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A Winter storm ravaged the woods. Its dark streams and rivers swelled to bursting. Its trees whipped, bent, cracked. Puddles drowned every footpath.  The naked trees provided no shelter. A young man, covered in silt, slime and sludge, bit back tears.

His sodden trainers snapped branches underneath. Rain squelched into his socks and soles. A chill wetness bit into his feet. Every step stung. The lumpy forest ground made balance a conscious effort.

Numb fingers clung to his pockets, providing little warmth against the exposure. He dared to check his phone again. There was no signal. There was no GPS. His vulnerable hands retreated into his pockets and pulled his all too thin coat taut around himself from the inside. Without a clue as to where he was, all he could do was stumble forward and keep his back towards the wind and the rain.

He kept his head down. On the ground, he saw hoof prints. The same sort he’d seen from mounted police in city parks. In this squall, with fresh earth and mud, they still looked fresh. Not too far away, there was a second set of marks. These were long and flat. Almost like a wheel mark. He let out a hopeful gasp, and his path swerved sidewards to follow the tracks.

Wind and wet whipped against his craned head, for he kept his eyes glued to the ground. The route stayed dead straight, finding a way to punch through the trees. Bushes and ferns walled off the sides of the path, but they were beaten back to give him clearance.

At the end of the path, he broke from the trees, and he was met with a small clearing. A grassy ledge. It overlooked a dip into an area of thick growth and foliage, where only small animals could likely navigate. The hoofs disappeared down the slope and into the seemingly impenetrable growth.

The storm was mighty. Lacking obstructions, the gusts and the rain thundered down the valley way. It threatened to send him careening down the hill. The grass on the hill was slick. The stones leading down were slippery.

Smack in the centre of the ledge, standing mighty against the gale, was a solitary stone pillar. It was a jagged boulder stood upright. The hoof marks passed around it. A dozen or so ordered markings chiselled the side. Wind biting and blighting him, he hurried forward.

He sheltered beneath the east side of the boulder. Reprieve. His hands went to his face, sucking in air, trying to think straight. His stomach growled. His teeth chattered. His fingers and toes felt ready to turn black and drop off.

But, there was something by his crouched feet. Something tucked and hidden beneath some tall tufts of grass, nestled against the boulder. He pushed the grass aside.  There were four leathery pouches, roughly fastened to a damp cloth sash. Each of the pouches were tied with fraying string. They looked like some primitive apparel seen at a museum. Given the hoof marks, he concluded that they belonged to the stranger he was following.

A weird warmth surrounded the pouches. Desperation got the better of him. He picked one up, and to his surprise, it was piping hot. Instinctively, he brought it closer to his drenched chest. Heat spread through him. No roaring fire, but he’d take what he could get. The contents felt soft through the material of the pouch.

His cold, curious fingers fumbled with the drawstring. A wisp of steam puffed out. He clawed it open, fingers unfreezing in the warm depths of the bag.

Dumplings. Hot dumplings. Savory steam wafted up around him, tickling the frostbit tip of his nose. They were plump and bulged with filling, though the seam on each was clumsy. Pork, onion and garlic poked through the little rips in the pastry. Each dusted with warm smelling spices that invited him to take a bite. And, at the bottom of the bag, in a tight mason jar with checkered cloth, what looked like apple dipping sauce.

He couldn’t tell, because the hand-inked label was not in English. It didn’t look like Spanish either, or even written in the English alphabet, nor any language he recognised.

Gripping the sides, he pondered whether to eat. This was a stroke of luck on an unlucky day. His stomach gnawed, and he counted the dumplings. Eight of them, plus whatever was in the rest of this stranger’s bags. One would be fine, he reasoned. One would not be missed.

Just to be sure, he peered over into the undergrowth valley. The bushes and brushes bristled in the breeze, but there was no sign of them besides.

He took the dumpling, blew on it twice and took a guilty bite. Pockets of steam erupted in his mouth, almost scorching him. It was just what he needed. Sizzling, succulent, spicy pork which melted in his mouth. There was more heat than he expected. He fanned his mouth but couldn’t resist tearing into the remainder of the dumpling.

Punchy garlic, thick chunks of onion and vegetables he didn’t quite recognise. The spices too, beneath the heat, weren’t ones he’d ever tasted.

The food was hearty. The ingredients fresh and revitalizing. He felt energy and warmth return to his body, spreading from the stomach. Such a sudden burst of energy felt miraculous, fantastical even, like a hot water bottle expanding in his gut.

Greedily, he eyed the remainder of the dumplings. His eyes flickered to the valley. There was no sign of the stranger. He didn’t know where he was, nor when he’d get to eat again. So, he could justify taking just one more. Then he’d be full. At the same time, he knew it wasn’t right. He drummed his fingers on the bag.

A crack ripped forth from the valley. He stiffened, swivelling his head like a deer. It sounded like a large branch falling from a great height, or one snapped under foot. Echoing like thunder above the din of wind and rustling leaves. Then, another crack, louder this time.

Slowly, he put the dumpling back in the bag.

“H-hello?”

There was no response.

He stared a while longer at the trees. He looked for any movement in that dense, dark jungle. The hoof marks didn’t quite disappear into the wall of vegetation, but rather, they stopped at a gap within. Chunks of woodland had been cut out to make a small, barely visible path into the trees. It struck him how hard it’d be to get a horse through such a narrow opening.

So, he ventured slowly down the verge, down towards the opening. He needed directions, and he wouldn’t mind another dumpling, given with permission. The wind was hard. His footing was unsteady. The ground slid beneath. He slipped and slid on hunks of slick chalk.

Then, at the bottom of the verge, he hesitated. Another crack, even louder than the first two. Someone was coming. Perhaps the stranger.

“Hello?”

Something exhaled, hot and wet, like a disgruntled beast. If it was the stranger, then they were navigating in the dark. He took his phone, and he flashed his torch, and after a few pans, he saw something. He caught a dark silhouette approaching.

“Oh… oh thank god. Hi. I’m lost. I don’t know where I am or how I got here. Can you help me?”

The stranger replied in a strange, guttural language. Beyond being intelligible, he couldn’t make heads or tails of its reaction, emotion or intention. At least, not without a facial expression or body language.

