The body hit the blood snows with a thud. Another one of Atzel's men was gone, slain, sent to whatever gods would claim him... if any gods would claim such scum. Fearghus mac Finnegan, Skirmish Lead of the Elkhorn Clan, gritted his teeth as he twisted one of his blade's free from the bandit's corpse. He had to act quickly, and so he did, raising one blade up to parry another bandit's attack. Fearghus rolled out of the way, and spit blood onto the ground.

The cold ice wind chilled his bones, the fact he wore no armor but a fur tasset and a simple harness with a long great axe attached the likely caused. Armor, metal armor got in the way when it came to fighting multiple foes. No matter how much damage a breastplate could take, many swords, many hammers, and many axes would sooner have him dead.

Fearghus has no intention of dying to a group of thugs from the Border Kingdoms. No. He had every intention of slaying this band. The bandit came in again, likely a mixture of both Aesir and Aquilonian. The thrust of his blade held a poor gait, and Fearghus smugly batted the blade out of his hand - and thrust one of his own into the brigand's chest cavity, twisting, as the attacker gasped his last breath.

That left three more. Three more brigands of the band that came dangerously close to Cimmerian territory... territory that led to Adharca Cathair. Fearghus crossed both longswords, each forged in the fires of an Elkhorn hearth. He waited until the first bandit waded in, wielding a large sledgehammer. The Atzel bandit snarled, and charged, raising the hammer high.

Mistake number one.

Fearghus waited, poised, and as the bandit charged, he moved at the last second to the side, and allowing his bare feet to slide in the thick icecapped snow, turned, his weapons a whirlwind as blood spurted out of the back of the bandit's thighs, causing him to collapse face first. Fearghus growled, and stepped forward, going down to press a knee against the bandit's back - and sliding his blade into the back of the Atzel lackey's skull. There were screams... and then nothing.

And then the other came at him, both wielding arming swords, both easily parried by each of the Cimmerian's blades. Fearghus weaved back and forth, frantically trying to keep both men at bay. Glancing from both bandits - one male, one female - he knew he would have to make a sacrifice. Forcing all his attention on the female, he kicked a foot out, winding her soundly, as a blade came down, sending her head tumbling to the ground separate from her body. All the while a sharp burning pain seared through the arm of the Cimmerian, before he whipped around, both blades spilling the guts of the final bandit.

The Atzel men were dead. Fearghus sat in the bloody snows, exhausted. He leaned back, trying to block the pain out. The wound on his arm... he could handle that. The wound however he suffered from the start... he glanced down as he noted the bleeding had stopped. The wound under where his lungs were was ... or possibly could have been serious. The ache was dull, causing the warrior a pain he desired less then the pain of the actual stab.

A smile passed on his lips though, as he thought of what would come next. He would return home, to Adharca. He knew what would happen. He would be greeted by many of the village defenders. Offered welcomes from the villagers. And then he would find Isleene.

The Huntress.

No doubt there would be stares - ever since that day. Ever since the initial celebration of Beltain, people had looked at him different. Had their respect diminished? Fearghus didn't know. But ever since he chose a woman to be his mate... a blind woman, huntress or no.. he had received many of the same looks.

Blindness, was no different then being crippled to most Cimmerians. But Fearghus knew the truth of the blind woman he had chosen. She might not be able to see, but blind she was not.

Fearghus allowed the thoughts to echo in his mind, allowed them to help ease the dull ache as he pulled himself up, and move slowly north west, back towards the plains, and closer to Adharca Cathair.

Back home.

***

Isleene stood on the fresh bed of snow as it came in flakes out of the dreary sky. An earthly chill rolled over the ground bound in fog. The other hunters had gone home for the night while the blind woman opted to stay, needing to clear her mind over the past happenings in the clan – over the Beltain celebration. The cold air would do that, she thought.

Fog and shadow amassed in her vision as she emerged from under the shelter of a pine. Smoky streams of light faded in and out, cradling the illusion of something akin to a sunset – dreary and dark as it was. The huntress kept a steady walk down the icy boot-worn path, crushing the snow beneath her own. Isleene could hear the faintest beating of her own heart, a swelling icy thrill.

She strolled forward. The darkness grew in the bosom of a dying sun, but it bothered her none. That was the thing about being blind – one can hunt in the dark. Isleen smiled coldly, not smugly or proud. Cold. In the village, she was eyed strangely. She could not see it… she could feel it. But here in the wild, in the dark there were no eyes upon her save her prey – and her predators. Man was not present here, so Man could hold no sway over her. She was equal.

But why then had the warrior chosen her? Out of every strong, capable woman in the clan, women who could see him and adore him, why had Fearghus dared to fight for her that day? It was Beltain time, of course – the time of lovers. But Isleene was hardly a lover, even without her blindness. She shook it out of her mind. It would do her no good to dwell on Fearghus. It was distracting.

