Humans seldomly, if not, then barely come around this time of year.

Blizzards, as often as they came, were a home to the mountains where Childe had resided. Winter didn’t really left this part of the range, it only shifted between what seemed like a tolerable amount of cold and something harsher, something that swallowed trails whole and erased footprints in a minute—he supposes, that, may be the reason he remained.

Being in his fox form, the cold felt different because it was much more manageable with his thick, red fur. The wind barely affected him like this, and most of the time, it was simply much more efficient to move in this form. But being in his human form? He admits things felt more awkward, the long limbs and lack of fur was a torture to endure.

There really was no reason to shift unless it was necessary.

The farthest edge of the mountains, nearing the slope, belonged to the silence of the ones that lived there. There was no cabins, no smoke from chimneys, no lingering scent of humans because there were no humans at all that lived as far as to reach it—it was simply just rocks, snow, and a fight for survival.

The gazes of the owls followed him between the trees, sometimes though, it was the birds who would occasionally flutter near his den when the snow had calmed down. And every once in a while, a stag would cross paths with him in neither acknowledgement nor hostility, because at the end of the day, they were simply another hybrid in hiding enduring the winter of the mountains.

Humans, though, they were rare enough their scents would drive him off the edge when it reached him.

He paused mid-step, nose lifting slightly to sniff out which direction it was coming from. Still, he was proven weak to his instinct and it led him uphill, weaving through frost-covered pines, paws sinking into the snow gently in vigilance—one wrong step, and he could be in trouble.

A human?

Childe stared in sheer disbelief, watched as you remained sprawled awkwardly near the slope, already half buried as the snow gathered over your legs. How long have you been there, nearly lifeless, is a question he kept to himself. You were certainly not prepared to face this type of weather considering how thin your gloves were, or how the coat you wore was proven futile in this altitude, let alone a snow storm. A bag laid beside you, its contents scattered on the snow beside your unconscious form—tools like a notebook, a pen, some folders, along with other equipment he couldn’t fathom glinted under the frost.

A scientist, perhaps, he figured. Every now and then, or once in a blue moon, he’d see some groups of travelers who called themselves as one. And most of the time, they’d take a random hybrid to run some tests and log data about their way of life.

He grimaces in thought, though it quickly fades as he circled around your form in curiosity. Uncertainty flooded his chest the more he looked at you, he could leave, an honest admission. The mountain can take care of the rest, like it always does. Survival in the mountains, he learned, meant everything depended on knowing when to and when not to interfere with the course of nature.

Childe brought you back to his den, a cave hidden along a rock shielded from the worst winds, and warm enough once a fire was lit. Was it a good thing? Definitely not. You were a scientist and scientists asked questions. Questions led to curiosity and curiosity often ended with cages, restraints, or notebooks filled with observations about creatures that never asked to be understood. He had seen enough from afar to know how it went. Hybrids were discoveries to people like you—something rare to document, to explain, to take apart piece by piece until nothing mysterious remained.

“At least I saved a life, right?” He mutters to himself, running his fingers through his hair.