Chapter Text
You should have seen them by now, you think.
It is late. You ought to go to bed, but the night is frigid and you are far more comfortable here in front of the fire. Between the chill and your worry about how your anonymous attendant is faring in this weather, sleep does not come easily.
You cannot understand why they hide from you. You have asked around in the village, but no one there has seen anyone venture in your direction save for the schoolchildren. A warier person would be disturbed by the circumstances in which you have found yourself, but you are merely frustrated. It is clear from their continued generosity that this stranger means no ill will. There have been no more incidents like the wolves, and you have tried to welcome them. Perhaps you do have a secret admirer, like Frieda said. So then why will he not show himself?
You clutch your shawl tightly around your shoulders as you ponder what to do. You could write another note, although it has crossed your mind that your mystery man may be unable to read, or may not speak the local language. It is worth another try, though, and you begin mentally composing a letter when, without warning, all pandemonium breaks loose behind you.
A deafening crash.
Glass shattering.
An earth-shaking thud that rattles the walls and reverberates through your bones.
You whirl around and unleash a piercing scream at the sight before you.
At first you think it’s a bear, your view of the beast clouded by the dust and debris floating down from above. But no—it’s… a man? A very large man, clad in rags, his face obscured by long, stringy hair.
Seized with terror, you gasp and stumble backwards. You reach blindly for the fire poker, your eyes locked on the intruder, but he does not advance towards you. He is crouched on the floor, head bowed, broad shoulders heaving, surrounded by the wreckage of your ceiling and the shelves that housed your dishes. Shards of glass and splinters of wood puncture his leg, and one of his arms is bent at an unnatural angle.
You take a tentative step forward, and he shrinks away from you. He hastily pulls a grimy scarf over his face—the same one you knit for your stranger!—as he shuffles back, repeatedly muttering “no—please—sorry—” in a deep, rasping voice.
“Oh,” you breathe, your heart swelling with pity. The thrill of finally meeting your unknown protector outweighs your fear that he might snap your neck like he did the wolves’. Besides, he is clearly in no position to do such a thing now, and from the way he is behaving you doubt that he would try.
“It’s alright,” you say, keeping your voice soft and your movements slow and deliberate as you ease over to him, the way you would approach a skittish animal. “I’m sorry for screaming. Only, you did give me quite a fright. I’m not angry, I—you’re hurt.”
You reach toward him, but he whimpers and flinches at your touch.
“It’s alright,” you repeat. “I want to help you. May I help?” The man draws in a long, ragged breath before acquiescing with a small nod. You smile. “Thank you. Let me just fetch some water and a rag.”
You cross the room and go to the basin on your dressing table. Some of the water has sloshed out from the commotion moments ago, making it light enough for you to simply pick up the entire vessel and carry it over. “I’m afraid there is not much I can do for your arm, but I can make a sling for it until we can get you to the doctor in the village. Tomorrow is Saturday, so I shan’t be busy—silver lining, eh?”
You drape a couple of clean towels over your shoulder and turn back to the man, nearly dropping the basin in astonishment. He has already pulled one of the slivers of glass from his leg, and through the tear in his trousers you see ghostly pale flesh knitting itself back together. You stare, mouth agape, as the wound rapidly heals, leaving only smooth, unmarred skin. You catch glimpses of other scars, though—long, precise lines and curves winding about his leg, certainly not the result of his fall just now. Your mind races with questions, but you cannot find the words. There is a sudden crack, followed by a series of clicks, and you look up to see the man’s broken arm righting itself.
“How is this possible?” you whisper. You kneel beside him and begin to gingerly remove the other splinters from his leg, wiping away the blood and watching in awe as each cut disappears. All the while, he watches silently from behind his scarf. “May I… see your face?”
The man stiffens, his breath catching. “No,” he murmurs so quietly you almost do not hear him.
You try not to let your disappointment show. “I only want to see if you have any cuts there.” Not that they would need any tending, evidently. “Whoever you are, or… whatever it is about your countenance that troubles you, I will not be upset. I promise I will not scream again. And I am glad you like the scarf,” you add with a nervous giggle.
There is a long beat of silence in which you can feel the man’s eyes on you through the layers of fabric. You are about to tell him that he is, of course, not obliged to show himself if he does not wish to, but then he begins to lower his hands. They are bandaged, you notice, and his fingers are an unnatural shade of gray. Slowly, cautiously, he allows the scarf to fall away, at last revealing his face and looking up at you with big, dark eyes brimming with fear and a profound sadness that stirs something deep within your soul.