Her bow held firmly in her hands, an arrow poised between her fingers, the blind huntress tread carefully. Open air embraced her and she knew she was in a clearing. The cold was biting at her body, clad in a fur-lined harness and tasset. She paused over a faint rustling sound, slowly following a path within a scarce cover of bushes and trees. And from beyond this cover she could hear the moaning of elk. Her body bound in the slow shower of snow, Isleene progressed to the edge and listened for a few moments longer. She counted them in her mind: a small family, more than one female, and possibly a little one or two. Those she would spare. The fawns were needed for future generations of elk; killing the mothers would subsequently kill them. The stag however, having done his job he would be replaced. His death would mean full bellies and warm backs in the clan.

Isleene took one last breath and let fly an arrow. It landed short of the stag’s muscular brown leg and caused a stir in all of them. Their heads flicked upward and, as they heard the huntress move, they darted skittishly down the path out of the small clearing. And like some beast of blood, Isleene sucked in her breath and ran after them following the sounds of their hooves and desperate wailing.

They put her on a merry chase but alas, the further they went the more troublesome the trees became for them – separating them. Startled birds screamed and beat their wings rapidly as they pushed into the sky from the branches. Isleene breathed steadily, her heart racing for the thrill and lungs filling with the cold air. She was human in mind no longer. She was a she-wolf, chasing her prey. The stag reeled sharply to the right and thrashed violently through bushes, losing his footing on ice patches now and then. At last he staggered into a dead end, pushed against a heap of rock and boulders. His nostrils flared wildly and his own breaths came raggedly. The whites of his eyes glared at the huntress as she stood there, bow ready.

He shook his furry head and antlers ruthlessly. Isleene sensed his very change of attitude. The stag was no longer fearful as much as angry, trapped as he was. He let out one final snort of warning as if to try and communicate a truce, but the huntress stood her ground.

Somewhere in the distance, the does bleated for him. He returned with another desperate wail, and then charged. He was getting out – one way or another – antlers thrashing madly as his hooves dug into the earth, eyes burning with rage and fear. Isleene pressed her chin to her chest, raised her bow, and let loose another arrow. It hit home in the stag’s chest, penetrating flesh and bone. A burst of blood sounded and he went down, falling head first and driving the shaft deeper; a loud, audible crack was heard as the arrow snapped, and a mournful wail emitted from the beast’s throat until he laid flat… his breaths dragging out in slow bouts.

As if knowing, the does bleated in terror from afar and then quickly faded back into the darkness, taking their young with them. Isleene knelt beside the dying stag and gently stroked his soft, sweating face. “Shhh,” she cooed, almost sympathetically. The elk breathed his last and closed his eyes. She immediately got to work, fussing in her mind. She would have to drag him back alone, but while that was no trouble she hoped for more friends than foes on the way home to Adharca.

Yet she smiled to herself as she bound the elk’s legs in thick leather and rope, starting her way home, so much she hadn’t the chance to realize she had started thinking of him again – Fearghus, the warrior.

***

Fearghas Mac Finnegan, formerly of the Hoath Clan, now, Warrior and Skirmish Head of the Elkhorn, had never been much for superstition. He had never been much for the babblings of Seers, Oracles, and Soothsayers. Indeed, the reason why he had trusted Ahearn so willingly is because despite being a Shaman, the Chieftain was also down to earth. He didn't babble. While he used runes, and harnessed the spirits of the great bear, he believed in the warrior spirit, in making your own destiny. That is why Fearghus chose to be Elkhorn.

Yet Oracles... Seers... in the back of his head, Fearghus knew they played a minor role in his current situation. Isleene. The Huntress. His Huntress. He had showed her the very rune his father had carved, in the outskirts of Conarch Village... the rune that...

"Fearghus. What now?"

Snapped from his thoughts, Fearghus glanced down at the children gathered before him. One child in particular held a wooden sword, exactly as Fearghus used to, before he himself was trained. A weak wrist... a vulnerable stance. The Warrior grinned grimly as he drew his own wooden blade, and slowly maneuvered it to show the weakness in the child's movement.

"You stand like that boy," he said, "And you'll wind up dead. No... I will show you."

Putting the wooden sword of his own down, Fearghus stepped behind the child and leaned over, placed his hand over the boy's wrist, stretching out his arm. His hands helped the boy adjust his stance, so that the blade would both be a weapon of offense and its own shield. Much as Fearghus often did with both of his blades when defending against multiple attackers. The Skirmish Lead stepped back and watched, appraising the boy's gait.

"Now then," Fearghus said, "Swing your sword."

When the boy swang, it was a firm swing. Solid. Had the boy been fighting one of his own size, no doubt his foe would have been cut down. Fearghus grinned and clapped his calloused hands together in approval.

