Rising

For weeks the days crawled by, growing progressively more uncomfortable and frigid. They were hard days, harder even than those of the last storm. Their supplies dwindled. They sat miserable and cold. Soon the rationing of their meals and the cold had driven both of them into sickness. Methaniel developed a wracking cough and Ahma was always shaking violently. Her lips held a near constantly light shading of blue. Neither of them left the shelter of their blankets and skins and the body heat they shared unless absolutely necessary, which was thankfully rare. Icicles had formed on the ceiling.

Though they'd gathered as much fire wood as possible, both were aware it was a finite supply, and there was no certain way of knowing how long the storm would last. Their fire was as small as it could be while still providing enough warmth to prevent them from freezing. Though it was enough, they were still desperately cold, and every day their wood supply slowly but steadily shrank.

Still, despite the brutal conditions and their dampening spirits, the cramped cave, and their declining health, it was far better than being trapped outside to die in the violent storm.

So they spent their days huddled together, the heat of Methaniel's body warming the Wingling girl as they spoke softly and pleasantly about this and that. A comfortable bond formed between them. The more he grew to know her, the more he appreciated her wit, her intelligence, and her uniquely insightful thinking. Her gentle and kind ways and innocent disposition grew on him, and they became closer.

For Ahma's part, Methaniel showed himself to be a surprisingly warm-hearted and open minded man, especially for a Noble. She had always thought him different, generous and kind, but now she saw just how unusual he was. His heart was good, honest, and he had a calm and warmth about him that she would not have expected from a man so steeped in war and violence. And while he was often times serious and focused to the point of severity, he also showed a light, humorous side that brought out a twinkling gleam in his eyes.

Still, things weren't looking good. The storm raged on day after day with no end in sight. They were malnourished and bordering on outright starving, and the clutching cold paralyzed their bodies and sapped away what little energy they had. Their fear that they would die sitting in the cramped little cave grew by the day. The storm had been raging on for what seemed like an eternity; it was difficult to judge time in the dark cave. This only added to their frustration and fears. The only thing they had to calculate time passing by was their dwindling supplies, which only served to drag their spirits down all the more. Weeks passed, and soon they sat together in a cave faced with their supplies looking pitiful indeed. In another day or so, they would be gone entirely.

Soon the storm raging outside and the assassins hunting them wouldn't matter anymore.

***

Ahma woke one day to find the constant noise from the screaming wind that buffeted the mountains had been replaced by silence. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat up, pushing the suddenly too warm blankets away. It took her several moments to realize that the world was quiet around them.

She looked wide-eyed around the cave and was further startled to find that there was sunlight filling it. She gazed uncomprehendingly at the previously snow-plugged and blocked cave mouth. Now empty, she was able to see out into the mountains. It was covered in white, true, but the snow seemed much lower than it ought to be, barely up to her shins most likely. The world outside was calm and peaceful, with hardly any sign of the storm that had been raging for weeks, nor of the storm before that which had initially pinned them down into the cave. It was as if neither had ever happened.

"Master Merie!" she shouted as she sprang up to her feet, her wings fluttering wildly with excitement. She started as she noticed the shape of a large, brilliantly white snow owl perched on a rocky lip in the wall. It flapped its wings several times and its feathers bristled outward, making it seem even larger than it was. She watched it watching her, gazing at her with round amber eyes, before it suddenly took wing out of the cave and rose into the sky outside.

Methaniel sprang up, surprising Ahma as he came to his feet with a dagger in his hand and began to lunge for where his sword was propped against the wall. As he glanced around and realized there was no danger he shot her a puzzled look. Then the changes to their little cave dawned on him as he glanced around.

He slid the dagger back into its sheath at his waist and stepped around her into the cave mouth. He gazed out over the mountains, eyeing everything around them. He shook his head, causing his long, tangled hair to whip about.

"This is impossible," he stated. "The snow should be up to my shoulders, at least! How can this be?"

"I don't know," Ahma said as she stepped out onto the mountain path beside him. "But I can only think it must be a blessing from the gods. Any longer in there and we would've been done for."