A wave of goosebumps erupts over your skin and you stifle a gasp as you take in the man’s visage. You promised not to scream, and you have no urge to do so, but there is no denying that he is the most remarkable person you have ever seen. His face is as pallid as his hands, with bluish patches bordered by scars that look somehow both meticulous and haphazard. Ashen lips, jutting cheekbones, and sunken eyes—one of which glows in the firelight like a cat’s—give him a skeletal appearance. He has no hair on his face, not even on his brows, though tangled locks cascade around his shoulders.
You have never seen anyone like him before. He is strange-looking, yes, but you find yourself unable to tear your gaze from him. He is rather beautiful, in an eerie way.
“Do you… fear me?” he asks. His voice is powerful and sonorous despite his hushed tone.
“No,” you reply truthfully. “Do you fear me?”
“… No,” he says, his jaw unclenching and the creases in his forehead softening. He blinks at you, long and slow, and something in his expression is so… innocent, so pure, that any lingering apprehension you had about him instantly dissolves. You surmise that the poor fellow may be slow-witted, or perhaps he merely hit his head when he fell.
“What is your name?” you ask.
“… Adam.”
“I’m very pleased to finally meet you, Adam.” You tell him your name, a smile blooming on your face. “You are the one who has been leaving firewood and mending things, aren’t you?” Adam nods. “And you are the one who killed those wolves?” He nods again, bowing his head sheepishly.
You still do not fully understand how this is possible, but you have an easier time believing it now that you have met the man. In the few minutes you have known him, Adam has already transcended the bounds of what you believed to be humanly possible. What is more difficult to believe, however, is how someone so timid and gentle could find it in himself to do such a thing.
Adam glances up at you, waiting for your reaction to these revelations.
“Thank you,” you say. “For all that you have done. I would likely be dead had it not been for you.” Adam blinks at you again, and something almost like a smile creeps across his mouth for a moment. “Have you… been staying in the attic all this time?”
“Yes,” he whispers, slumping in resignation, as if he expects to be sent to the gallows for his confession.
You place your hand on his tattered sleeve. “It’s quite alright. I am glad that you have had a place to shelter; I feared that you were sleeping out in the woods. Though I do wish you had simply come to the door when I invited you,” you say with a wry grin. “It is far more comfortable here in the house, and you are welcome if you need somewhere to stay.”
His soft brown eyes widen, and the tip of his nose, below the hairline scar that bisects it, turns a nearly human shade of pink. “Stay?”
You nod. “As long as I have your word that you will not hurt me.”
Adam shakes his head, his craggy brow furrowing, looking offended at the idea. “Never hurt. I… protect you,” he says fiercely.
“Yes. I know,” you reply breathlessly, feeling heat rising in your cheeks. Your heart flutters at the thought; it is rare for anyone but your students to show such regard for you. “And I am most appreciative. So please, stay. As a token of gratitude. At least for tonight.”
You are stammering, and you’re sure your face must be flushed crimson. You are certainly not the type of woman to entertain strange (and apparently dangerous) men in your home, but it is clear that Adam is no ordinary man. It is not as though you have any unseemly intentions; you merely find yourself… compelled by him, mesmerized in spite of the sheer impropriety of the situation. And in any case, it’s not as if you would simply turn him out into the cold.
It is not only pity that you feel for him. You are terribly curious about this pale gentle giant, though you do not wish to distress him with intrusive questions, given his obvious diffidence. Still, you cannot help but wonder about the story behind those scars. And the way his wounds healed—the townsfolk, dogmatic and superstitious lot that they are, would call him either miraculous or demonic. He feared you, and he expected you to fear him; he must have had some unhappy experiences with people in the past, and you see why he felt the need to hide himself. You cannot imagine what sort of cruelty he has faced, but it must have been awful if his conduct and disposition are any indicators. Your heart breaks for him, and fury ripples through you—what sort of monster did this to him?
Adam is still staring at you, wonder and disbelief writ across his uncanny features. You clear your throat and look around at your ruined abode. “It is late, and there is nothing to be done about the ceiling until tomorrow,” you say, reaching for a broom to sweep away the mess of broken jars and dishes. “We should get some rest. Although…” you interrupt yourself, thinking better of it and, admittedly, not wanting this bizarre night to end just yet, “are you hungry?”