Slash. He flinched. The phone camera caught a sliver of light near the stranger, and it sliced straight through the plants between them. Crack. The stranger strode, and the thick branches beneath them snapped under their weight.

“Uh… do you speak English?” They didn’t reply. “English.” He repeated slowly, enunciating the syllables. Still no reply, and the whistle of wind and wet filled the uncomfortable silence. “I’m from… from…”

He trailed off. Finally, the stranger came close enough, pausing at the edge of illumination.

His eyes bulged. His breath hitched. For this was no rural farmer with a pack mule, no crazy dogwalker, no character he’d recognise. It was no human at all. Humanoid, perhaps, two legs, two arms, but not human.

Humans hadn’t horns like her. Humans hadn’t hooves like her. Humans hadn’t tails like her.

The dark-skinned beast observed him from distance.

She was a behemoth in size, heads taller than him, immense enough to grip the boughs of trees from the ground. Broad shoulders and solid frame let her weightlessly posture her tree splitter of a battle-axe. Besides the cow’s tail whipping from her backside, she remained still as a statue, weapon at the ready.

Her legs resembled those found on an ox, with bulging hind muscle and a digitigrade curve. Thick, brown, sodden fur shone and matted all the way up most of her leg. The freak surgery cut off at her mid-thigh, though the human portion seemed just as strong. Heavy cloven hoofs dug into the mulch beneath her, with thick steel bull-shoes clung to both.  

The beast draped herself in a thick wool cloak. Her hood was drawn, though some cuts and flaps let her grand bovine horns tower free.

“What the hell…?” He croaked to himself.

A half human, half bull. A minotaur. He couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t believe it. He searched desperately for some rational explanation, as if it were some elaborate cosplay or costume. Yet, there was something about the way her legs moved, and her tail swished, and her ease of handling a weapon a body builder would struggle to lift. It defied reality.

Crack.

She stepped toward him. She drew closer. Arguing inexorably her existence.

In the dark, he could not see her face. He could not gauge her expression. But, an instinctual dread turned his stomach inside out. She wasn’t human. What if she…?

Again, his breathing hitched. He slowly raised his other hand, palm out, in a show of non-aggression.  Slowly, he backed away. One step at a time, up the start of the slope of the hill.

Suddenly, thunder crashed above. Loud. In his surprise, the weakened grip of his cold, slippery hands fumbled the phone right from his grasp. It bounced on the chalk below. He scrambled for it, and then when he shone it back into the forest, he could not see her. She was gone. Vanished. Crack. It came from the forest. Crack. Louder this time.

His stomach dropped. He twisted and stumbled back up the hill. The slippery slope was a nightmare to climb. He fell forward, knees grazing the rock. The pain was numbed by a surge of adrenaline, and he was back up on his feet to finish the climb. But, her shout caught his ear, and he twisted his head to see her axe break the tree line. His eyes met hers. Dread. He did not look where he trod. His panicked steps slipped again and his weight was all in the wrong place. Backwards he fell, through the air like a rag doll.

Tumbling. Crashing. Body smashing the chalk. His right leg bent in the wrong direction with a sickening snap. His head struck the ground through laced fingers and bounced forward to his chest like a gross pendulum, knocking him out cold before he skidded in a broken heap. The last thing he saw was the beast rushing for him.   

“Hey! Oh my… Oh my goodness, are you okay?!” The minotaur skidded to a halt at the human’s feet. She took one look.  A scream felt appropriate, but she gritted her teeth tight. “Oh… oh gracious god me. Oh, oh god why? It’s fine. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Deep breath.”

She bent as far as a minotaur could kneel. Her hand first went to his head. Human skulls were brittle. No bleeding. That was a relief. Her other hand traced his torso and immediately felt the warmth of blood soaking into his leg.

“God… Eros… argh.” She fretted, “Hang on. I’ll just… patch you up.”

Her magic was poor. She had experience patching her own bruises, but this was far more serious. Still, she had to try. The unsure giant focused on herself, finding the mana within herself, and then projecting it onto him.

Nothing. There was no magic about him. Not a hint of human magic that even a magical dullard like her could find. She could think of scarecrows with more mana in them than this human.  He couldn’t be…

Her body went cold.

“No…”

Then, her cow ears flickered. He was breathing. She tensed her hand around his leg. There was a faint pulse. Relief, if fleeting.

“Right. Ok. Focus. Don’t panic. Sorry, just gotta…”

Effortlessly but gently, she flipped him onto his side. There was damage. The poor thing was covered in mud. His skin looked pale, even for a human. His strange clothes were tattered and ripped.

There was little she could think of, but first would be to get them out of this hellish weather. The minotaur threw her axe into its sheath. She spotted the odd, light-emitting device the human had on the ground, and curious as she was to inspect, she tucked it safely into a cloak pocket. Finally, as careful as she could, she slid her hands under his body and lifted.

He was cold and he was wet. Worryingly cold. She rubbed her gripped finger into his shoulder in sympathy, before beginning the slow, steady trek up the hill. Her practiced hoofs found easy purchase. She kept him as balanced as he could, knowing a sudden jerk could make things worse for him.

He wasn’t heavy in body or in belongings. Whatever garb he had was not at all appropriate for conditions such as Mythlesorn Forest. How he had ventured this far into monstrous territory without someone stopping him out of concern was beggar’s belief. She reasoned perhaps, with his odd attire and equipment, he was some merchant in new lands.

She approached her stress-relief boulder, where she left her things for the deeper forest venture. Not wanting to set him down for a moment or waste any more time, she ignored her home-made dumplings and other knick-knacks. Light though he was, she couldn’t support his body with only one hand.

“It ain’t far. Just gotta hold on for me. We’ll be home and dry before you can say buckwheat.”

Later, his eyes twitched open, but his vision was blurred and patchy and blacking. His head swam. Everything hurt. Searing pain he’d not felt in his life. He swayed as the minotaur walked with him in her arms. A rocking motion, moving up and down and forward. Shallow sleep almost took him again. The patter of rain. Her steady breathing. The sound of her oxen heart thumping. And a gentle moo in an unknown language. It was all hypnotic.

It soothed him, and he fell back asleep.