"That is something for you lads to remember. You are all going to be warriors, hunters... you must learn a proper stance when fighting, or you will wind up dead. If you wind up dead... well, you're no good to the clan, your parents, and those close to you will mourn. Don't die. Don't fall. Live. Fight. Do as I have taught you, and you will all be the stuff legends are made from. Now go, return to your homes."

The children dispersed. Fearghus smiled warmly, as he prepared to go find his huntress. But as he finished up the last of his duties, teaching the children the ways of war, he thought once more his ponderings of Seers, of Oracles, and of the Rune...

His father had pulled him aside once, while in Hoath. He recalled the words spoken to him that day.

"One day lad, you'll see Conarch Village, the largest Cimmerian Settlement ever seen. I've a message for you there. A rune, carved into stone. One day you will see it, and so will your intended."

Oddly enough it came true. It hadn't been long after Fearghus chose Isleene, the blind huntress. It hadn't been long after debating about the worth of seers and Oracles. He had shown her the rune.

A prophecy came true.

Fate was a word used by those who lost control of their lives. Fearghus had complete control. The warrior knew he had made the choice to show Isleene. It was his choice, not because his father had said so... but because the rune meant something. He had forsaken his clan, the Hoath Clan. In doing so, he had left his father behind forever. The rune... that was all that was left that Fearghus still had from his father. He wanted his intended - the huntress - to see it.

Fearghus sighed, both a sad sigh at the past, and a wistful, sigh, at the present. He would seek out his huntress soon enough.

***

A coiling mist rolled over the swamp – caressing the sludge-embossed earth. Flames from a pit flicked menacingly at the air, boasting its glow and warmth to travelers who longed for relief from the cold of the pass. The yurt was small, very small, barely accommodating the seeress and her young companion. Isleene was fourteen then, no longer a child and not quite a woman. Blind for nearly five years. And from a young age she was taken in by the seeress… Veledah.

“All things that come and pass,” Veledah laughed one day, staring intensely into the flames, “are meant to. You will find that out soon enough.” Isleene listened, spread out haphazardly in her corner of the yurt. The girl thought she knew then what the older woman was insinuating. Isleene would come of age in the next year. Her time with the seeress was ending. One day she would have to find her own path in the world, unsanctioned by even the harshest nurturing.

Isleene remembered those simple words as she sat within a sentry tower in Adharca, a grown woman of eighteen years. She’d grown used to the seeress and her visions that they became second nature, an ambience in her young life. She understood remedies and reading signs in the entrails of animals. But the latter, Veledah used rarely. The woman was not revered as an oracle for superstition. No, the woman was wise and earthly. Real, she spoke simply from her heart.

And now, remembering the mark, the rune in Conarch that Fearghus had seemed determined to show her carved by his own father, and the story the warrior confessed to the huntress of how he was meant to find it – Isleene’s doubts were vague. Did it all mean something more? Had Veledah insinuated more? The rune, its shape burned in the huntress’ mind. So simple and so powerful a word… was it all tied together, meant to come?

Isleene gave out a long sigh of frustration. The tower creaked and the snow-touched wind blew gently on the huntress’ pale flesh. The wall was well-manned so there was no dire need of her here, but she longed for the solitude and peace that watching – in at least, her own way – the village offered. And as long as she was doing her job no one paid her any mind. Fearghus would come looking for her eventually, she knew that much. She found herself thinking of him more and more. Not just the confusion over why he’d wanted her for a mate, but true and honest thoughts of him… where he was, what he was doing, and if he was thinking of her as well.

***

Fearghus laid in his cot on the top floor of the barracks, trying to sleep.

Trying, yet failing.

Everything that had happened thus far... he could not stop thinking of it.

He could not stop thinking about her.

Even though he felt the weight of sleep, tugging at him, even if he felt heavy, and ready to pass out, something prevented him from it. Something prevented him from getting a night's rest. Perhaps it was his heart... beating so fast. Things had changed. Drastically. No more was he the Skirmish Lead that would have women looking him over. No more would he accept offers upon returning home from training, or a battle, a good lay in the grass. No. Those wanton pleasures Cimmerians were known to indulge in when they weren't bound, or involved... those were over. From the second he chose the huntress, they had ended. And while women still offered themselves, he would deny them.

Over and over again.

And so here he was. The sounds of other warriors, indulging the very acts with several of the unmarried women, came from below. Fearghus would have no part in it - no - he wanted to get some rest, and so he closed his eyes... another attempt.

His lips found hers, hands encircling her waist...

His eyes opened again. He grunted annoyed. Annoyed? No, not annoyed. Frustrated with his lack of sleep perhaps, yet at the same time, frustrated because while he wanted to sleep, he also wanted to relive that which was stuck in his head.

The snows of the Approach. Arrows singing from behind, planting themselves into the foes. He ran up, swords gleaming in the shine. Blades plunging into the bandit. Arrows finishing the job. A glance behind him. The huntress. Beautiful... flawless...

