Chapter 2 – Hearth in the Blizzard
813 Words
Northen woke to warmth.
Crackling fire. Pine smoke. Something floral drifting in the air.
And her.
Avril sat cross-legged near the hearth, pouring pale green liquid from a copper kettle into a wooden cup.
He groaned. “Where... am I?"
She didn't look up. “Not dead. Yet."
“Helpful."
“You're welcome."
He pushed himself up with a wince. His torso was bandaged tight beneath a borrowed shirt. Pain coiled deep in his ribs.
“I remember falling."
“You were bleeding out in the snow. Silver shrapnel."
His brow furrowed. “That... explains the fire in my chest."
“You should be dead."
“Why didn't you let me?"
She raised an eyebrow. “You're not that lucky."
He stared at her—young, maybe his age, face smudged with soot, hair pulled into a messy braid. Her tone was detached, but her hands had steadiness. Purpose.
“Who are you?"
“Avril."
“Just Avril?"
“Do you want a last name or a hot drink?"
He hesitated. “Drink."
She handed him the cup. “Sip slowly. It'll numb the pain, not your brain."
He drank. The liquid was bitter but warm.
“You said silver," he muttered. “Why would I have silver in me?"
“Good question."
His gaze sharpened. “You didn't answer."
“I saved your life," she replied calmly. “If that's a problem, I can un-save it."
He blinked, then exhaled a laugh. “No. Just... thanks."
Silence stretched between them.
Snow slammed against the windows like fists.
“How long have I been here?" he asked.
“Three days."
His eyes widened. “That long?"
“You slept, healed, and muttered in your sleep."
“What did I say?"
“Mostly nonsense. Once you called me 'Ash.' Another time you screamed 'burn it all.'"
He paled.
“I don't remember any of that."
“No surprise. Your memory's... patchy."
“Patchy?"
“You told me your name. That's it."
Northen stared into the fire. “I don't even know if it's real."
Avril tilted her head. “Northen sounds real enough."
“It doesn't feel like mine."
A log popped, sending embers into the stone hearth.
She stood. “Come on."
He blinked. “Where?"
“Outside. You're stiff. You need to move."
“In this weather?"
“You'll be colder if your blood clots. Trust me."
Reluctantly, he swung his legs over the edge of the cot and stood. Pain bloomed in his side, but he managed to stay upright.
Outside, the wind knifed through his shirt instantly. Avril handed him a fur-lined cloak.
“Catch," she said, tossing a loop of rope into his arms.
“What's this for?"
“We're going to trap dinner."
“I don't know how to snare a rabbit."
“You're about to learn."
They trudged into the snow, boots sinking deep. The trees loomed silent, weighed down with frost. Avril showed him where to set bait, how to check pawprints, how to place the noose.
“You're good at this," he said.
“I've had practice."
He glanced at her. “You live out here alone?"
Her voice was distant. “People forget me easily. Out here, that's a good thing."
He frowned. “I wouldn't forget you."
She didn't answer.
Back at the hut, Avril roasted a squirrel over pine coals while Northen fumbled with a broken lantern.
“You don't talk much," he said.
“I don't say more than needed."
“Then why help me?"
Her eyes didn't leave the fire. “Because someone helped me once."
“That's not an answer."
“It's the only one you'll get tonight."
He leaned back. “You're not scared of me."
“No."
“You should be."
She met his gaze, calm as snowfall. “You were dying in the snow. You're not that scary."
He laughed. “Maybe not now."
She handed him a piece of meat. “Eat. Then sleep. Tomorrow, we start south."
“Why?"
“You'll freeze if you stay. And I need coin. You can work?"
“I don't even know what I am."
“Then walk. That's a start."
He looked at her again—at her steady hands, her absent shadow.
“Avril."
“Mm?"
“There's no shadow behind you."
She didn't flinch. “I know."
“Is that... normal?"
“For me."
He swallowed. “What are you?"
She smiled, faint and sad. “Someone who shouldn't get too close."
Before he could speak again, she picked up her flute and began to play—a slow, aching tune that curled around the fire like a memory he couldn't quite reach.
He listened, eyes half-closed, heart slowing.
As sleep pulled him under, he whispered, “Don't go."
She answered, so quiet he couldn't be sure if it was real—
“I never do."
- Writer
