All day, out in the taiga that protected his solitude, he had been foraging and lumbering. The rich wood and scent of moss never got old— even when he was an Admin. The palette that nature wore here always gave him a sense of peace and tranquility, no room for discomfort or disquiet.

With his iron axe, he had gone and chopped down a few trees, skinning the bark from the flesh of some, others he turned into logs. Sharpen his axe here and there, he would dig down a wee bit to replant a few saplings, giving back to the earth even as his jeans grew muddy and full of leaves. His legs burned, his arms ached, but it was enjoyable. Being human had its decencies. The simplicity gave him joy.

But the best part about living out here?

Sweetberries. A whole lot of them. Easy to find in great quantity, easy to plant— they grew wild in multitude— and fun to feed to local foxes. He could sit on his chopping stump for hours and chew on them like cherries, all overlooking the grandeur of the ancient forest.

This changed today.

While on his way home for the evening, dreaming over a sweet stew and baked potatoes, he lightly tripped over a swaddle of roots. He corrected himself quickly, finding his footing with visual help and viewed a new hue on the dark soil. He stopped, crouched down, and squinted at the abnormality. A fox slipped past his vision, making him look up at its hurried gait. Perked ears meant it found something worthwhile.

Grumbling, he heaved himself upright and jogged on in the general direction he had seen the canine go. The dark hue, by which he was certain now to be blood, was more prominent against the moss the more he went. How did he miss this? It must’ve been recent if the foxes hadn’t found it first. By the looks of it, it might’ve been another person. Oh dear— was he too focused on himself to hear any cries of pain? What kind of person was he?

… What would Jesse think of him…?

When all these sickening thoughts persisted and rolled his stomach into a hundred knots, he heaved atop a mangled root of a particularly large spruce tree, overlooking a small divot in the ground. Two foxes were hissing and snapping at each other over a wounded somebody. He rested his hand on the head of the iron axe, carefully slipping into the hole. The stranger must’ve tripped, fallen, and hit hard enough to fall unconscious. Yikes.

The foxes turned their attention to him as he entered their little arena, baring their teeth at him. Maintaining a low posture, he raised his axe as a threat, the metal gleaming. When the animals didn’t receive his threat, he bit his cheek, advancing a few steps to make himself appear bigger. That did the trick— sent them yipping over the lip of the pit. Turning back to the unfortunate soul, he knelt down and put the lumbering tool away.

“Jeez…” Was all he could muster, still trying to fight off his sickened stomach and hold onto an appetite.

He gently pried sticks and obvious debris off the body, clean enough to lift, and hauled them up with an audible grumble and pop of his back. He bit his lip painfully, turning the skin white as he balanced the heavy body on his shoulder and carried them to the safety of his abode.

—————

The stranger didn’t wake immediately, but when they had, they were snuggly wrapped in bandages and a soft blanket. Sprawled on the rug, cleaning, medicinal, and trauma supplies lay next to them; a cup of water as well. The fireplace warmed their once mud-caked face, feeling returning to their frozen nerves.

“A-are you okay?”

A shy voice speaks up, belonging to the man in the chair, who peered down at them with worry.

“You must’ve taken a fall after whatever cause those wounds.” He frowned, itching his cheek near an old scar. A silence was long drawn out, before he spoke up again, as if shocked by a red-hot iron.

“You’d feel more comfortable knowing my name, I suppose.” He looked at the ground, fiddling with his fingers. “My name is Romeo.”