He ran up the hill, as one of Atzel's men came crashing down with a claymore. Fearghus used both blades to parry the attacks, trying to fend off the attacker, while another approached from the flank. Two arrows almost instantly piercing that bandit's heart. It distracted the larger one, allowing Fearghus to bring up his knee, winding him. The butts of both blades cracked into the brigand's head, the claymore fell, and both blades went into each end of the foul man's neck, before his head was split from his body.

"Crom... curse you for playing tricks."

Fearghus sighed again, the memory of the adventure in Atzel's Approach still fresh. But he didn't want that memory to play out. He wanted what came after. She had kissed him. He had returned it. Their desires had both played out, though it went no further that that deep longing kiss, a brief show of affection...

There was a knock to the door of his quarters as Fearghus sat up in his cot.

"Yeah, what is it?"

"Fearghus, the Chieftain brings word. A group of Wolf Picts made their way near the settlement. It is possible they may try exterminating the local wolf population. He wants you to take a small war band, and slay the Picts."

"Aye... it will be done."

Fearghus rose, and got dressed. It was time to go do his job.

And then return home to his huntress.

***

Isleen alme Maerron loomed above the corpses she conquered. In her dirtied, blood-blackened hands were blades in place of her bow, the consequence of standing too long in one place on the Lacheish. Somewhere in the background was a murderous howling edging closer to where the blind huntress stood her ground – kin to the fallen Picts. Her breaths were warm evanescent clouds as they came in calm, weary drags. She wanted stag, not these fools. Boar – though she supposed they were close enough to pigs. And if they wanted to continue interrupting her hunt, she would let them. Better them than nothing. She waited in what was presumably her coming doom from the northwest hills, those screams loud and terrifying and inhuman. She waited, for she wanted them to see her. She wanted them to come for her, all the while reminding herself why.

How many Adharcans had they butchered, how many Elkhorn slain? How many women and children were stolen over the years, not only from her clan but Brandoc and others?

The first of the second wave reared his crude spear and rushed the huntress, who in a thus far unbroken silence leaned beneath the vicious jabs and plunged her sword in the Pict’s belly. As he slumped she swung around and buried the dagger in his back, digging upward as though she were cutting a spine from a dead fish. She felt his hot life-blood melting on her hands. He screamed and fell breathless to the ground. His two comrades, however, were led on a fast chase down the hills as the huntress sprinted, furs aflutter in the blisteringly cold breeze that swept over her hasted body. The Picts fell in close behind her, shouting chants of doom in their gutter tongue. But it wasn’t fear present in Isleen – it was the thrill, though not nearly as satisfying as the day she hunted in the mountains beside Fearghus. Thrill such as when after…

Atzel’s foul lackeys were more sport than these flesh eaters, and she and the warrior slew them, one by one. The snow was falling in thick drafts from the sky that day… but Cimmerians always fought in the snow one way or another. It was those thugs from the Border Kingdoms – many of them southerners, used to their warm and sunny meadows – that weren’t so lucky. Isleen relived those moments there, as she ran from the Picts. Fearghus’ blades singed and echoed in her ears. No, she could never see him. But in her mind she memorized his shadow, his form beyond the veil of mist that clouded her vision, his ferocity and strength. He was magnificent. He was perfect. And it brought warmth to her cheeks to think of him so.


She dashed over an ice-coated stream and got what she hoped for. She heard the pained crack-and-thump as one of the Picts slipped and fell unawares, although his comrade was not as easily tricked. Isleen grinned coldly. She was leading him into the more forested region of the Lacheish. It was poor strategy on his part to follow her – or any hunter – alone into the trees. He would meet his death there, overwhelmed by his bloodlust and desire to avenge his fallen tribesmen.

The memories flooded back as she dashed over rocks and between trees. How her arrows flew that day, finishing whatever Fearghus started. His blades succeeded where her arrows failed… and vice versa. When there were too many for him, or they came up from behind without his knowing, she was there – plunging arrows into throat, brain, heart, and thigh. And if they were unlucky enough not to die right away, there was the warrior to end their misery in a final blow.

Isleen sighed, empowered by the memory as she spun blades in hand to duel the Pict. Unlike the spearman he used a sword, presumably stolen from a fallen enemy. Picts weren’t known to forge blades as far as the huntress knew. They parried and struck, the edge of their blades crashing hotly against the other. The Pict held a weaker stance, as the huntress suspected, and in two smooth strokes – one across the Pict’s throat and the other, his gut – the cannibal crumbled to the ground. Hemorrhaging from his neck, it was a matter of moments before he stopped gurgling, stopped convulsing and died. Isleen turned her sightlessness upon a tree and smiled, remembering…

She remembered his lips on hers, warm and soft, his strong hands crawling up her body and over her delicate skin when the hunt was done – that one deep and tender act of affection. She shied from the thought at first. She did not want him to touch her, but now she had no fear of it. Now she longed for his embrace, his gentle caresses. She longed for the taste of his lips again and no other. She wanted him.