“Please,” Adam mumbles. You beam at him and turn to the stove. Fortunately, you have some tin bowls that are still intact, and you ladle out a generous portion of stew, still warm from your supper earlier.
When you turn around, Adam has risen to his full height and you nearly gasp. He is even larger than you realized, his head scraping what remains of the ceiling. You set the bowl on the table and join him there, nibbling on some bread but mostly watching him in fascination. His attempts to use a spoon are clumsy, but he quickly masters it and begins to eat ravenously, closing his eyes and grunting appreciatively as he savors the broth. It is probably not often that he gets a hot meal, you think.
“How long have you been alone, Adam?”
He pauses, pondering the question, and the chair groans under his weight. “Always alone,” he finally answers. You hum in response, your curiosity further piqued. “Thank you,” Adam says when he has finished eating.
You smile as you take his empty bowl. “You have better table manners than most of my students.”
Adam looks pleased at your declaration, his nose and the patch of skin along his jaw reddening again. He looks up and gestures to the hole in the ceiling. “I will fix.”
“Tomorrow,” you say. It is past midnight by now, and your eyes are beginning to grow heavy despite the evening’s excitement. You yawn, inciting Adam to mirror you with a tremendous yawn of his own. “Best get some sleep, hm?”
You go to your wardrobe and take out all the spare blankets you have, as well as any other linens and garments that you can layer to add a scant bit of cushion, and begin stacking them into a makeshift pallet in front of the hearth. You prod at the fire, stoking it back to life somewhat. Then you take the extra pillow from your bed and hand it to Adam, who has been standing to the side and eyeing you quizzically all the while.
“It isn’t much,” you say, “but it will at least be warmer than the attic.” Adam approaches with caution, then abruptly flops down onto the pile of quilts. He curls in on himself, condensing his massive frame into as small a space as possible, and you drape another blanket over him. He traces a large finger finger over the patchwork pattern, then brings it to his face. “My mother made it. I never had the patience for quilting, myself. Pretty, isn’t it?”
“Pretty…” Adam murmurs, continuing to gaze at the mosaic of blue and white cloth.
It reminds me of a little of you, you narrowly refrain from blurting out. “Right. Well. Goodnight, Adam,” you say instead.
“Good… night.” Adam settles into his nest and blinks at the dying fire. The mellow glow from the embers dances across his features, casting them in a warm hue that makes him look almost like an ordinary person.
It takes some effort to stop staring at him and go to your own bed. You do not have the luxury of a separate bedroom, but there is a little alcove off the main living area that makes for cozy sleeping quarters. You never bothered to put up curtains since you live alone, and the fire typically keeps you warm enough at night. Consequently, you now feel rather exposed as you slip out of your dressing gown and crawl into bed. You quickly blow out the candle and burrow beneath the coverlet, your mind still brimming with questions about this strange titan of a man who has—quite literally—fallen into your life. Who is Adam? What is Adam? You are gratified to have at last discovered the identity of your unnamed guardian, but the man is yet another mystery unto himself.
I only hope this hasn’t all been a big mistake, you think as you finally drift off into slumber.
🍂🍁🍂
Adam (his name is Adam! You addressed him as such, and so it must be true) does not sleep a wink that night. His heart hammers in his chest so loudly that he thinks you must be able to hear it. He listens, waiting until your breath evens to a slow, gentle rhythm before rolling over to look at you. He has watched you sleep countless times, but seeing you in the moonlight from this new viewpoint stokes his longing for you into a raging inferno. He would never dare to touch, though, even after the inexplicable kindness you have shown him tonight.
He cannot believe how much has changed in these few short hours. He was terrified, certain that it was all over—that at best he would be cast back out into the forest, and at worst chased away with screams and guns and fire. Yet somehow, contrary to all expectations, your goodness and grace extend even to a wretch like himself. Could this all be nothing more than a beautiful, vivid dream? Will he awake to find himself once more in the rafters, with only the mice for company?
If this is indeed real, he does not dare hope that it will last. As soon as you awake, surely you will realize the error you made in the soft, forgiving glow of the firelight. In the cold light of day you will see just how monstrous he really is and send him away.
Until then, Adam watches you one last time, memorizing every line of your lovely face before his inevitable banishment.