"Indeed," Methaniel nodded. "We had another days worth of food left...two, perhaps, if we stretched the rations even thinner."

"I know," Ahma said softly. They hadn't talked about the direness of their supply situation, even when things had become abysmal. She simply had no wish to dwell on something they couldn't fix, and she was sure he felt much the same.

"This makes no sense," Methaniel shook his head again. Then he sighed, shrugged, and decided it was best not to question this bizarre turn of fortune for now. He stretched his long limbs. It was good to be outside, and it was considerably warmer as well. He took a deep breath of the crisp mountain air, then coughed thickly. He hoped they would both recover from their fatigue and illness soon. Though they were both badly drained and they felt horrible, were partially malnourished and on the edge of hypothermia, all things considered they were in comparatively good health.

"We should be thankful, I suppose," Methaniel murmured. "We'll have more time to decide what's happened here later. For now, we need to move. No telling how much closer pursuit has been able to get while we were pinned by that storm.

"Do you think they've chased us up here?" Ahma asked worriedly.

"I don't know," Methaniel shrugged. "I hope not, but I can't be sure. If they have, they're probably much closer now than we'd like. We have to go."

"Where's Lanion?" Ahma asked.

Methaniel's brown furrowed as he too noticed his horse's absence. He glanced back into the cave, then swept his eyes up and down the trail.

"Oh hell," he muttered, then pressed his thumb and index finger to his lips and whistled shrilly.

After several moments, Lanion came trotting half-heartedly around a curve in the path ahead, making his way toward them.

Methaniel smirked as the horse reached them. He patted the horse's muzzle affectionately. "Looks like you're not wasting any time, huh? Go on then, go get yourself some food."

Lanion looked at his master as if to say he'd been doing that very thing before he was interrupted, then turned and walked down the path.

"We have a few weeks reprieve," Methaniel announced after surveying the sky, watching the movement and formation of the clouds and judging them against his knowledge of this point in the season. He glanced down at Ahma. She stood serenely at his side, her lips curved in a lovely, distracted smile as she gazed over the land below them where the mountain sloped ever lower. Methaniel smiled softly.

"Time to leave?" Ahma asked after several peaceful, quiet moments. She was somehow, in a strange way, sad to see their stay end. It had been a miserable little place, and the weather and idleness had been taxing in the extreme. In a matter of days, they would have likely died from the hypothermia that had been gradually closing in on them, or from sickness, or starvation. But in its own way it had been the closest thing to a home they'd had since the manor was destroyed. While suffering had touched them, it had been a good time in other ways, a time of closeness and some intimacy with the Master being so near to her.

"I'm hoping to get out of the mountains before the next major storm," Methaniel stated as they turned back into their cave and began to gather their things up. "It's hard to judge exactly what the weather will do up here in the mountains, but I think everything will be clear for a bit. If we move fast, we can get through the pass before the last storms of the season begin to hit. Lanion will work hard to take us into Rojinla."

"And then?" Ahma asked as she pulled her thick cloak closer and gathered some of the furs together. She folded them and pushing them together, trying to generally make them easier to carry for when they would leave.

"We cross the flatlands till we find a village or town of some kind. I'm vaguely familiar with Rojinla geography, and should be able to locate one. From there, we'll see what happens."

And so they set out, leaving the cave after nearly two months all told trapped inside. They pressed hard, the powerful war-horse carrying them carefully through the treacherous mountain paths and trails. Snow drifted down gently, tickling Methaniel's head as it piled softly in his hair. He scowled half-heartedly and shook it from his thick shag of coppery, tangled locks. Ahma giggled and smiled cheerfully at him.

He hunted on the move, stalking prey even as Lanion walked on and they made their way forward through the mountains. He felled small game every few days to supply their meals. They had precious little salt left, and Methaniel insisted they save it for leaner times, when their need for drying rations may become greater. Ahma was glad for it, as food freshly roasted over the fire seemed heavenly after going so long on dried strips of meat.