The minotaur arrived at her cottage in good time. She hurtled past the gate and pushed in the old door with a measured kick. Wet hoofs clip clopped right up the crooked stairs. She did not stop to throw off her soaked coat. Then, it was to the guest bedroom.

It was a small room, hardly furnished and hardly used. It housed miscellaneous objects and some of her unsold work, but an abundance of pillows, blankets and throws kept it a welcoming space. The cozy bed was as inviting as her own, albeit smaller for folks smaller than her – which was most people.

She laid him down, slowly, cautiously. Then, she plumped up two harpy down pillows and propped his head up beneath. With him settled, she rotated back to the landing and trotted toward the washroom to pick up her healing supplies. Bruise easing gels, scrape sewing salves, pain-relief potions, a bucket of salt water and cloth. She was back in a flash.

 “Phew… now…” She paused, pondering the weight of the task in front of her, chewing her lip anxiously. “Wish it were Blondie fixing you up and not me. She’d know what to do.” The minotaur massaged her head. Flecks of blood and rain tickled her skin uncomfortably. “Stuck with me, I’m afraid. At least until she can have a look at you. I’ll do my best. Sorry about this.” She bowed her head to the unconscious man.

Mud caked his foreign clothes. She awkwardly shimmied them off, apologising again, and grimacing as she fumbled them over his broken leg. Mud even clung to his skin, where fabric had torn or dragged up. Minor cuts and grazes decorated his legs. There were two larger gashes on his back and on his leg. He shivered without clothing, but it was better than the water-logged alternative.

Pinkish candlelight from magic wax flickered over them both. It cast his unconscious features and sunken skin in a warm glow. He needed her help. It was just the right thing for a monster to do.

A bead of sweat dripped down her head. Wet cloth in one hand and a slathering of healing ointments coating the other, the minotaur began her nervous work.

Warmth and aches stirred the man. He was dazed, dazzled and dumbfounded. His eyes fluttered open.

He was inside a wooden bath-tub. There was no faucet. No barrels or jugs nearby either. How the water got there was a mystery. It was refreshingly hot, pure bliss after the bone-biting cold he’d suffered earlier. It tempted him to just relax, and that was difficult given the memories and thoughts that were jumping him.

“That stranger… that… thing. Ow!” He winced. A sharp pain shot through his leg, as he tried and failed to cross one leg over the other. “Fuck…”

He was stuck, for the time being.

It was a rustic bathroom. The walls were close. Oak beams ran up the slanted ceiling. He had some soap which smelled faintly of mint. There was no sink, nor even a (literally) bog-standard toilet.  However, there was a basin, and there was a covered seat with a hole in it.

A window with half-drawn blinds showed a dark purple sky. Two candles lit the room in an atmospheric comfort, bolstered by the pitter patter of rain and wind outside. Strangely, the flames were vibrant pink, and they burned with an intensity he would not expect from such small candles.

Glowing engravings on some of the bath-tub’s planks lit the room too. They resembled LEDs to him, but they felt hot to the touch, and they streamed out bubbles into the bath.

Every idiosyncrasy in the bathroom raised questions.

Then, there was distant sounds of stairs creaking, a clop of hoofs, and finally a knock on the door.

“C-come in.” he said, feeling hopelessly vulnerable.

A familiar voice replied in an unfamiliar language. Her horns swung under the door frame. It was the beast, the minotaur.

His broken leg kept him from jumping out of the bath. When he tried, a jolt of pain shot through him. As it was, he merely writhed pathetically. He retreated into the furthest wall of the tub to her. Naked. Crippled. A single exit he couldn’t even walk to, and it was blocked by her.

“H-help.” He whimpered.

Her cow horns scraped the ceiling beams. The minotaur had to hunch and slant her head to fit inside the comparatively small room. Then, when she was fully inside, she straightened to her daunting size. She looked down at him with a pitiful gaze, and spoke in her wicked language that unsettled him further.

“Please. Don’t.” He cried in reply, raising his hands in surrender.

She did not react well. Her face flushed and steam exhaled from her nostrils.

She hadn’t a clue what he said, but she could see his junk.

Covering her eyes, she repeated to herself, “I’m not looking. I’m not looking. I know you’re naked. I’m not looking. I know I had to strip you but that was an emergency and I wasn’t looking then and I’m not looking now. I’m not looking. Uh. Uh… shoot. Towel!” The blushing minotaur reached for a folded towel and hurled it blindly at him. 

The towel flopped onto his face. The creature had blinded him! He scrabbled it off, expecting her to lunge at him when he was incapacitated. Yet it was the opposite. The goliath was looking away, hand facing him to blind herself. She was reddening like a cherry. A shaking finger pointed vaguely towards his groin.

“Ah.” Her embarrassment hit him belatedly. He thrust the towel under the water and covered himself up. It was a bizarre reaction from her.

The minotaur cleared her throat. “I promise I didn’t do anything funny to you while you were out. Kind of hard to believe if you know anything about monsters, heh…” She weakly smiled. He stared blankly at her. “Er… right. Don’t suppose you speak common do you? Well, swear on my guild’s license all I did was patch you up as best I could.”

A lack of shared language was going to make this difficult. Anyone who was anyone spoke Common. Though, perhaps she could find an interpreter at the market, or even a travelling salesman selling translation talisman. That is, if she could figure out what language this was.

Lacking understandable words, she simply raised her hands up in the same manner as he did.

“Don’t mean you no harm. Honest.”

Blood. There was blood coating her hands. Was this some sick display of what she was going to do to him?  As he feared for his life, he happened to brush against the wooden soap dish balancing near the tub’s edge. He took it in hand and aimed.

She glimpsed the horrific splatters on her hands. Realising her faux pas too late, she stashed her palms behind her.   

“Ah, I meant to wash them but there was so much to take care of and then you were in the bath and-“

Her mortified miniature moos were interrupted as a hurled  bar of soap bounced off her boobs. She caught it on the rebound. The soap dish clattered at her feet. “Oh! Soap. Thank you kindly.”

Humming, she soaped down her hands and dunked them in the empty metal basin of her sink.

“Made this bar myself, don’t you know?”

Rather than a faucet or tap, water rose from the bottom of the basin to the half-way mark. It manifested from thin air, spurred on by Undine enchantments and a small mana battery humming beneath the sink. The minotaur wiggled her hips as she thoroughly scrubbed her hands of blood, all the way to the elbows. When she finished, she dried them on her apron.