The final Pict rushed up to the scene gushing blood from a hole in his head where he’d fallen on the ice. He held his club at the ready but all there was to be found was the oozing corpse of his tribesman. Little did the one still breathing know…

The corpse was merely bait.

From the tree she climbed, for Cimmerians were excellent climbers, Isleen smiled vindictively. She knew he could not see her. The darkness of the forest and the woad smeared expertly over her torso and arms hid her well, and in silence she raised the bow from her perch and let fly an arrow.

It burrowed hard into the Pict’s back, through his heart until the shaft emerged from his chest. He stumbled and gasped for life, to no avail, and fell dead to the ground beside his kinsman. He was at least granted that.

Isleen climbed down from her perch, stashing her weapons as they were meant to sit on her person and started her way back to the village… back to Fearghus. Back to her warrior.

***
The cool night breeze touched the warrior's skin, as he lay naked in the grass. Though Cimmeria was a land of ice and snow, of a drab countryside where only blood and death lurked; he was warm. Warmer then he had ever been. He smiled as his hand stroked the back of the seemingly sleeping huntress, just as barren, laying atop him. Above them, the rune that had been carved... the rune that his father had made for him to find.

The moment felt so perfect for Fearghus Mac Finnegan. He would not open his eyes, nor stir. He would not wake his huntress, Isleene. No, he would simply enjoy the warmth, and sleep the night away...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It had been a call to hunt. Atzel's was fresh in both their minds. Another hunt, a more dangerous hunt had been suggested. The Pictish Wilderness was rife with all sorts of danger. Fearghus wanted to slaughter some of the savages, but more so, he wanted his huntress at his side. She had accepted, and their journey had been time consuming. The trip from Conarch, that was the quietest journey. Their destination was Old Tarantia - entering the western wilderness from Cimmeria was a death sentence.

The caravan had been light, only two merchants shared it with the Cimmerians. Fearghus had kept his mind focused on the hunt, on the teamwork between him and the huntress. The caravan was swift, taking only a few days to reach Tarantia. From there, they stopped.

Fearghus and Isleene had found a quiet, out of the way garden in the city. There, they reflected on the hunt, and shared more affection, holding each other, planting soft kisses, and relaxing as night came and passed, preparing for their next journey.

Another day's ride - this time on horseback - and they had arrived in Thunder River.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The river was loud, roaring with a viciousness only it had. Thunder River. A prison colony. Fearghus knew what he expected, and though the Aquilonian Guards gave the Cimmerians dirty looks, there wasn't a care in the world. They passed through the safe camps, eager to get to the hunt - and away from civilized eyes who no doubt thought of ways to dispose of them.

"There..." Fearghus breathed.

Several brigands gathered together. The warrior rushed in, trusting Isleene to use her bow to perfection. His swords gleamed, and as the first brigand turned, he gurgled blood, as the Cimmerian warrior's blade cut open his stomach, spilling intestines. The arrows began to fly, catching one brigand in the eye, killing him instantly. Another was barely grazed, as he lunged for the blind huntress. Fearghus saw the move from the corner of his eye, and ran, tackling him to the ground. The brigand struggled, though for little time as a blade impaled the back of his neck.

Fearghus rose, parrying another brigand, who bled from several arrows in the arm. This one was wounded, already injured and handicapped. Mere seconds, and his head was sliced clean off, the result of one foolish mistake.

"These are not picts," Fearghus growled, "But they will do."

He flashed a feral grin at the huntress - she might not see visually, but no doubt she felt, heard, smelled, and in some ways, saw things others did not. That much he knew... but those thoughts had to be pushed away as they sprinted across the unstable wobbling bridge. No doubt a bridge that had been sabotaged once or twice before.

"Barbarians!" exclaimed one warrior from a watchtower.

Fearghus glanced up, and then spun around. He noted Isleene - and the five brigands running up, no doubt to stab her from behind. Fearghus charged, running past Isleene. He planted each sword in the chest of two brigands, and let go of them, rolling across the bridge, sliding towards the end. The brigands turned to attack the warrior, who scrambled, trying to get to his feet. One brigand fell, an arrow in the back of his neck.

The other two drew steel, but by the time they reached the warrior, he was on his two feet, and held a two handed axe in his hands. They both lunged, but Fearghus thrust the butt of the axe, smashing it to one's face, the flat of the axe head against the other's face, and then he pushed violently. The bridge rocked unsteadily as both brigands tumbled over into the violent waves below.

Fearghus made his way to the huntress, whom aimed up... and fired at the brigand in the watchtower, his eye pierced, his life ended as he fell to the ground.

The Cimmerian glanced about, worried... not so much for his or even the huntress's life, but worried more so that the odds were starting to get... absurd. More numbers, meant a more frantic battle... a possibility that retreat must be taken. Fearghus didn't run. But he would fall back. A large difference.

