My body feels heavy and I can feel the cold bite at my toes and fingers. I slowly blink and take in a slow breath. The smell of damp earth mixes with soft lemon and tears prickle my eyes. My chest heaves a shaky breath and I squeeze my eyes shut. I try to bring my hands up to my face but my arms feel just as heavy as the rest of me. A breeze rolls across the dead, frost-bitten grass and rustles the leaves in the underbrush. I try to take in another breath but it’s difficult. My chest squeezes and my entire body is enveloped in blue, purple, and white. My stomach clenches and my throat tightens as my thoughts start to wander back to why I’m lying on the ground and being cried over by a stranger. Red-hot anger buds in my heart and in the back of my head. But the feeling isn’t directed at him- not at the boy who hadn’t known he was being hunted by a Wendigo. I was angry at myself for putting us all in this situation; a situation that caused my mother to sacrifice herself to save me and my new ward.

Countless if-I-hadn't situations fill my mind and it’s hard to see past the fact that I did- that I had saved this helpless, starving, filthy child from spending another night without food or warmth. I look up at his pale, tear-streaked face and the anger in the back of my head begins to lose heat. The anger is quickly filled back in with the insurmountable grief and sadness of losing the only person in this entire world who knew me, who loved me, who raised me, who-

I stop myself before I allow myself to spiral into complete misery and try to breathe in again. My breaths come as stuttering sniffles and jittering sobs; only now realizing that I’m sobbing and a complete mess with snot and tears running rivers on this poor kid’s lap.

After a few minutes, I’ve calmed myself enough and can no longer tolerate the painful cold that has thoroughly seeped into my bones. Likewise, the boy has stopped crying and is blankly staring at a spot in the trees, his puffy, red eyes fixed on a place far away from here. I roll to sit up and my elbow slips from under me, my left shoulder hitting the ground. I wince and feel a hand under my head and another around my right arm. I look up and the worry from before is all I can see in the boy’s eyes. I grimace and turn my attention back to sitting myself up, his hands not leaving my body until I’m completely up.

I look at his face and his eyes are firmly settled on mine. Not knowing what to say, I simply nod in appreciation, bringing my legs up and hugging them tightly. I’m not confident enough in standing yet and I think the boy understands as he simply sits there with me, silently studying my face. We stay like this for a few minutes until he takes a quick breath as if to say something. I quickly look at him and, when our eyes meet, his face flushes. He closes his mouth but doesn’t look away from me. His lips form a thin line and he shifts where he’s sitting in the dirt. I look around, noting the pile of sooty ashes at the edge of the clearing where we are, and then down at both of our feet. We’re both shivering a bit and our toes and fingers are numb-white. I take one more clearing breath and push up on my knees, trying to stand in one fluid motion, but my lower half is still weak and my steps falter. The boy moves quicker than I thought he was capable of and reaches out a hand to help steady me. His brow is tightly knitted as if he’s inwardly scolding me for not asking for help. It’s my turn now to furrow my brows. I’m self-aware enough to know when I’m being stubborn, but I know my body and I’m perfectly able to stand on my own.

Nonetheless, I accept his hand and steady myself before dropping my hands to my side. His arm doesn’t move from where it’s outstretched and his eyes shift from mine to the house and then back to his arm before settling back on my eyes. Is… Is he offering to escort me back to my own house? I raise a pensive brow at him before shuffling forward, ignoring his rail-thin arm. He can barely keep himself upright and he doesn’t need to be trying to hold healthy-bodied me up when I know he barely has the strength to stay awake right now. I saw the dark circles around his eyes. He and I both need sleep.

I make my way to the front door, not bothering to look behind me to see if the boy is following me as I hear his shuffling feet behind me. I walk in and the door closes behind us with a thunk. I grab Father’s old coat which I wear only on the coldest of days and throw it over my shoulders. Shuffling between the far wall and the fire pit I make it to the cooking stone where my thick socks lie warmed by the dwindling embers of last night’s fire. I sit on the stool there and slip my socks on. I can feel my toes begin to thaw as the pricking of my circulation returns to that area. It’s uncomfortable, but at least I still have feeling in them.

I look at the boy who’s standing in the entryway by the closed door. He’s looking around our house- my house now, I suppose… The thought tightens my chest again and I shove those thoughts aside. The boy’s gaze settles on me and then on the pot next to the fire. The silence in the room is interrupted by the loudest, most long growl I’ve ever heard in my life. The boy’s face flushes tomato red and I can’t help but sputter out a laugh.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

The boy, embarrassed, turns away from me and takes a step back. And, as if on cue, my stomach growls as well. I stop laughing and I watch as the boy’s shoulders begin to shake as he looks back at me. My face flushes and I can’t help but start laughing again. He faces me fully and my heart skips a beat as I see him smile for the first time. Even though he’s scrawny, sleep deprived, and his hair has been shorn to his scalp he’s undeniably adorable. His almond-shaped eyes are heavily lidded and his green irises are bright. I can’t help but feel happy when I see his face. It’s just like how when Mother-

I feel a cold, wet tear slip down my cheek and I quickly wipe it away. The boy’s smile falters and a veil of pity falls across his face. Red shame prickles the back of my neck and I clear my throat.