Again, she showed him her hands, palms outstretched, in the same manner as before.

“Clean as can be.” She waved them in a small circle to emphasize.

She hoped he understood. There was little reaction besides his tempered anxiety. However, he didn’t seem perturbed. In fact, he nodded.

He’d just watched the beast wash her hands. A whole twenty second routine, then making the effort to show him they were clean. It defied belief. He lowered his guard. She didn’t mean him harm.

“Did you uh… rescue me?”

Her hazel eyes blinked, and she smiled politely, if vacantly.

A lack of shared language was going to make this difficult. If only he had his phone and signal, he might be able to get technology to translate for him.  

 “You.” He pointed at her. “Outside.” He pointed at the window. “Me.” He pointed at himself. “Rescue.” He paused to think, then formed a cradle with his arms.

“Err… no. No kids. I don’t have any little ones running about I’m afraid, and if I did I wouldn’t let them be out in a storm like this. Definitely not. And yourself, have you got any kids?” She pointed at him.  

Why was she pointing at him? Why was she mimicking sex with her hands?

He sighed. There was a hand mirror resting on the side, but he couldn’t reach it. He made a reaching motion while making a pitiable expression. The minotaur lady said something in a cooing moo, before approaching to hand him the mirror.

It was steamed up. Enough that he could draw a crude tree, himself (with x eyes), herself (with overly large horns and tail) and then an arrow pointing to a house. He wasn’t much of an artist. Still, she seemed to understand the meaning, so she nodded.

“Yes. I did get you out of that storm. Yes. This is my house.”

“Y-ou-es?”

She cocked an eyebrow. “’Y-ou-es’? …ohhhh. You mean ‘yes’. Say it with me, ‘Yes.’”

“Y-ay-es?”

“’Yes.’”

“’Yes.’”

She clapped her hands together. “Yep, that’s the one! Heh… you look better smiling than you do screaming. Oh, how about ‘no’? ‘Yes’.” She smiled and tried to appear positive. “’No.’” She frowned and tried to appear negative.

“‘Nuh-o’. ‘No.’ ‘No?’ ‘Yes?’”

As he repeated the sounds, she took a moment to inspect him closer. The salves and the gels hadn’t healed him nearly as much as they should’ve. In the past, whenever she nicked herself with a razor or singed herself on a hot kiln, those medicants had removed all evidence of it within the hour. Yet, his injuries had hardly healed. Hopefully his pain had subsided. She assumed it had something to do with his lack of mana signature.

Then, suddenly, he pointed to the door while saying something.

“Finished with your bath already?” She sniffed the air. “Oh, really? I’m not so sure. A human’s sense of smell isn’t quite as good as mine, you know? I can see a twig still in your hair.” She couldn’t help herself. She picked up the soap, pointed at it, then at him. “Would you like some help bathing?”  

She was mooing to herself again, looking rather insistent. He wasn’t sure why. Still, he required her assistance to get out of the bath, so he went along with it.

“Uh… ‘Yes.’” The minotaur stiffened, and gripped the soap so hard it started to squish in her hand.  “Okay, just let me prop myself up and-”

He squeaked. Warm fingers pressed onto his shoulders. She leaned over him and smiled down, holding the soap high above. Light from the candles caught her features, and he found himself taken with her tanned good looks.

“I can wash myself.”

It fell on deaf bovine ears. She was already upon him. She guided him lower into the water with her arms wrapped snug around his torso. Deeper and deeper, slowly, until he was resting his arms on the brim of the tub, rather than stiffly in his lap. There was a nook made between her bosom and the brim, and she nestled his head not far from it.

Her nurturing moos gently echoed throughout the bathroom, joining the slowing rain outside to a warm white noise.

She presented him a plain jug with steam wafting out its wide mouth. Then, when he had seen it, she brought it above his head and poured. He flinched. Her other hand rested on his shoulder, massaging his skin as the water drizzled around her artisan fingers. He didn’t realise how tight his muscles were until she loosened them.

The human surrendered a cute sigh.

“Poor thing. All bruised and battered.” She tutted to herself, “and your muscles are so tight. Gosh, it doesn’t do anyone any good to be so hunched up.”

She took her hand-crafted wood comb and, again, presented it to him as to not startle. Then, she combed and rinsed out all the filth he’d accumulated. Grease. Mud. Twigs. He flinched when she encountered a knot or a lock, but that didn’t stop her. There was a certain satisfaction she took in wringing out his locks –caring for more his hair than he had done in quite some time.

“I haven’t got anything for guys I’m afraid.  Here, try this.”

“What is this, shampoo?” He sniffed the contents of the jar and winced. “Ugh, smells like varnish.” Then, he rotated the jar and spotted a label. He couldn’t understand it, but he could see an ink-printed image of a furry leg and paw. “What the, is this dog shampoo?”

Looking back at her, he clocked the hair on her legs was different to that on her head. The leg hair was coarse, prickly and windswept, and with little leaves and damp spots of its own. She clearly hadn’t the chance to bathe herself from the storm yet.

He pointed at her legs, and then at the bottle. “No.”

“Oh… oh goodness.”

She looked down at her assortment of lotions and creams and realised her blunder. The shampoo for head hair was on the rack, and the shampoo for her leg fur was in his hands. They were in similar looking, leaf shaped vases.  It was a mix up.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to do that!” The cow sheepishly clucked. Yet, he wasn’t mad at her. He laughed, softly. It was laboured, and before long, he was coughing and wheezing and gripping what must be a pain in his chest. But all the same, he smiled. It was a cute smile.

“Yes.” He pointed at the actual vase of shampoo.

She exhaled in relief. “Alright. Hope you like lavender.”

“No, no, no, no.” The man winced through grit teeth.

“Easy. Easy.” The minotaur mewled. “Just let me, ah.”

Every wince and flash of pain resonated with the minotaur. She empathised with him. She’d managed to get him stood upright in the now lukewarm water. Now, he was perched on his good leg and she had him clinging to her arm for support. He wobbled and wavered like a feeble fawn.

She needed to scoop him into her arms, but doing so risked hurting his bad leg, or worse, toppling him out from where she could catch him. It was cumbersome, and he wasn’t making it easy.

