by Serrah Byrnison
White. That was the world that met Fisk when he opened his eyes. For just a moment, he thought maybe he had succumbed and was dead, risen to some higher plane of existence. But the ache left in his chest from the frigid air entering and leaving his lungs told him otherwise. He blinked, trying to bring some other image into focus, but to no avail. It was then when he tried to look around that he realized how much his body ached, how heavy his limbs were from exhaustion. A groan escaped from behind clenched teeth as he, with all the strength he could muster, pushed himself up to rest on his forearms.
Now sitting up, the view of his surroundings changed. Snow-laden trees dotted the landscape all around and swirls of snow danced on the wind, which whipped at his clothes with unrelenting ferocity. Beneath him, the ground was a culmination of ice and fresh snow. How had he gotten here?
Somewhat dazed, Fisk rubbed at his eyes, willing his brain to focus on what had brought him to be here, alone and half frozen, on the side of a mountain. Fragmented images flashed through his mind. Glimmering jewels. Gleaming gold coins. Precious gems and magical amulets. And then the thundering march of feet. And then there was the outraged scream of deceit. Fisk’s eyes flew open. The Goblin General. That was it. He had been trying to steal from the trove of treasure within the mountain. Only it hadn’t gone at all as planned and he had barely escaped from the cavern with his life. He had trekked through the wintry terrain, badly wounded and desperate to get as far away from the Goblin General as he could. But then, he had faltered and been unable to regain his feet and darkness had overtaken his senses.
Heart hammering in a sudden burst of panic, Fisk turned this way and that, searching for any sign that danger had followed him. But he was still alone and the only sound was the howling of the wind. Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, he surveyed himself, patting his extremities for any sign of injury. His clothes were tattered, bloodstained from various small wounds. There were none that were serious though and he felt somewhat relieved. He knew though that his body had taken a good beating, a rib or two possibly broken. And the ache on the side of his head told him he had suffered a blow to that region. Tenderly touching the area, he winced and pulled away bloodied fingers.
Now that he was coherent, Fisk could feel the cold seeping into his bones. Shaking against the icy air, he pulled his cloak tighter around himself. He knew he couldn’t stay out in the open; he needed shelter. Sucking in a deep breath, he pushed off of the ground, slipping slightly against the ice. Once on his feet, he swayed, his vision suddenly blackening from the effort.
Get it together, he told himself. Gotta get moving now.
Pulling in a deep breath, his head now clear, he took a hesitant step forward. After a short pause to make sure he was steady, he set off through the snow.
He wasn’t sure how long he trudged through the snow but the sky was beginning to darken with the oncoming of night. He knew he would not make it off the mountain by nightfall and so, finding a suitable shelter was his main goal. The problem was whether or not such a place existed. Staying where he was certainly was not an option.
Time continued on, the sky continuing to darken. Fisk pushed himself to move as fast as his battered body could stand, but he felt as if he wasn’t making much progress.
I’m certainly going to freeze on this mountain tonight, he found himself in dark thoughts. All because I had to prove I could steal that treasure.
Just as his thoughts were about to turn to self-loathing, a howl tore through the air. He froze in place, fear locking his limbs. Another howl followed. There were no mistaking - Dire wolves.
His vigor suddenly renewed by the fresh sweep of fear coursing through his blood, Fisk practically waded through the snow now. He had to put distance between himself and those wolves. He’d never survive a meeting with them while in this state. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of the wolves grew louder, spurring him on further despite the white-hot pain in his side. He was beginning to stagger, his feet clumsy from the pain. And then it happened. His foot caught beneath the blanket of snow and he fell.
His body tumbled and rolled down the incline of the mountain, his momentum keeping him from finding purchase on which to stop. Rocks and fallen tree limbs pummeled his already bruised body. He cried out against the onslaught, frantic to stop. And then, as quickly as it started, it was over. Fisk laid sprawled in the snow, his chest heaving.
“Well, that was quite a tumble.” Fisk startled at the voice. A small, chiming laugh followed. “Relax, now. I mean you no harm. Here, let me help you.”
There was a shuffling off to his right and then, a face hovered over his own.
