3. Rhydian
RHYDIAN
Asoft rustling echoes through the open window, but I pay it no mind.
The meadow is quiet tonight. Just like it is every evening.
The days blend together in one uninteresting blur.
Rarely does anyone venture this deep into the Woods.
The few that have over the decades scurry back to their farms, thanking their good fortune that they don’t have to contend with my unfortunate face on a regular basis.
Angry mobs have been few and far between since I’ve gone into self-imposed isolation.
I haven’t had a visitor in nearly twenty years. I’d hardly call a group of sweaty men with rusted farm tools visitors. Regardless, they had made their displeasure known about a slight I had done to them.
One roar from inside my cottage had sent them fleeing. To this day, I’m still not sure what I did to earn their wrath. Since that fateful day, I have not thought of Dew Hollow or the people who reside there.
What was once my father’s legacy has been staunchly ignored since his passing. My mother, having died before him, used to tell me tales of the village. She would paint scenes of quiet beauty and good-natured, hardworking folks who had only each other to rely on.
Illness took her when I was small.
She was the only good human. The others I’ve met have been hateful—cruel. I never wish to set eyes on another so long as I live. The last one I came into contact with took everything from me.
A familiar rage simmers in my gut, demanding I set out and find the one responsible for my agony. It would do me no good. For as hot as the rage burns, fear freezes any attempts at retribution. In my heart, I’m still the scared young male tugging on his father’s bloodstained pants.
The warning rings in my ears. Fear grips me and pulls me down into the waiting abyss of despair. This cottage is to be my cell. It had been my father’s as well, even if he didn’t wish to admit it.
Our curse remands us here. The people of Dew Hollow never welcomed us in. Despite my mother’s encouragement that they would, she was the only human to show us kindness.
Our family curse left us wardens of the meadow. My father was bound by honor to protect the village, thinking that if he kept the dangers at bay it would somehow free us.
It hadn’t made a difference in the end, for he died more beast than man.
Twenty-seven years he has been gone, and never once have I ventured into the village. I heed the warning given to me and choose the lonely existence over assured rejection.
I’m a monster. Who would welcome me into their home? They’d sooner mount my head above their mantles than invite me to break bread with them.
I prefer it that way. I always will.
From the crack in the window, a delicious spring breeze rolls in. The cool night air chases away the lingering heat from the day. The scent is richer than normal.
It is sweeter than the honeycombs I collected earlier and more fragrant than the wildflowers slumbering under the moon.
Another smell bathes my face and raises my hackles. The metallic scent is familiar. It conjures up buried memories of that fateful day. The faint stain of it still remains on the pale wood floor.
Blood.
I don’t get long to consider the source of the smell when a soft whimper echoes from the other side of my door. A delicate rapt follows. Lavender and blood seep from beneath the crack of the threshold. A cold sweat breaks out along my skin.
Someone is here. Human by the scent of them and bleeding.
The knocking sounds again, and I lurch to my feet. Who dares disturb my peace? I have left them alone for decades. Why have they come seeking me out?
If it is another angry mob demanding answers to questions I don’t understand, I know just how to send them running back to the safety of their beds.
Stomping towards the door, the old floor creaks under my weight. Anger burns me alive as I yank open the door. A floral breeze invades my nostrils as I glare into the darkening night.
I nearly slam right into her.
An angry mob has not come seeking my head, but rather a single human woman stands at my threshold. I rear back as I meet her enchanting face. Hair the color of midnight, eyes the shade of rich flowing honey. She is beautiful. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
Apprehension trickles into my stomach.
Why has she come here? Seemingly alone and in the dark. I trace over her round cheeks. Pain creases her smooth brow as she leans against the doorjamb, favoring one foot over the other.
The sight of her steals the fight from me.
My blood cools as she blinks large eyes up at me. Fear isn’t tainting her lovely scent. She has not stepped back at the sight of me, nor has she turned and run. Though I suppose the obvious limp she’s trying to support would hinder any quick getaway.
It’s obvious she’s been through some sort of trauma before reaching my front porch.
The signs are clear as I really take stock of her.
Shards of a wicker basket hang limply from her wrist. Her pale yellow dress with green threading in the pattern of flowers is torn.