The minotaur bit her lip and tapped her anxious hoof as a stim. Despite good intentions, she felt a horrible pang for putting him through this. Lacking words like ‘left’ or ‘right’ or ‘stop’ or ‘go’ complicated things.

“Yes.” The minotaur asked for his consent.

“…Yes.” The man grit his teeth.

“Yes.” The minotaur nodded, and bent to put a hand around his bad leg.

“No, no, no.” He winced again.

They locked eyes. She gave him a reassuring, albeit resolute look. This was the only way. He shut his eyes, lip trembling.

“Yes.”

Sweet relief.

It was the comfiest mattress he’d ever laid on. Far nicer than the one at his apartment. The room she’d put him in was cozy and rustic. It had a wooden floor with a mishmash of quilts and rugs. Again, like her bathroom, the ceiling was slanted and had long wooden beams above. There was dust on the thick paned windows, and he had only candles to light the dark evening. The air was a little musty, but fresh in a way the city simply wasn’t.

Through the evening, his minotaur caretaker popped in and out of the room. Creaking floorboards and clopping hoofs heralded her check-ins. She kept the door open, not that he could close it. She knocked each time she entered, even though it was her own cottage. She lit his candles. She brought him a fresh jug of water and glass. She gave him fresh clothes.

This latest visit, she dared to check his temperature with her hand. Then, soon after, she had brewed him a cup of some herbal infusion. All her services she carried out with a smile, and she was always watching to see if he seemed okay.

“Yes?” She quizzed with a doting lilt.

“Yes.” He replied, blowing on the infusion to cool it.

She mooed in content then bowed out again.

He was alone again. His clothes were off to be washed, but she’d left his phone on the nightstand.

In the past, lying in bed on an evening like this, he’d scroll his phone aimlessly and endlessly.

Now, however, his purpose was specific and purposeful. The screen was on minimum brightness. Battery saving mode was on. As in the woods, there was no signal. As expected, this medieval homely cottage had no wifi. There was no GPS or location. He tried calling 911. Nothing. He tried calling his sister. Nothing. He tried calling his mother.

Left to his thoughts, a cold, dreadful anxiety set into him. He finally had a moment to reflect. This was not Earth. He was alone.

If not Earth, then where? What if he could never get back? Did this world have electricity? If it didn’t, then his phone really was the only connection he had. The photos. The saved messages. And when the battery ran dry…  

“May I come in? I’ve brought soup! Fresh vegetables from the garden and some bread. Not the fanciest of Dinners, but I think it tastes alright-” she paused mid spiel.

The human was sobbing.

“Oh, Honey!”  She rushed to the bedside, spilling soup onto the tray. She laid it down and sat by his side. The bed creaked under her heft, gravity dragging him closer to her.

He looked up. He looked a wreck. Red eyes watered. Face all sniffling and snivelling. She felt his tremors through the blankets. He dry heaved as he failed to collect himself. Subconsciously, her tail swished around and onto his lap.

It landed on the tablet also on his lap. On it, there was a lit picture of him, and an older man and woman, presumably his parents. The three looked happy together. Droplets smudged it, maybe from the rain, maybe from his tears.

She thought of her own dear mother.

“Homesick… Poor thing. You’ve been through so much today, the accident, and I don’t even know what you were doing out in the woods before that. It’s a lot. I’d be crying.”

She dared to put a hand around him, slipping it between the bedrest and coddling his shoulder.  Though he couldn’t listen, she hoped what he heard would soothe him. She was soft. She was gentle. She was tender. The goliath minotaur’s voice like a knob of butter on a fresh apple turnover.

It wasn’t a smothering embrace. It was bold, but she let him breathe. Gave him space. He didn’t look at her, but she continued, nonetheless.

 “Hey, are these your parents?”  She reached for the device. “You do sort of resemble them. Hmm…”

An idea formed to cheer him up.

She covered the image of his and his father’s face with her fingers, then held it up to him.

She looked at his mother, then back to him, then back to his mother. By pointing at their hair and their eyes, she made it visibly clear she was comparing them.

“Yes.”

He stopped sniffling, for a moment.

Again, she repeated it, but for his father now. He didn’t resemble his father as much, mainly as he lacked a beard. So, after making a song and dance of it, she clicked her tongue and shook her head.

“Hmm… No.” She pointed at his bald face, then made a motion of stroking her chin.

Mid-sob, he snickered. An unwanted laugh she forced from him, but it got him to smile, at least for a moment.

Putting the phone down, she dared to tighten her embrace by an inch. There was an acute difference in size. Consequently, his head was smothered by the bulk of her shoulder and cushion of her chest. He looked up at her, a little taken aback and still shivering.

“It’ll be alright. Tomorrow’s a new day.” She smiled down at him. “Anyway, you need to eat. You. Eat.” She pointed towards the cooling soup, then at him, steeling up her expression for a moment.  “Eat.”
He nodded, slowly, taking the bowl in his hands with a tremble. “…Yes.”

She released him from the hug and encouraged the spoon into his hand. Selfishly, she enjoyed the little sparkle in his eyes as he appreciated the hot meal. She was satisfied, and though it pained her to leave, he needed the space to eat and rest.

Slow recovery. One step at a time.

“…Anonymous.”

She paused at the doorway and turned. He pointed at himself. “Anonymous.” He pointed at her.

“Anonymous? That’s your name? Shoot, where are my manners?” She blushed and scratched her cheek. “I’m Clementine.” She pointed at herself with a smile. “Clementine. Nice to meet you, Anonymous.”

Clementine heaved and hefted on Dr Mitz’s behind. Her narrow cottage stairs were not designed for unicorn proportions.

“Apologies for-“ Clementine pushed. “this, Doc.”

Dr Mitz breached onto the second floor suddenly, causing Clementine to stagger forward onto the stairs.

“Are you alright, Miss Clementine?” Doctor Mitz dusted her shoulders off. She didn’t have the space to turn around, so couldn’t see Clementine give a thumbs up. “Goodness me, you were telling the truth. I cannot sense any human in your abode. Tell me, which room is he staying in?”

“Second door on the left.”

“Many thanks.”