“I suppose I should make us something to eat?” I press my mouth close as I sniff and stand, only barely needing support from the nearby table. I move deftly around, picking ingredients and tools out of various spots and jars and cabinets. I decide on a simple cabbage soup. I check the inside of the soup pot that still hangs on the hook to make sure debris didn’t fall in there during the night. Satisfied, I begin to feed the fire and get it fully awake within a few minutes. I swing the pot over the flames, taking two steps to the right, and grab the large, stoppered jar next to a stone-lined cabinet. I uncork it and pour the entire contents inside. Golden liquid and globs of animal fat fill the pot and I see the boy take a few steps closer to the fire and watch as I work. I grab the last cabbage that I had pilfered from the village a few weeks ago and start tearing off the leaves, running each one through a small basin of water to rinse any dirt or bugs off before tearing them in fourths and adding them to the pot.

The last thing I reach for is a small snuff box that Father would use only for special occasions. I open the lid and feel nostalgia hit me like a tonne of bricks. There is only a little bit of salt left in the box, but it would do the boy and I some good to taste a bit of something other than chicken fat and cabbage. I hadn’t resupplied my foraged herbs in a while. My heart throbs a bit at the memory of Mother and I clipping wild parsley and thyme and finding wild mint and chewing on its leaves while lounging under trees in the summer. Again, I push those memories away and refocus on the soup.

Sprinkling a pinch of salt into the broth, I stir for a few minutes until the cabbage leaves start to bend around the wooden spoon. I then quickly chop, then add the last of my sulfur shelf mushrooms into the pot and cook for another few minutes until the soup starts to bubble. I carefully swing the pot off of the fire and let it cool as I reach into my baked potato stash and pull one out. The brown paper around it crinkles as I unwrap it. Laying it on my cutting board, I slice it in fourths lengthwise and then in half. I lay them out on the now ot cooking stone and they steam a bit as the slices are warmed again. I carefully remove them and set them on our old, worn wooden plates. I spoon out a scoop of soup for the boy and hand him the bowl. I catch his pupils dilating as he breathes in the smell of the soup. His eyes moisten and just as I think he’s about to cry, he begins to hungrily slurp the soup down. Not wanting to waste the heat, I spoon out a portion for myself and follow suit.

I was right to add in the pinch of salt. The taste rolls over my tongue and it warms my belly and my bones. I shiver as I feel the cold start to leave my body. I look over at the boy blowing on his portion of the potato I had given him. He quickly takes a bite out of one of the slices and his eyes squeeze shut as tears roll down his face.

Jeez, I think to myself. I think we’ve cried enough for the whole next year. I smile self-deprecatingly and eat my slices of potato in rapid fire. I look down in the pot and notice that there’s enough left in there for one more bowl. I look at the boy and see that he’s already watching me, his bowl empty, hunger plastered all over his sunken face. There’s no hesitation as I grab his bowl and scoop out the very last bits and hand his bowl back over. He looks like he’s going to wolf it down just like the first one and then he stops. His eyes lock onto mine and then he looks over at my bowl. Sensing his thoughts, I shake my head and throw up my hands.

“No. You need it more than I do. Finish up then you and I can sleep a bit more. I…” My nose tickles and I can feel the fountain of snot well up again. I cough and clear my throat. “I know we’re both struggling to stay awake. We could both use a little more sleep. Once we’re awake again, then we can think about more food.” I make a shooing motion with my hands. “Drink. Eat. Warm yourself.” The boy remains still for another heartbeat and then finishes off the bowl in three huge gulps. As he’s chewing on the last bits of cabbage and mushroom, I rinse out our bowls and plates and set them back up on the shelf to drip dry. I scoot over to the pot and set to wiping it out. The exterior is still hot, but the inside is tolerable and borderline comfortable. I silently wish that I could crawl inside and hibernate the cold season away like most goblins do in these parts.

I toss the dirty soup rag into the small pile of dirty laundry and watch as the boy carefully scoots past the now crackling fire over to the bed in the alcove on the left. He practically dives under the pile of covers there and I can see a small mound where he curls up like a cat. I allow a breath of a laugh out of my nose and then follow him into the bed. I curl up on my side, my back facing him, and cover myself with the remaining covers.

Things are quiet for a while. All I can hear is muted birdsong and the occasional snap of firewood from the pit. The wind blows a few leaves around outside of the only door and one is even swept up and blows past one of the two windows. A small flock of chittering birds flies past the patches of open roof over the fire pit. My body begins to relax. Exhaustion is slowly overtaking me and I hear a whisper in my right ear. My tired eyes slowly open with much effort and I grunt in confusion. The boy shifts behind me and I feel his knees and arms softly press into my back.

“Darcy,” he whispers, his voice crackling a bit. “My name is Darcy.” I sniff and can’t help but smile lazily, sleep pulling me closer and closer.

“Nice to meet you, Darcy. You can call me Lumimoss,” I whisper back. Darcy stiffens and I chuckle softly before turning myself over to face him. I wrap my arms around him and pull his head against my chest. “We can talk later. For now, sleep. We need it.”

We both quickly fall asleep.