storm

The storm developed faster than I expected, when I was too far from camp to make it back even to the mild shelter the tents and wagons offered. So I ran for the shelter the ruins offered, and hid there as the rain poured down and the wind howled and the thunder roared. Even when the sky was still clear and the sun was still shining the ruins seemed an ominous prospect, but now, each bolt of lightning seemed to make the shadows of this forgotten place deeper. So I sat as close to the entrance as I could, wrapped in my travelling coat, trying my best not to touch anything.

I wasn't sure the hunter was real when she first appeared in the entryway, spear in hand--I'd managed to keep the echoes of the past to a minimum, but every now and then a stray would make its way into my memory--but I recognized her from the caravan, and when she shook the rain from her hair and stepped into the ruins to join me I felt a sense of . . . relief isn't quite the word. That she had come looking for me was a comfort, of course, but also I was simply glad of her company.

"Did you come looking for me?" I asked, more for having something to say than anything. She beamed and nodded. Now that she was in the shelter she removed her cloak and shook the rain out of that, as well. "I thought we had another hour or so before the storm," I said.

She sat down opposite me and held out the less-damp cloak to me; I carefully accepted it and wrapped it around my shoulders. (A flash of an echo: a traveler, looking lost and alone. How beautiful she is. It takes a brief moment to realize that the traveler is me.) "Did someone ask you to check on me?" She shook her head. So she had come on her own. I patted the ground next to me and she obligingly scooted over to sit next to me.

We sat like that for a while, mostly in silence--hunters, if the stories are to be believed, never speak to anyone, and filling the silence felt daunting at first. But eventually, tentative at first, I told her stories--about my life at home, about my travels, about the echoes--she brightened at that. A lifetime of silence had evidently taught her to be expressive with her silence, which made me feel a lot more comfortable talking to her. But the silence felt comfortable, too, as we watched the storm, and each other.

It started to hail, and she ran to the entrance to collect some of the stones. She returned with one as big as my fist, and held it out to me. As I reached out to take it, she took my hand and gently tugged at the gloves I wore to keep the echoes at bay. Tentatively I removed the glove, and put my bare hand to the icy stone, and--(An echo: I am so glad to be sharing this with you. Such a beautiful storm. Such impressive hailstones. And maybe this hailstone will form an echo, and maybe you'll know how happy I'd be if you'd let me kiss you. Put it in your hands. Trust me.)--I gripped her hand firmly in mine and pulled her close, and let her kiss me. Then she smiled and sat down next to me again, and I rested my head on her shoulder as the pounding of the hail made an oddly soothing rhythm, punctuated by thunderclaps that by now felt almost comforting.