 The floorboards creaked under their six hoofed cadence. They approached the guest room. Dr Mitz knocked thrice on the door. “Good Morning, Anonymous. This is Doctor Mitz. Clementine requested me. May I come in?”

“He can’t understand you.”

“Standard practice.”
Anonymous didn’t reply. Dr Mitz knocked thrice again, then at Clementine’s behest, let herself in.

“He’s sleeping. Could you wake him for me, please?”  

While Clementine roused Anonymous, Dr Mitz inspected his blanketed form. A faint glow emanated from the unicorn’s horn. She scratched her chin in confusion.

Anonymous lay in a state between sleep and wake. Maybe, if he fell back asleep, he’d find himself back home. With things he wanted to do and see but never found time to, and now never would. With friends to hang out with. With family to love and cherish.

He couldn’t get up by himself, even if he wanted. His leg still throbbed. The rest of his body ached too, with the last of his adrenaline long since burnt up. It was an uncomfortable comfortable distraction from the thoughts in his head.

Then, his blanket was tugged away from him. He rolled his head over the pillow. He saw Clementine, along with a blonde-haired lady with the bottom half of a horse peering over him.  

“Wait…”

The sweet, pain-relieving adrenaline returned. The lady was a horse. A horse! A horse with a horn. A unicorn, even.

Clementine was quick to notice. She kneeled at his side and put her hand on his thigh.

The unicorn too dropped her analytical stare and smiled politely at him. A genuine albeit small smile.

Her whole appearance exuded quiet if certain authority. She had hooks upon ropes upon bags of equipment dangling over both horse and human torso. Her equipment was vast but organised. Her complex uniform was white which reminded him of a doctor or paramedic.  

“Anonymous, this is Doctor Mitz. She’s going to heal you. Best and only doctor this side of the Mythlesorn Forest. Uh…” Clementine struggled to think of an easy charade for him to interpret. She pointed at his leg, then at Dr Mitz, then at herself, putting her fingers in her mouth to draw an exaggerated smile. “Yes?”

 “So, you are a doctor.”

He had his reservations. This world seemed medieval, but hopefully better than medieval healthcare. Maybe, they had some sort of magic spell to fix him. If not, then at the very least, they could give him some questionable drug or copious amounts of alcohol to numb the pain. He grit his teeth.

“Ok… Yes.”

He nodded to Clementine.

She gave his hair a ruffle and his hand a squeeze. It wasn’t a level of affection he was used to, but he enjoyed it. Then, he looked past the minotaur’s hazel eyes to the unicorn. The doctor had been studying him closely, and was rummaging through her equipment while conversing with Clementine.

Proudly, she brandished some toothed instrument that looked awfully like a bone saw.

 “Wait. No. No no no no no.”

“And so, Miss Clementine, I said to the Dryad, ‘I’m usually a Doctor, but today it seems I have become a tree surgeon!’ Then it was simple branch removal with my husband’s saw.” Dr Mitz tittered to herself, but then she noticed her patient’s colour drain from his face seeing the saw. “Ah, forgive me. I was hoping to lighten the mood with a story of my earlier patient, but you cannot understand me, can you, Mr Anonymous. Bedside manners are not so easy with a language barrier.”

She placed the saw on a table some distance from them, then invited herself for a closer look at his leg. Her horse legs folded neatly underneath her.

“So, he fell down a hill, did he? Hmm…” The unicorn tutted a few times as she examined him. “Definitely broken. You said he can’t walk, correct?”

“Nope. Found him while picking herbs deep in the woods. Had to carry him all the way back home. Bathed him. Fed him. Uh… tried to give him first aid.”

“Tried? I see. Did something go wrong? Could you bring me the medicants you applied to him?”

Clementine hurried off. Dr Mitz peered closer at the bruises and grazes up his leg. Her horn glowed and, again, she scowled. The minotaur returned, dumping the gels and lotions on the floor.

“This is most unusual, Miss Clementine. These cuts should not be here.”

“You reckon so as well? I’ve never had one last longer than a few hours after applying this stuff. Plus healing magic too of course. It’s plain weird.”

“It is weird, as you put it so well. Plainly weird. I’ll be frank. It is a first for me.” Dr Mitz straightened up to look at Clementine. “Anonymous here has no trace of magic in him whatsoever. Zero. Nothing. Normally, these medicants and the type of magic you and I are familiar with will use the patient’s own magic as a conduit. He has none, and so our magic cannot bind to him. It is like water dripping off a duck’s back. No wonder it did nothing. It is remarkable. He is an anomaly.”

 “But you can still help him, right?”

Dr Mitz sighed. “Of course. If the worst is a fractured leg, then he’ll recover. The body is a miraculous thing. He’s young, fit and in a safe environment. Without magic, it may just take a while longer. We simply must use more unconventional methods to help him along.”

“Unconventional?”

“Back to basics. But please, Miss Clementine, allow me to do my work. Keep Anonymous here as relaxed as you can. Now, let’s have a look at some of those cuts, shall we?”

He walked. It was on wooden crutches, but Anonymous walked. The unicorn had looked him over, cleaned his cuts, dressed his wounds and bound his leg in a tight cast. Its unknown material was comfy and felt expensive, though he hadn’t experienced a normal cast before to compare.

There wasn’t much room to walk. The minotaur and the unicorn between them occupied a large portion of the cozy guest room. Clementine hovered eagerly, hands splayed and ready to catch him. He practiced his stride, putting weight through the crutches and landing with his good leg.

There were some wobbly moments. The floor wasn’t even and, in his inexperience, one of the crutches caught on a raised floorboard. He cursed and fell backwards.

Instead of crashing, he just floated in mid-air. His stretched eyes widened further. It was surreal. The unicorn’s horn glowed and flared, and she grunted under the strain of levitating him. Finally, he dropped and landed firmly in the waiting arms of Clementine.

“Jesus Christ.” He exhaled.

It was a learning curve. A steep one. Almost as steep as the stairs winding down to the first floor of Clementine’s cottage. He steered well clear of the stairs. He made laps back and forth the upstairs corridor.

Clementine and the unicorn were patient with him. He wished he knew what they were saying. As it was, he made do with yes, no and Clementine giving him demonstrations with a pair of her own crutches. It was sorely needed, as he had no idea of how to sit/stand with a broken leg.