Their nights were spent close, settled peaceably around a small crackling fire. Lanion sometimes spent those times settled beside them, quietly eating at pieces of bark he'd stripped from nearby trees and the slender branches from naked shrubs. Other times he wandered around their surroundings, walking in and out from the flame's light before wandering off again. Sometimes a breeze would whip through their hair as the horse would go cantering and rushing by at random moments, a wild and strange look in his eyes.

"He knows what's expected of him," Methaniel said in reply to Ahma's questioning look. "He'll get enough rest, don't worry. He's been cramped in for weeks. He needs to get some exercise."

The fire was warm, comforting, the night cold and frigid but far less so than it had been. The sky was clear and blue. The stars shone down at them, bathing them in silver light. It was an all together welcome change from the numbing storms and weather that had plagued them their entire journey before now, and they reveled in those peaceful moments where old miseries seemed forgotten.

Methaniel sat close to Ahma, an arm draped over her shoulders as had become his habit. He smiled down at her from time to time, and he was glad for her closeness, for her companionship and company, and the pleasantness of their conversation. She displayed a playful, sometimes teasing wit when she allowed herself to speak her mind. It was a refreshing change, different from the gruff, simple companionship he was used to with his fellow soldiers. At the same time the Wingling offered a substance and intelligence that he found lacking in any relationship he'd had with a woman before. The only real time he had ever spent with a woman was his short stays at court. Those experiences had left a sour taste in him as far as women went; most Noble ladies were simple, shallow, uninformed, and thoroughly uninteresting.

But Ahma had a certain spark of life in her that fascinated him. Servant women, in his experience, had lost much in the way of life and vividness, their spirits having been trampled and crushed under the weight of their hard, work filled existence. Yet Ladies had so little real personalities or valid, intelligent idea's that the effect was nearly the same in his eyes.

Ahma was different. She was bright, original, spirited, and surprisingly cheerful and lighthearted given the circumstances that she had gone through in the last months. He knew that sadness and distress lingered still, for he often observed her in moments of gloom and heartache, moments she clearly tried to keep hidden. But through all of it, she somehow kept her strong will and cheerful spirit. At first he had thought she perhaps put a front up for him, maybe in some misguided notion to spare him her feelings, but as time went on, he came to understand it was simply her uncrushed and innocent heart and spirit that shone through the dirty world around her. It was a quality he found curious and foreign in the harsh reality that life held, but something he secretly felt to be more precious and valuable than any trait he had ever seen.

Their days began to slowly change. Most of them were spent on horseback, trodding through the mountains toward the flatlands of Rojinla. However, as they drew closer to the pass's end and the skies over the mountains remained clear and the air cool and crisp, the threat of a rushing onslaught of violent, rending storms abated. They began to stop their forward ride early, while a bit of daylight still lingered, and often times Methaniel would leave Ahma to set up and prepare camp and feed Lanion while he took bow in hand and hunted for the days meal, most often returning with one or two conies or raccoons, a plentiful and filling dinner that stopped before it became wasteful or left over.

Ahma's training began. She was nervous about it, uncertain and shy and a bit apprehensive, but she reminded herself that it was necessary, that her old life as a servant had changed; while she may still remain and serve her Master, things were different, and being able to defend herself was going to be a concern. Also, she came to think that perhaps, if she tried hard and gave it her all, absorbing everything that such a skilled and able teacher gave her, she may even be able to become somewhat adept in combat, perhaps even enough so that she could be of some use to her Master should the situation arise.

"We won't be able to put you into full battle training right now," Methaniel explained as they began one crisp and chilly late afternoon.

"There is too much motion involved in combat, and you will need to wear a skirt with deep leg slits, or likely britches, before any reasonable movement can be made on your part. This dress just isn't going to do. Also..."

The Master shifted awkwardly and cleared his throat roughly, looking slightly pained.

"What is it, Master Merie?" she asked, trying to be helpful. A sincerely confusion painted over her flawless face.

"You have...uh....well, you're...you've a large bosom," Methaniel stammered. He shook his head as he heard how awkward and stupid he sounded. "We won't be able to try you in a realistic sparing situation until you are able to bind your breasts and secure them firmly."

