I’m walking through a market when I see it. Four men, struggling to hold down a screaming, fighting woman. I push through the crowd, and almost laugh when I see who it is- dirty and shackled, but unmistakably her. She’s putting up quite the fight- biting, kicking, lashing out in any way she can. There’s a wild anger in her eyes, one I’ve seen before. “I’d like to take her off your hands,” I say, dangling my coin purse in front of the man I assume is the trader.

His eyes light up, and he smiles. It’s wide and I can see the rotting of his teeth, but I keep my own expression steady. I fork over some gold, and he nods to his lackeys. They unlock her chains, and our eyes lock. She follows me away from the trader’s stall, head held high. She’s always been a proud thing, as far as I can remember. “Blythe.” She says, by way of greeting. No ‘thank you’, or ‘it’s nice to see you again’, not that I was foolish enough to expect one.

We make our way to the tavern. She pays for a room and a bath. She doesn’t speak much more than she has to, but she’s always been like that. She acts like a lynx- sly, quiet, but vicious when backed into a corner. She is nothing short of antisocial, and likely one of the coldest people you’ll meet. She lives off the land, a hunter and trapper. She gets captured frequently because she looks “exotic.” She’s really just a Native woman, living off the land.

I’m a hired sword, myself. I stay to the cities, and I make good money. I’m sitting on the floor by the fireplace, sharpening my daggers when she comes back from the tavern’s bathroom. She’s naked, and my mouth grows dry as she walks over to where I am, and wings out her long, dark hair into the fireplace. The droplets of water run off her hair and sizzle over the flames, evaporating into the air. Despite the winter weather, she’s still naked here. Not to mention the vulnerable position it puts her in.

I can’t help but to stare at her, even though I shouldn’t. I watch, enraptured, as this wildcat of a woman braids back her hair. My knife collection sits forgotten at my feet, calloused hands only seconds away from reaching out. Her high cheekbones, the slope of her jaw, the set of her shoulders, the litheness of the muscles corded under her tan skin. I’m so besotted with her body that I don’t notice her until she stands in front of me, calloused hands feeling my forehead for a fever, but it is love that flushes my cheeks.