“Have him drink the pain killer after a meal twice a day. No more than that. I will take care of changing his Arachne silk cast, though do not hesitate to change the bandage dressings if they get dirty. Do not put any weight on the broken leg, and keep an eye on him as the painkillers may allow him to attempt to walk on it before its healed.”

Clementine nodded along while Dr Mitz wrote her instructions down. 

“I’ll be back in a week, but feel free to pop-in before. I assume, of course, he’ll be staying with you the entire time.”

“Of course. Well, I mean, if he wants to. Don’t know if he’s got anywhere else to stay.”

“Perhaps for the best. But, Miss Clementine,” Dr Mirtz frowned. “For the life of the Demon Lord, if you’re going to bed him, then be gentle.”

“Well, gosh, uh… thought didn’t cross my mind. Not cause he’s not cute or nothing but…” The minotaur blushed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’ll be back in a week. I may be in contact with some acquaintances of mine. Not medical ones, but they will be very curious to understand anonymous’ particular affliction.”

“He’s not some specimen.” Clementine frowned.

“I know. But they understand the technicalities of magic a lot better than me, Miss Clementine. They’ve been quite curious about strange phenomenon as of late. Ever since that trans dimensional incident in Lilacport. Or so I’m told. Not my area of expertise.” Dr Mirtz sniffed. “Just furthering the field of research. Anyways, take care.”

She waved the good doctor goodbye then trotted back indoors. Anonymous waited at the top of the staircase, peering to get a view of the front door conversation.

Clementine shut the door and wiped her hooves on the mat. “Guess you’re stuck with me for a few weeks then, Anonymous.”

He cocked her head at her. Even if he couldn’t understand, it was nice to be acknowledged and communicated with.

“Not sure what we should get up to. I’ve got to get on with work and the garden. Oh!” She thumped her fist in her hand. “I can show you around my workshop! Maybe even get your hands dirty, if you’re up for it.”

He cocked his head the other way. She smiled, pointed at him, then pointed towards the back of her cottage. He cleared his throat.

“Yes…” Then he tapped his crutch on the choke of a staircase. “No.”

“Ah. Right. Thes stairs are not designed for hoofs and certainly not crutches.”

Clementine trotted up the stairs. He found it unbelievable how she could walk up the stairs on hoofs, and how such a small surface area supported such size and weight. She stopped on the last stair before him. Even then, she had a few inches on him. She caught him pursing up at her, so she reversed back another step to eye level. A small gesture that made him chuckle.

She picked him up in a bridal carry without any fanfare or exertion. She was strong. He could feel the hard muscle under the soft meat on her arms, but she had power beyond reasonable explanation. Maybe it was magic. He ruminated as she turned and headed down.

His head brushed against her swell bosom. As she climbed down, his hips bumped against her tense abs. Her hands felt callused cradling his exposed shoulder, but her fingers were soft and slick – perhaps oiled with sweat. She was warmer than he expected, but then he figured a girl so large must burn a lot of energy. He could feel the weight in every step she took – how the floorboards creaked under massive bovine muscle. She was a monster, and in his vulnerable state, it made him all the gladder she was such a gentle soul.

She took him through the ground floor her cottage. Past the kitchen and through the living room to a terrace at the back of her home. It was a clear day, but rain still wet the leaves of her jungle of a garden. She placed him down on a stool.

A roof veranda covered most of her patio. Underneath, she had an arsenal of craft equipment. There were hammers, a kiln, pottery wheels, and even a small furnace. The scent of sawdust, clay and wet mud hung in the air.

A basic wooden shelf – one that looked hand made – proudly displayed a selection of jugs, plates, pots and vases. Some appeared basic while others were odd shapes.

He pointed at them, then at her, then at the wheel. She nodded.

“Yep. All me.” She ran a finger under her nose. “Not to brag or anything, but I’m quite the potter. I make my own jugs and pots and well… all sorts!” She held up a basic jug in one hand and a vase with an intricate floral surface decoration on the other. “Got business with some of the farms around here, the tavern, the florists, the Eros church. Even a jar Djinn. Do basic containers to some fancier stuff with magic. Oh here, feel this.”

She held a fish shaped vase up to him, letting light shine into the interior as best she could. The runes were just barely visible. He took it from her and almost dropped it in shock. Despite the vessel being empty, the runes made the inside as cold as ice. They shared a sheepish look before she laughed it off.

“Can be used for chilled water, storage, or maybe some types of liquor. Maybe one of those cold treats some of the wealthy folk yap about down at the tavern. Dunno. Reckon it’ll fetch a pretty penny though.”

Poetic a bull would supply a China shop. He had to admit, it wasn’t the sort of delicate craft he’d expect a girl of her stature and size to be good at.

Clementine brought the equipment close to his stool. She seemed eager to get him stuck in. It was a considerate gesture. There were sacks of quartz and kaolin and other fantastical looking powder additives – though they may have only seemed fantastical given his total lack of knowledge on pottery. It might as well have been fairy dust. She had a selection of wood measuring cups, and she took practiced amounts from each sack into a dry mixture. With a gentle nudge from her, he mixed the powders together in a bowl into a brown, sparkly homogeneity.

She nodded in approval. Then, she took one of her self-filling jugs – the same sort she had in her bathroom – and filled the bowl with water. Without any machinery or paddle or whisk, the powder and liquid combined to form clay. It was marvellous, and upon seeing his wide eyes, Clementine tilted the bowl to show – once again – the presence of runes on the inner walls. Not so much magic from her as it was magic in her equipment.

Soon, Clementine deemed the clay mixed. She scooped it up, moved to her pottery wheel, and sat it down. Then, she scooped Anon up, moved him to the pottery wheel, and sat him down.

The wheel lacked a motor. It had to be spun by hand. Although he’d seen videos of how to form clay, he kept his hands well clear of the spinning blob. Clementine wasn’t having it. She moved behind him and leaned over. With her tits pressing into his back, she grabbed both his hands by the wrist and sheparded them to the clay.
 

“No need to be prissy about it. It’s just clay.”

She wasn’t expecting much from a novice. Really, it was just a distraction from everything else. When in her workshop, with her pots and her tools and her crafts, the rest of the world just faded away.