The warrior and the huntress made their way through winding paths - it was too quiet. The Elkhorn Skirmish Lead had a bad feeling - and it was confirmed when he heard footsteps, many marching footsteps coming their way. He grabbed Isleene's wrist, and together, they slid, rolled, and made their way down a steep hill. He quickly regrouped, held onto her, and into the river they went, the lapping waves hiding them from the brigand army.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Soaked, and wet. Fearghus unbuckled his chest guard, removed his helm, and lay in the grass as he glanced at Isleene.

"We should rest here for the night... make our way out at day break. Seems this place has alot more problems then I thought it would."

His eyes watched her as a slow smile formed on his lips. He had grown fond of her. So very fond. Isleene he had chosen, challenged for. Though the warrior felt bad for Tegon who no doubt felt something, the Skirmish Lead did not regret punching as hard as he did to win that challenge. Something about the huntress piqued his interest - and while admittedly it was a curiosity and a feeling he went on - it clearly turned into something so much more.

He rose from his place in the grass, looking at her. His smile was soft, caring. They may as well enjoy the time they had together. He pulled into a deep kiss, savoring the closeness. His hands merely held her, as he savored her. But then things changed.

His hands had worked her harness off, and his chest plate was already gone. Hands were exploring, he felt the softness of her body, of her hips, her breasts. He enjoyed every touch, even as his kilt and her tasset were removed. Teasing, petting, the pleasure felt good... new... he had never lain with a woman he actually cared for before. His fingers explored her most secret of places just as hers did his.

It took everything in him to stop him from allowing it to overwhelm him. It was slow... deliberate. The teasing, and then he was above her in the grass, his motions gentle, every swap of his hips, ever kiss, every touch of his hands. The pleasure coursed, and as the lovemaking gradually picked up, so did the pleasure.

His hands clutched hers as that pleasure reached its climax, his shudders, his groans, they reached that peak.

And soon he held her in his arms.

The next day, they would return...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

...the memories. Daybreak. Fearghus opened his eyes. The memories of Thunder River were so vivid. So real. So enjoyable. The first time he had consummated that relationship with Isleene. That long and bloody hunt, that ended with them in the refuge of shadow.

He smiled as he stroked her back, and lightly kissed her head.

"Good morning my huntress."

***

Isleen lay in his arms, contemplating time come and gone. The nights were shedding countless as they went on and the blind huntress of Adharca Cathair had forgotten a time where she was more at peace than now. She could not remember ever fitting so well in another’s arms – her warrior, Fearghus – savoring the feel of his bare flesh on hers, his gentle caressing by one of his strong hands.

Sleep had yet to claim her, but she still dreamed – the only realm where she could see, where she could remember sight when she had it, and most of all, where she could remember.

*****


Atzel’s was behind them though not forgotten; a hunt, a feast of battle against the southerners, that first kiss hot on their lips – a memory she’d not soon forget. Now he wanted her to come with him again, this time to the Pictish Wilderness. And admittedly, she wanted to go.

The feelings she felt that day in the mountains were overwhelming. She glimpsed them with someone else in the past… but Fearghus was not like anyone else. He had become so much more. So what was to be expected on this new hunt—a hunt he guaranteed to be more dangerous than the last?

It was a long journey to Tarantia, but while the huntress detested the southlands she knew why she and the warrior went that way. Better to pass through Aquilonia, for no matter a Cimmerian’s pride it was not worth the danger of traversing the border of the grey land. If not Picts or outlaws it would be the clans that grew increasingly more ruthless the closer to the Border Kingdoms they were; shunned, even, by their own countrymen. Isleen knew them well… she was born of them.

Tarantia was far from seclusion. Isleen found cities to be distasteful, even disliking the crowds that accumulated in Conarch from time to time, though Isleen appreciated the vastness in which she had to wander her own thoughts until finding an out-of-way garden with Fearghus. There, she could be close to him… out of the leering eyes of civilized dogs and god-slaves.

The horses were saddled and ready. The wilderness, the hunt, waited on the morrow and with it would come the flowing of blood.

Thunder River was apt. Although the constant boom of noise drove Isleen mad she knew she’d get used to it in time. It was enthralling. She felt the eyes upon her closer to the camps they traveled – southern eyes – and while her hackles were raised in caution there was little concern for the judgment of scum. It was a prison colony. They were here for a reason, she thought, even the guards.

Hearing Fearghus’ warning as they waltzed in on the first wave, she knocked an arrow, watching the shadows clustering together like frightened elk, and aimed for the lout’s head first to attack the warrior from behind. There was a satisfying pop of blood as it burrowed into the man’s brain via eye socket and an encouragingly grim countenance overtook the huntress. She fired off her arrows expertly; always one step ahead of the brigands Fearghus needn’t be bothered by.

