Page 7 of Ice Bound

What had just passed between them? She'd cared for Davis deeply. They'd been close friends since childhood, had built a home and a family together. Loved him in her own way...and what she had just felt for Neledrim was so much stronger, so much more frightening. She didn't want to feel such loss again. If the attraction was that powerful, certainly the pain would be equally intense.

Neledrim was a stranger. A vagabond. He'd be nothing more than a memory when he left, and she would soon forget all of these feelings.

"We'd best finish before the snow worsens," she said, glancing up at him, but not daring to meet his gaze. Turning, she walked back to where she had dropped her shovel, and began working again. Her movements were stiffer now, her limbs reminded of their weariness. She saw him pick up his own shovel at the edge of her vision. He moved as quickly as he had before, but there was something rigid about his motions, as well.

* * *

Anna ignored the rattling shutters. The storm had returned with a fury she hadn’t thought possible, but they’d at least managed to clear the most important paths beforehand. Now they were inside, where it was warm, the scent of the rabbit stew she was stirring making her mouth water.

The cat strutted over, mewing loudly. It stood on its hind legs to get a peek at the contents of the pot. Gently nudging it away, Anna fished out a chunk of meat and placed it on the floor. The cat ignored her presence while it ate.

She let her gaze drift to Neledrim, who had taken to wandering her home, stopping to inspect every object with an almost amusing degree of curiosity and concentration. After working—and playing—in the cold, she would have expected him to take a blanket and sit before the fire. That was what Davis had always done. Instead, he stood on the opposite side of the room, showing no sign that he was affected by the day’s labor.

"What other stories have you heard?" she asked, turning away from the pot.

"Likely all of them, by now," he replied. He was holding a small wooden doll, carved inexpertly but with obvious affection. His beautiful, pale fingers ran over the grain delicately. It was an object that she couldn't bear to hide away.

"I would like to hear more about the stranger. That is, if you have other stories about him."

"I have heard many such tales," he said, smiling as he carefully set the doll down and turned toward her. "There was a fisherman in a small village along a lake, many weeks journey from here. In the winters, he and his fellows would go out on the ice, cut holes, and continue to harvest the lake. When he was young, the fishermen decided to see which of them was the best. Whoever could catch the biggest fish through the ice would have his ale paid for by the others until the end of the winter."

She couldn't help but smile as she listened to him. There was a musical quality to his voice, a passion in the way he moved his hands to illustrate the story with his long, dexterous fingers.

"Wanting to gain the advantage over his competition, he ventured farther out onto the lake than the others dared. He was young, invincible. And he didn't realize how much thinner the ice was there. It groaned beneath his weight, offering as much warning as it could. He took another step, and the next sound stopped his heart. Every man who worked the ice knew it.”

Anna’s hand tightened on the wooden spoon. “What happened?”

“The cracking ice echoed louder than thunder, splitting beneath his very feet. The entire lake moaned as the ice began to shift, rumbling from shoreline to shoreline. And then it opened up and swallowed him.

“He fell into water cold enough to sap the life from any man, and couldn't find the hole. He didn't know if he would freeze to death or drown first."

"How terrifying." She found herself shuddering as she tried to imagine the terror the fisherman must have gone through.

"Yes. And just as everything began to go dark, he felt a strong arm wrap around him – but it was not Death’s grip. He was hauled up out of the water, back onto solid ice. There was a man over him, with a cloak of ice and snow-white skin. The fisherman blacked out, and woke up in his cabin with a fire blazing. There were no footprints in the snow, and no one had seen anybody come or go. Everyone thought he was disoriented from his ordeal, if not outright mad, but he swore the man had been real – and that the stranger’s clothes were completely dry."

"Has anyone ever learned the stranger's name?"

He glanced up with a smile. “If anyone has, they never realized it.”

There was a warmth in his eyes that made her imagine what it would be like to wake up with them upon her each morning. She wished she could erase such fantasies, but they lingered, haunting her. Thoughts such as these were dangerous. They made her long for something that would only bring pain.

"They say he is a spirit," he continued, "or a ghost."

"Or maybe just a man," she countered.

"He could be just a man. Most likely many men, in many places, at many times. People tend to remember things being more extraordinary than they really were. To embellish. Especially tales passed down through generations."

"You live for these tales."

"Yes, and because of them. I work where I can, but it is more often the stories that have earned me a roof over my head and warm food in my belly."

"I suppose this is one of those instances?" she asked, spooning the stew into bowls and carrying them to the table.

"I hope I've contributed more than a few foolish stories," he said, rewarding her with another stunning smile.

"Does throwing snowballs count as a contribution?" she asked, trying to hold back a grin.

"I'd like to think so. I can try some more, if we need to know for certain."

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