[fic] here by the road i loiter, how idle and alone.

[strangletheheart]

"when the lad for longing sighs,
mute and dull of cheer and pale,
if at death's own door he lies,
maiden, you can heal his ail."

Nights were the hardest. On the first night she never once looked at him, too absorbed in her own sorrow. She sat, trembling and waiting in anticipation to leave this world again, to get home again. But as the night went on, she found herself growing tired and she turned away from him to sleep. As the fire began to die, he could hear her gently crying before she fell still.

On the second night, she sat with her knees pulled up to her chin, gazing into the fire with watery eyes. She spoke little, still lost in her solemn melancholy, picking half-heartedly at her food. Nothing he said would rouse her from it. She answered his questions with one or two words, sometimes with no words at all but with hums and shakes. After a while he gave up and sat watching her across the flames. She was a sorry little thing; filthy and exhausted from wandering the woods with him for the last two days. She was not made for it. Something similar to pity flooded him and it was a feeling that sat uncomfortably in his chest.

On the third night, she began to read. She seemed to be in a better mood; held herself a little less tightly. He had found her a small hot spring for her to bathe in and the warm water had seemingly revitalised her. She didn’t seem to mind sitting in half-damp but clean clothes, her hair falling in tangled waves. He was sure she’d even seen a small smile at her lips.

Pulling a book from her bag, she huddled close to the flames to read by their light, her face close to the pages as if determined to drink in each word. He watched her, curious to know what she read, remembering the old man: Peasants are ignorant people, they do not read and write like you and I. She was no peasant, she was not ignorant. Yet she was frightened by him, or by perhaps something else. Perhaps the home she was lost from.

She read quickly, worrying her thumbnail between her teeth. The gentle passing of pages breaking the silence and it wasn’t long before she looked up, not quite reaching his gaze but realising he was watching her. She looked uncomfortable for a moment as if she had done something wrong – shifting sheepishly like a scolded child. Without a word, she reached for her bag and produced a second book. Cautiously, she stood and moved towards him, holding the book out in a trembling hand. She smiled encouragingly and he took it from her. The book was old, a paper cover coloured by time showing a pensive man sat atop a hill, surrounded by countryside. Poetry. A collection by Housman. He said nothing as she sat back down and continued reading, not looking up again.

He started reading, drinking in the idyllic images and found himself moved by the wistfulness and pessimism. Once or twice, he would look up at her, confused. Why had she given him this? What sadness lay in her to read such morbid poetry? What a strange creature she was.

On the fourth night, she had finished her books and sat once more gazing into the flames. When she had no more books to offer him, he asked her for a story of her own. He had none to give her; none that he found would bring her cheer. He could tell her of the old man and his son and his wife, how he learned to read and write and speak; how he’d aided them with their farm. But he couldn’t bear to recount how in the end, he’d been driven away – left with rage and hatred in his stomach.

Hesitantly, she spoke of a city named Chicago and how she’d moved there when she had turned eighteen. She spoke of her home, filled with books from the floor to the ceiling and how she spent her days reading in an old, comfortable chair, warmed by the sun. She told him of people she met there in the city, both cruel and kind.

Something changed in her expression when she spoke of a strange creature that would visit her: a man and yet not a man at all. She didn’t know his real name but she referred to him by the name ‘Cromwell’. How he fed upon words, stole her words from her dreams to survive. He did not understand how such a creature existed, one that never ate or drank and yet devoured words, her words, to survive. A creature that travelled through stone and closed doors with ease; that brought her gifts of books and paper to write on. And even though he was gone, lost – she hoped he would one day find her again.

She seemed to glow; rising from her sadness, coming alive at the very mention of him. A warming in her chest, something fond and loving and... perhaps it was love. He watched her curiously, internally fascinated and yet a pang of something else settled inside him. Something coarse and bitter. It reminded him of his dream, of his own longing and how wished for someone to speak of him as she spoke of this Cromwell. Perhaps her heart belonged to them but still, she had been kind to him. She had not run or screamed or thrown stones at him. She had been like the old man De Lacey and perhaps the hearts of men were full of brotherly love and charity after all.