Green and brown stains mar the fabric. Her boots are scuffed, and there are blades of grass threading through her long hair. My fingers ache to remove them.
It’s a ridiculous want. I don’t know this woman—have no idea why she’s come. Touching her is out of the question. Whatever her purpose here is can’t be good. The moment I drop my guard, she could strike.
I refuse to succumb to the same fate as my father.
“Hello,” she whispers, her voice softer than spring rain. “Are you Lord Rhydian?”
I fall back as if she has physically struck me. My jaw clenches as I stare at her expectant face. Is she mocking me?
My cottage is comfortable, but it is not the dwelling of a lord. I live off of what I can pilfer from the land. My wares are decades old, having been mended countless times to the point of being barely functional.
The human releases a shuddering breath. Color leaches from her tan skin.
“That was a ridiculous question.” Her eyes trail from my horns down my bare chest and unfocus. “Of course you are.”
She says the words quietly. I don’t know if she’s speaking to herself or me.
“Who are you?” My voice sounds rough from disuse.
When was the last time I spoke to another?
“Why have you come here?” I press, harsher than I intend to.
The woman swallows thickly before lifting her pleading eyes to my face.
“I—I’ve come to ask for an extension.”
I raise a brow. Her words make as much sense as her being here does. Whatever this extension is, it must mean quite a lot for her to have come all this way.
She lets out a sharp gasp and her body pitches forward. A harsh metallic wave washes over me. Crimson blood blooms through the front of her dress and trickles into her boot.
“You’re hurt.”
Her nod is sharp.
“I took a tumble before I reached your door. I’ll be fine.” She grits her teeth. “If I could just sit—”
The woman steps forward with her good leg but trips over the threshold. Her round cheeks are ashen as she loses her grip on the doorframe and tumbles. My arms envelope her on instinct before her body can hit the floor.
I clutch her to my chest. She is warm and soft. A fluttering tickles my heart, but I shove it away. Especially as she looks up at me in wonder. It’s surprising she doesn’t fear me. More surprising when she leans into me for support.
I have to stop touching her or I fear I’ll never stop. Setting her before the unlit fireplace, I drag over a small stool.
“What hurts?” I ask.
“My ankle.”
I nod before reaching into my pocket and pulling out a small knife. The silver blade catches the light from the candles. I glance up at the woman who leans away from me. It seems even her good humor has its limits. She has nothing to fear from me.
I show her that by using the worn blade to cut away the thin leather of her boot.
My fingers trail over her swollen ankle. The woman hisses at the slight touch. Blowing out a breath, I take in her purpling flesh. No blood. She has more injuries elsewhere.
“It’s worse than I thought,” she whimpers.
“Your knees are bleeding.”
Gripping the hem of her skirt, I wait for her shallow nod of permission before lifting the fabric.
Her golden skin is torn. Dirt and grass are caked into her scraped knees. Blood trails from the open slices. I rock back on my heels as I survey the damage.
“I’ll clean your wounds and bind your ankle.”
Surprise flickers in her gaze before gratitude smooths out the lingering worry on her brow.
“Thank you.”
I grunt as I rise to my full height. I’ve never been around a woman before who wasn’t my mother. Never dealt with one who is hurt and bleeding. I’m not sure what to do or how I’ll survive touching her again.
That strange stirring inside me is back. White-hot desire kindles, but I smother its ensuing flames. This woman is not mine to keep. She is hurt. I will aid her and send her on her way. Once she is gone, I will never think of her again.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
Being away from her for the mere moments it takes to collect the supplies for her wounds is like torture.
I bask in her nearness as I deal with her scrapes first. She hisses at the antiseptic solution I use to cleanse the grime from her cuts.
Once I am satisfied they are clean, I wrap cotton around both her knees to stop the bleeding.
Her lavender scent grows more intense. It quickly blots out the scent of blood. Traces of her smell will remain in my cottage long after she goes to torment with her sweetness.
My fingers gently grip her ankle as she groans.
“Could you talk to me?” she asks. “To distract me from the pain.”
Staring up at her, I watch her full lips twist to the side. I open my mouth, but no words come out. I haven’t made conversation since I was a child. What would I say to her?
Today two sparrows sat outside my kitchen window, instead of one. It seems I’m the only solitary being left in this entire forest.
“I can do the talking,” she offers.