Ahma glanced down at her enormous chest and smiled even as a light blush crept into her cheeks. She tried to keep from giggling. "Okay. What can we do then?"

Methaniel sighed, grateful to be moving on from the awkward topic. "Well, as I said, we can't do any real working with battle movement and strategy, but I can give you some pointers, tell you some things that you will need to remember, and I can show you some basic handwork with your dagger. You never want to go into battle with only a dagger, but you never want to go in without one, either. A dagger is an invaluable asset and tool in a battle, one that is often overlooked, and every warrior should be adept...

more

than adept...in wielding one."

Ahma tried her best to remember all that he told her. His lessons were hard and blunt, and had she been a softer woman and less focused upon absorbing everything she would have probably thought him harsh. But she understood he was being practical and straightforward with her, and making sure things sunk in to maximum effect.

"Don't ever shy away from a blow," he told her. "Go into every fight knowing that you are going to get hit, and you are going to get hurt. Sometimes you get lucky. Sometimes you get through your battles in one piece, but that takes luck and skill, and a lot more of the former than the latter. Know you're going to get hit, and prepare for it. Tuck your chin and tighten your muscles. Otherwise, grit your teeth, and be ready for it, because it's coming."

It took Ahma some time to get this concept into her mind, having seen Methaniel so easily and skillfully defend himself. During the battle at the mansion, he'd not taken a single hit, despite seven men being pitted against him. The more she thought about it, she reasoned that he was an above average fighter, a man who was hailed by the Commander of the Durinum forces as the most marvelous fighter ever seen. And her mind recalled the massive, wicked scar crossing his body. She'd come to realize during the days inside the cave, where he had barred his chest often to allow the heat of his body to fully seep into her, that it was one of many.

"When you understand this, you will understand that the best thing to do is to put energy into making a hit lighter than to try and escape it completely. If something gets in past your guard, you can't stop it. But you

can

move it, adjust it and push it away from vital organs. In this way, you can make a mortal blow a grazing blow. This is a key to surviving battles. If you are hit with something you can walk away from, then you've foiled that attack, no matter what anyone tells you.

"Pacing," he continued, "Every battle has its pace. If you are in a war, then things are going to be happening very fast. Death will be all around you, and it will be hard to focus. The best thing you can do is keep your wits about you, and listen to the orders being given by your commanders. It's unlikely you'll find yourself in such a situation, but it's good to always consider such things. If you are in a duel, or a more personal battle where you know what you face and can deal with things on a collected and calm scale, then the pacing is in your hands. If you come against an opponent that is over your head, then you can even things out by biding your time, focusing on defense and keeping yourself alive, and wait for your opponent to tire. The most common and crippling mistake warriors often make is to rush. Most think that a battle should be over in moments. Use this to your advantage, keep them coming at you with all their might, and as long as you defend yourself intelligently, soon they will tire and holes will begin to open, holes you can slip through with ease."

He told her much more, working over the basic concepts of battle, the subtle and often overlooked tricks and nuances of a fight that would give her a clear edge over most enemies. She absorbed it all, finding herself oddly fascinated and enraptured by his words. She would never have pictured herself as one for battle, and deep down, the thought of taking a life made her shaky inside. But still, a subtle excitement filled her as this new, strange world of knowledge opened to her.

They went over the basic handling and workings of her small, curving dagger. He showed her how to grip the blade, how to turn it and twist it, how to adjust it in her tiny hands to get the best angle for a slash or a stab, how to make a quick cut or a deep thrust. They had no time to get into the more advanced aspects of knife handling. But by the time her first lesson was over she felt less afraid of the weapon. Before that day, she had thought of a dagger or knife as a tool, a means to cut, skin, or slice food, rope, and a myriad of other simple tasks and functions. When it was used in battle, it would always be held by a man's hand, she thought. Now she wondered. Could she find the kind of comfort and ease that Methaniel displayed with a blade? Would her hands ever adjust to such work? By the end of the day, after practicing for hours, even as they rode, with the handling and gripping and maneuvering of the dagger, she had a myriad of blisters on her palms and slender fingers.