An unpleasant chill shot up through Isleen’s spine. She heard an enraged snarl only humans can make, and knew she had missed one as he meant to barrel into her from the side. He caught the edge of her arm with his sword as she leapt out of the way, flinging hot drops of blood into the atmosphere before Fearghus lunged at them. Isleen took a hop away from the wrestlers and readied an arrow, though the gushing *squish* that proceeded enlightened her to the warrior’s victory over the brigand who meant to gut her.

His words said he was grinning… and she couldn’t help but grin back. The hunt was on.

Over a bridge they flew – or at least the remnants of one, shuddering and shaking in protest beneath every step. Isleen felt the contents of her stomach flop and dizzy, but the scent of smoke and establishment reminded her not to let her guard down. They were approaching another camp.

Her hackles rose again at the alarming shout of “Barbarians!” from the watchtower. The clattering noise of unfriendly boots was coming fast from behind – too close for her arrows and offering little time to get her blades. Isleen instinctively ducked and rolled past Fearghus, feeling the rush of breeze as he blew into her ambushers. Isleen waited and as he took a dive for the worst, a steady hand was stressed on the blind huntress. She let fly an arrow that caught one in the throat. His yell bled into hopeless gurgles as he stumbled backwards, plunging into the violent river below.

Now it was time to repay the loud-mouthed southerner in the watchtower. Isleen raised her bow and silenced him from alarming his other friends – the wet rasp of pierced flesh and a fateful gasp before he plummeted to the earth with a crack was evidence the huntress conquered her target. A cruel smirk curved on her lips.

It was time to move. The huntress sensed Fearghus’ worry, the unease hanging in the air. She understood more would come to replace the fallen, and if the Cimmerians were outnumbered, the hunt would come to an abruptly unpleasant end.

The paths they took were difficult for the huntress, being in a place she’d never been before with so many cliff-sides and fatal entries into the river. She sensed where most trees and stones were, the shadows told her that much, but this was not Cimmeria – where she knew the paths well. It set her on caution to hear… nothing. Absolutely nothing. Something wasn’t right.

…and yet something unfriendly was very near to them. Their boot-falls echoed in the huntress’ ears. “There!” she gasped, ready to fight them, but she felt her hand torn away from her bow as she was dragged through the wilderness by the warrior. A deep incline in the ground warned her of the hill, but with little protest she followed him down, down, into the water, feeling the strong embrace of water pushing over her…

*****


Isleen crawled hands and knees out of the river, and to her feet, smearing her dark hair out of her face. She breathed in the hot, humid air of the south, cherishing a much missed breath of oxygen, and inhaled the scent of wet stone and grass. There was the sound of leaves shuddering in a tree somewhere, and the warrior abandoning his armor. She turned her head as Fearghus spoke, and nodded once. “Aye,” she said simply.

As she ringed the water out of her hair she felt his eyes upon her. The blood rushed to her pale cheeks. Was he thinking of her, she thought, or had he not something better to look at? Her thought was answered.

She turned as she heard him stand, coming closer to her. That all too familiar thrill welled within as his lips crushed hers. She melted. A warm tingling skittered throughout her body as she savored the taste of his mouth, hardly realizing her hands had begun moving elsewhere.

Her fingers danced eagerly along his naked chest, up his back, over his shoulders, enjoying the virile feel of his body as she pressed closer. Every sensation brought her a pleasing tingle she’d never felt… she never cared for anyone this way, never desired someone as much as now. It felt good, it was different. New. She had worked off his tasset, daring to tease him there… daring him, until backwards she fell in his arms.

Back pressed to the grass, her bare breasts rose and fell with every motion, her hips riding into his. She enjoyed every touch, the playful caresses and tender kisses. Her fingers adoringly traced his muscular body, her long legs coiling about him. She moaned softly as he took her, face aglow.

Waves of pleasure surrounded her as the moments bled away, shooting through her body until at last she arched – sending a last gasp echoing across the stone around them as pleasure came to its rewarding end.

And then in his arms she melted, lying against his softly breathing form.

Tomorrow, Adharca waited for them. But here and now, she was home.

*****


And here and now, in the shelter of rock and grass where the rune smiled in the morning sun, Isleen lay care-untroubled in Fearghus’ arms, dwelling in the good memories of that day. She grinned faintly as she heard his caring voice, and embraced him tightly.

***

From the first time on the banks of the crashing river, it was an unbridled passion. After a successful hunt, a skirmish, a battle, he would return to the village and find her. He would sweep her off of her feet and take her, lay with her, and love her. There was nothing in Cimmeria so deadly, so violent, that could tear away his affection and feeling for the huntress, nothing in Hyboria or the rest of the world that could do likewise. Every instinctual move on the hunt made his admiration grow. Every move of her hips when they joined in the furs made his attraction increase. Every showing of affection, every moment together, they drove the warrior mad with contentment. Never had he felt this way, in his two decades of living. As a boy he learned how to fight - as a man he fought, he instructed. He knew he would one day have children, have a mate. He never knew he'd feel love.