Or with this girl, at least. It was enough for him.

On the fifth night, he presented her with a gift wrapped in cloth. He’d left her alone for a time before dawn and headed towards a small town, looking to pilfer something for her. Sitting down across the fire from her and he found himself unable to remain still, eagerly waiting for her to unwrap it. Her hands shook, moving slowly to uncover the gift. Something unrecognisable flickered over her face, something soft and sad and joyful all at once.

A book.

A slow, small smile spread across her lips. She took a breath, shaky and quick. The Faerie Queene by Edmund Spenser. Her fingers traced the leather, ghosting over the engraved letters. “It’s... perfect.” She whispered, “Thank you.”

The smile lit up her face and he enjoyed the sight of it, a simple pleasure. It was short-lived as she got up from where she sat and carefully made her way towards him. She had wondered if this was something she should do. Fear wracked at her insides, a voice in the back of her mind telling him not to do, not to touch him. But in the days she’d spent with him, she’d found he’d never once sniffled or sneezed like those she knew, the warning signs that she had infected someone with the flu without meaning to. Perhaps he couldn’t get sick. Perhaps she was learning to control herself when it came to accidentally radiating illness. But she wanted to. He’d been kind and she knew how his life would go, she knew what would become of him one day. She wanted to.

And then, underneath it all, she craved it. That simple human contact with another person; proof she wasn’t untouchable, that she wouldn’t hurt everyone.

She knelt beside him, her arms reaching for him. He flinched away from her and she paused, hushing him, assuring him. He was hesitant, unsure of what she intended to do but she remained still, calmly waiting for him. Finally, he gave in, moving himself back towards her and waiting obediently until she moved again. Without a word, she leant forward, wrapping her arms around his neck and gently pulling him close.

He shook, realisation slowly dawning on him with such a violent, ragged gasp. His movements shaky and jerking, he moved his arms around her to return the embrace. He was gentle, as if frightened to hold her too tightly as much as he wanted to. Would she break if he did? She was so small, fragile. Would she grow scared? Run from him, thinking he meant to hurt her? He wanted nothing more than to cling to her, cherish this moment for the rest of his days.

He made a sound, something sorrowful and pitiful but also of elation. There were no words for this, nothing he could say to express the feelings bubbling inside him. He was reminded of the kindness De Lacey had shown him but this... this was different. He could feel her heart fluttering, beating too quickly to be human, in her chest, her pulse racing but she was calm, unaffected as she held him. He found it strange, how quick it felt but he understood that perhaps this was how it always beat.

She didn’t dare breathe. It was as if a great weight had lifted from her shoulders. One she felt when Abby hugged her or Gabriel held her hand. Acceptance and relief but above all, she was safe to do so, to act upon everything she craved for so long. But there was something bittersweet in it all and she didn’t want to say anything, she didn’t want to ruin it. She wanted him to enjoy this for what it was, an act of thankfulness, of kindness. She understood his reaction, she knew his future.

This was important.

“P-promise me something...” She murmured. “Remember... remember this.”

She pulled in a breath, “One day, I... I might have to leave... you.”

Her words hit him harder than any stone, struck a blow more painful than any stick. Leave? Curse the portal that brought her here, surely it would never snatch her away again – not after all this time. Here he had found a small, strange creature, one that showed him kindness. She couldn’t leave, she couldn’t.

He made a strange sound, held her a little tighter. “No, no you mustn’t.” He whined, “Why? Why leave? Why leave me?”

“Because... because one d-day, the Rift... it... it might take me back.” She explained, feeling a slight sting in her eyes. “B-because... as much as I ration my medications... they’ll run out. I don’t... I don’t know if I’ll... last.”

And silently, to herself, because I am not part of this story.

“So... so please.” She continued. “Remember this. Please.”

And desperately, she hoped he would.