken, even. Perhaps he had spoken too harshly. Although she had asked to be his wife, she probably just needed a place to stay until spring, and how else could she ensure that he would not toss her out into the snow? Frederick set down his knitting and pinched the creases out of his brow.
“I do not mean to offend you,” he said. “But I did not come to live on this mountain because I intended to take a wife.”
“Oh.” Robin’s voice had gone flat. She picked up his coat, holding it awkwardly against her chest. “Why did you come here?”
Why indeed? Hadn’t he been asking himself that exact question every day for the past year? Because he had nowhere else to go? But that wasn’t entirely true. After all, his brother had opened his home to him, not just to their mother. But injured though he was, he had his old pride. He could not abide the thought of being under his brother’s care.
“Because I cannot live comfortably anywhere,” he said. “So I may as well be here.”
All at once her face lit up. Her fingers tightened in his coat.
“I feel the same way,” she said. “Like there’s nowhere that would take you back.”
Well, he thought to himself, it sounded like she remembered something of her past after all.
“I’m not offended,” Robin continued. “I just wanted…I wanted to do something for you.”
“There is nothing I need. For now, your company is enough. Although I would not complain if you helped out around the house now and then.”
“But you…”
He waited for her to continue, but she had clamped her jaw shut, as if to trap the words that might escape her.
“I would not make a good husband for you,” Frederick explained. “I would not be able to support you. I can hardly support myself.”
“Because of your leg,” she said bluntly.
“Yes.”
“And if you didn’t have to worry about supporting me?” she asked. “Would you have me then?”
Frederick took a deep breath.
“No.”
“Oh.”
She cast her eyes down, as if she could veil her disappointment behind long eyelashes.
“You may stay here until spring,” he offered gently. “Then we will go down to the village together. Perhaps someone will know you there. You might even find a husband, if you still want one.”
Robin nodded. Then, with effort, she raised her face. She had composed herself completely, folding her disappointment into a colorless half-smile. She fixed her gaze on him, her dark eyes unreadable.
“Thank you. You really are too kind.”