“No thoughts. No wider world. Oh – and just pinch the top just like this. No need to be gentle.” She chuckled at how timid he was being with the clay. “Anyway, it’s a sort of therapy. I’m not a particularly introspective cowgirl, but even a minotaur gets worried. Humans though… you’re always in your own heads. At least, that’s what my mother always said. Hmm…”

It looked like an amorphic pottery war crime. A small sad brown blob of odd proportions.

Meanwhile, the big happy brown cow of generous proportions looked over his shoulder. There wasn’t an ounce of disappointment in her eyes. She simply took the blob and smushed it between her hands. It was back on the wheel for another spin. She lifted his hands up, and again, guided him into having another go.

“You don’t need to do this, you know? I’m quite happy to just sit back and watch. You’d do this much faster than I could. I don’t want to be a burden.” Even if she could understand, he doubted she’d relent. “It’s not like I’m any good at this sort of thing.”

His second attempt resembled not much of anything at all.

“Not terrible. Not good either. We can do better.” She hefted the clay back up and smushed it down into a ball again. “Come on. Just another go. Just one more.”

Another go, and another, and another after that. Clementine didn’t want to discourage him. The last thing she wanted was for him to come away feeling like a burden, and she could see the frustration creasing his brow that indicated as much.

“It’s not something you can go and master in an afternoon.” Clementine said, and gave him a reassuring pat.

Pivoting her strategy, she took a more direct approach. She leaned further into him. Her movements became more deliberate and forced. Her hands eclipsed his entirely, interlacing her fingers with his own so she had more control over his movements. Like this, she tilted and guided his palms into the planes needed to shape the clay.

He squirmed, but she gently asserted herself with a tut and a squeeze of the hands. He pouted at her, and in return, she apologised with a smile. Her bantering tail flicked against his leg.

“Goodness me…” She exhaled, “Just relax. Else you’re gonna break something else.”

Wet minotaur breath breezed on his nape. He stiffened instinctively. In such a vulnerable position, it was hard for Clementine to resist teasing him further. Still, she kept her hands to herself – which was to say clasped onto his own.

Together, they formed a small, unassuming cup from the clay. It wasn’t much, but unlike before, he didn’t seem totally disgusted with it.

“Good job.”

She was ruffling his hair. How old did she think he was? He crossed his arms and looked away.

“Yes…?” Clementine mooed, gently nudging him with her horns to focus on the cup.

“…Yes.” Anonymous sighed.

Giddy, Clementine whisked it away to a shelf to dry. There was no break for him yet, as the minotaur rummaged through one of her cabinets and returned with parchment, painting supplies, and some coarse blonde paint brushes with hair that looked suspiciously like the hair from the good doctor.

Today was going to be creative.

They painted. They potted. They sawed, hammered and nailed. Despite his injury, she pulled out the stops to get him involved. So, the day was good, and it went quickly. They’d stopped for lunch and twice more for tea. There were more of Clementine’s famous dumplings, and cookies and cake bought from the market. Nothing processed. Nothing plastic. It was all so homely and cozy.

The day wrapped up with them sat on a bench looking over her garden. He stared down into his cup of herbal tea, in a mug clementine had made, and saw reflected the face of someone altogether unsure.

“Clementine.” He began. She looked down at him, her own cup of tea in hand. “Uh… thank you.”

He pointed at the pottery wheel, and at the saws, and at the garden, and the crumbs on their empty plates on the floor, and finally at her.

She seemed puzzled, repeating back, “Thayn…k Ew? Thanck Ewe. Thank you?”

The language barrier proved strong. It stung. All these things she did for him, and he couldn’t even express his gratitude. So, with some reservations, he strained his arm to wrap around her waist. Strong as she was, parts of her were quite squishy. There was a little jump, but she received his affection without much fuss. Hopefully, she didn’t misinterpret what he was doing.

“Thank you.” He repeated, face reddening from showing such open emotion.

Clementine was a little shook. Not at physical affection, but more so that it was from Anonymous. He seemed so shocked and shy the last day. Knowing he’d opened up, even just a little, made her tail flick from one side to the other. She put her tea down and, with him in such a precarious position, utterly engulfed him in her. A minotaur sized hug for a not-so-minotaur sized man.

 “T-thank you.” He gasped.

It was that phrase again. He must want to communicate something. Perhaps he was sad. Perhaps he was cold. Her stomach rumbled. Maybe he was hungry. She was hungry. They’d just eaten not an hour ago, but she was hungry.

Whatever it was, she’d be there. It just felt like the right thing to do.

He broke from the hug. Clementine frowned but let him go. She pointed at the empty plates, then at her mouth and tummy.

“Thank you?”

“No.” He shook his head. He wasn’t hungry, and that wasn’t what the words meant.

She pursed her lips. Next, she crossed her arms and shivered, exaggerating her shaking to appear cold.

“Thank you?”

“N-No.” He shook his head again, trying not to laugh.

Clementine huffed. After a moment’s thought, she got up and retrieved one of the strewn parchments from their earlier working. The minotaur sketched a house and some humanoid figures.

“A house?”

Each figure held a rectangle that looked like his phone. Then, she drew a figure off to the side, alone, holding a pair of crutches. She circled it and drew an arrow to the house.

“…home.” He mumbled.

“Thank you?”

Tears welled in his eyes. His throat felt dry. His home felt so far away.

She pulled him into a second sideways hug, and held a shoulder for him to cry on. She was there, stroking his side, mooing sweet assurance in his ear.  She didn’t let him break off this time. Firm, but fair. A soft place to crash land. And when she did loosen her embrace, she kept a hand square on his shoulder.

“T-thank you.”  He sniffed, wiping his tears away.

Clementine gasped in realisation. It meant gratitude.

“Don’t be silly. I’m just doing the right thing. At least I hope I am. Thank you, huh?” She twisted sidewards and put on a voice. “Thank you.” She twisted to the opposite and put on a different voice. “You are welcome. You try it. You are welcome.”

Anonymous blinked. “Yer welcum? Yahr welcome? You are welcome.”

“Hey, you got it!”

She laughed. He laughed back. The sun set. Mugs emptied. Clementine, with her insatiable minotaur appetite, pointed at the plates again. Her stomach grumbled in agreement.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

She got up first to assist him with his crutches.

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

They walked inside. One step at a time.