Fisk was struck dumb. For the voice belonged to the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The smoothest pale skin housed luminous blue eyes that seemed to see into the very depths of his soul. Her face was unmarked of youth, but there was wisdom lurking just beneath the surface. Her lips were pink and had a natural upturn as if she smiled often. And framing it all, long silvery hair that seemed to shine amidst the snow. She was stunning.
“Who…what…how…”
“Just calm down now,” she soothed, her voice soft. “You seem to be badly hurt. Just lay still so I can have a look. You’re safe with me.” Fisk swallowed. Even if he had physically been able to move, he would not have done so, for fear of her leaving.
He watched with wide eyes as she ran her hands through the air over his prostrate form. Her lips moved slightly though he could not hear what she was murmuring. So mesmerized was he by her movements that he hardly noticed the warmth that began to spread throughout his limbs, numbing the pain of his injuries.
“There. That should do it,” she said after a moment, lowering her hands. She graced him with the most endearing of smiles. “Do you think you can stand now?”
“What?” he asked, confusion wrinkling his brow. She gestured toward him, indicating that he should stand. “Oh…” It was then he fully realized his pain was gone. He looked at her in wonder. “You healed me.”
“Well of course I did. How else would you make it off this mountain? Now, do you think you can stand?”
“I… yes, I suppose…”
Once again, Fisk found himself rising up on unsteady feet. However, his savior was there to catch him, and she moved her shoulder beneath his arm to brace him. Though she was slight in form, he marveled at the firmness of her touch and the steadfastness with which she supported his weight.
“Who are you?” he asked, unable to keep the wonderment from his voice. Her laugh fell on his ears the same way the soothing tones of a windchime might.
“My name is Bertil,” she answered. “And that’s all you need to know.”
“Bertil.” Her name was reverent on his tongue and left his lips in a breathy sigh.
Bertil seemed unphased by his obvious dumbstruck state as if she were accustomed to such things. She brushed her hand over him, sweeping the snow from his clothes, as a mother would to her child. He allowed her to do this, feeling no shame at being treated as such. He merely enjoyed the contact from her, the stranger who had come to his rescue.
“Alright,” she spoke, pleased with the results of her ministrations. “You look much more sturdy.” And she loosened her grasp and stepped back.
Fisk stood a moment, in awe of her presence. She was shorter than him but she stood with an air of confidence that made her seem taller than life. She was cloaked in white, and with her hair and pale skin, to him, she seemed at home amidst the snow.
Like an ethereal being that was born from the purest snowflake, he found himself musing.
“That’s enough of that,” she told him as if she could read his thoughts.
A blush swept across his cheeks. “I thank you from my deepest heart for your help,” he told her. “I surely would be dead if not for your intervention.”
“I am sure you would not be. Though maybe a little worse off if I had not chanced upon you.”
“We are a long way up the mountain. Why are you here, alone?”
“Why are you here?” she questioned, her eyes narrowed. Fisk managed to look sheepish.
“It’s getting dark,” he commented, to avoid answering her question. “Do you have a camp?”
“I do not,” she answered. Bertil gestured around them. “But you’ll find we are not so high on the mountain. Look, you are very near the bottom.”
Fisk surveyed their surroundings and was surprised to find that she was correct. He was sure they had been further up. Surely, he didn’t tumble halfway down the mountain? He found her peering at him with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.
“Did you-“
“You should probably be moving along now,” she interrupted. “If you want to make it off the mountain by nightfall.”
“Yes, I suppose I should…” he began, now wondering about the woman before him. She seemed to sense this and her expression turned to one of amusement.
“Well it has been a pleasure,” she smiled. “But I must be off now. If you look right over there, you’ll find a small path that will lead you right to the bottom.
Try to stay on your feet this time though.”
His gaze followed her pointed finger, and he was able to make out the small opening of a path dug through the snow.
“Thank you but-“ His words faltered as he turned back toward her, for she was no longer there. Surprise stopped his breath for a moment and he looked wildly around. Surely, he had not imagined her? Shaking his head against the possibility of it, Fisk turned toward the path, eager to be off the mountain.
I must find this Bertil, he vowed, beginning his descent.