Love for the clan, certainly. But never love for a woman. Duty had taken precedence over his happiness, over his contentment for so long. Whether Hoath or Elkhorn, he was fine with being the warrior who retired after every day's work. But now... the huntress was in his life. He had more to live for. More to work for. More to provide for. In the day, he would work on forging a blade, instructing younger warriors, or fighting battles that needed to be fought. In the night, he would be with his huntress, as one being together. No matter where, they would be together.

From the second bout of passion, pinning against the wall, taking her with a fervent desire, to that night by the rune stone that marked his own father's journey, with her atop, a slow and tender movement that drove him mad with love. From their first time in their new quarters in Frostfall Keep, to the long and pleasurable night atop the Keep's roof. His groans, his cries of pleasure, his cries of love for his mate could not be stopped, could not be tempered. Every time together, he would be coated in sweat, out of breath, exhausted. Content. Every time, he worked to drive her to her highest pleasure. Every time, they would fall asleep in each others' arms, content for the next day to come.

Then that day came. After a night of passion, a night of gentle caresses, sweating and ever moving bodies, loud groans, and musky smell of two people together, they lay in each others arms, naked, barren, not a single fur draped over their forms. The dawn was beginning to break as the sun peaked in through the cracks of the door into their quarters.

Then the light burst in, and the warrior raised an arm to his eyes as he saw the form of a warrior in the doorway.

"You best have a good reason for waking us," Fearghus growled as he squinted at the form.

"Fearghus. Elder Windseeker. We have a problem. There's a warband of Picts, and they are headed this way."

Fearghus scowled. He nodded once, and the warrior departed. The Warrior glanced at the waking huntress. He leaned in and kissed her softly, before offering a smile.

"Today," he said. "Today was hunt love. We slay a band of Picts, we defend our home."

Then, Fearghus reached for his swords.

***

The very second Fearghus’ fist met the other warrior’s face and Isleen heard the crunching blow, she knew. She knew things wouldn't be the same.

Not all Cimmerians favored the blind often and men, while far from the center of her attention, never leapt on the opportunity of having a crippled woman to care for or bear their children. That was something she made peace with long ago. But those men were not Fearghus. He obviously saw something in Isleen few others chanced to see, to feel. He won her for it.

And life was not the same. She belonged to him, with him, as he did with her. It was the tidal wave of passion and a blossoming, overwhelming love for Fearghus mac Finnegan. Isleen never loved a single soul as much as she relished every moment with him, her companion, her friend, her mate. He was everywhere to her. When he was not with her he was in her thoughts. He made her warm when she was cold. He was true and good, and she eagerly waited the day’s end for him to come, to find her, to roll and writhe with her in a close, carnal embrace.

The younger women in the village playfully teased her as she worked, making remedies or skinning the next meal, asking about her lover. She blushed. It made her warm, it made her anxious. None of this was ever a prediction. When the fire took her vision, when her father silently left her behind to die, Isleen grimly accepted her fate. When Veledah became her only companion, she accepted that life of solitude. She loved little. She was affectionate to no one. She worked and toiled, she hunted and slept. That was her life. She had no qualms with it. Now a love burned so deeply beneath her breast she thought her heart would set aflame or beat right out of her chest. Now every time she heard Fearghus’ voice or felt his hands upon her she wanted to drown him in kisses, to caress him, to pleasure him.

She craved that fierce lovemaking; that very first breath of pleasure by the roaring river, the feral passion atop Frostfall Keep, the forge and the watchtower, to whatever passion awaited her at home in their quarters. She was in love with him – all of him – fair and simple.

Only he and the clan mattered in her life now. And one day… one day she would even be a mother. Another day was started and ended together; in clashing bodies, in breathless sighs and moans, in playful scratching and biting as they enjoyed each other feverishly. And then she melted, falling asleep in his arms; the pleasant air sneaking in from the outside, brushing over their forms and cooling the sweat on their naked flesh.

Isleen winced as the darkness was replaced by a sudden torch of sunlight. She blinked slowly, her ears sensitively listening to someone’s approach. Though she was barely awake, and still engulfed in her lovely dreams, she acknowledged a single word – Picts. Her eyes closed, she listened to the rest of the exchange, and then fluttered open as she felt Fearghus move beneath the arm limply draped under his shoulder.

She grinned wearily, offering a soft press of her lips. She inhaled the scents – his scent, the dominant musk of lovemaking, the furs, the warmth, and blew out a gentle sigh. Let the others fight them, she wanted to say. I want to stay here with you. No. The clan came first. And right now the clan needed them.

Rolling upward from their cot, the huntress silently reached for her boots, her tartans, and other effects. “They won’t get past our wolves,” she chuckled darkly, slinging her bow over her back. “They’ve disrupted my morning.”

Another day for them. Another day for the Elkhorn. Isleen smiled— her heart was fluttering. It would just be another good hunt, and then they could return.