Winter

All he could feel was pain. All kinds of pain. Searing pain that set every nerve on fire. Throbbing pain from shattered bone. Sharp pain from expertly split skin and muscle. His mouth and eyes were filled with blood and grit, his lungs filling slowly with thick red life in an effort to catch up and his breath came in wet gurgles. With a sudden white hot flash the pain blissfully disappeared in the wake of a neck breaking blow to the head.

* * *
Winter sat in the corner of the large tavern, his golden eyes moving from one person to the next, ever aware of who was doing what, where they were doing it and how it might affect him. He didn’t know why he was so hyper-aware of his surroundings, nor was Bothun ever able to explain it during the many months he’d spent recovering from being beaten nearly to death.

Bothun had found him on the brink of death, mostly buried in the snow, the red of his blood having caught the old mage’s eye as it was absorbed into the crystalline drifts piling up around his frostbitten limbs. For months he’d lain unconscious, his body mending with the aid of powerful magic, and even after waking up it was another six months before he was well enough to leave Bothun’s care.

The old man had dubbed him Winter, as much for the season in which he was found as for the chill that settled over those who looked at him. Winter had woken with no memory of who he was, where he was from or what had happened to him, and after almost a year of healing and rehabilitation it was with a grateful handshake he set out to uncover his past.

The orange light from the fire crackling in the large fireplace cast eerie shadows across his face, the darkness disappearing into the black of his hair which hung almost to his waist, the heavy mass confined into a thick braid and bound at the end with a leather band from which hung a silver coin. He’d found the coin in the bag of possessions that Bothun had returned to him once he’d regained some of his strength, along with a rare Prince Jamison revolver and hand tooled leather holster.

The grip was made of ribbon mahogany, the deep red hue striped with black and worn smooth from what he could only assume was his own use of the weapon. The burnished steel of the barrel, frame, cylinder and trigger guard were elaborately decorated with relief flourishes, the dark recesses making the ornate design stand out. Bothun had tried to grip the weapon but painfully learned that it was protected by a dark magic the likes of which he’d never encountered, which explained why Winter’s attackers hadn’t stolen it.

Winter continued to watch as the other patrons cast sideways glances at him, the men wary with hands idly resting on the hilts of their swords and the women excited, tittering and smiling shyly at him. His perfectly sculpted face was that of a God, broad shouldered and tall he simply commanded attention, though it was more the almost electric aura around him that made him impossible to ignore.

Pushing his empty plate away he stood up, towering over the smaller desert people who were native to the area, and their dark eyes turned to watch him as he made his way toward the door. The weight of so many stares was almost measureable and he felt it pressing against his back like a hand, urging him to leave so the air could again be easily breathed. A scent wafted past his nose, sparking an elusive memory in the back of his mind and he spun on his heel, his fierce eyes trying to locate the source.

A lithe figure was pushed forward, her delicate frame stumbling toward him and Winter’s body reacted before his mind fully processed the situation, drawing his revolver and firing a single bullet. Amid the screams and subsequent chaos the woman staggered and he caught her as she fell; he didn’t see who had pushed her and he scowled into the crowd but there were too many fleeing bodies to determine who the culprit had been.

Winter lifted the woman into his arms and carried her to a long table, clearing it of dishes with a single swipe of his arm before laying her down. She stared up at him with wide blue eyes. Blue? The desert people didn’t have blue eyes. He pulled the turban from her head, sending a thick wave of red hair spilling across the arm that cradled her shoulders and he was again assaulted by the familiar scent that had stopped him only moments before.

The tavern was almost empty now, only a handful of slaves huddling in the corners undoubtedly hoping he wouldn’t see them, and the quiet hung like heavy clouds; silent but oppressive. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth and from her left ear and Winter watched in frustrated confusion as she slowly reached into the folds of her robes and extracted a small pouch. She pushed it into his hand before using the last of her strength to reach up and press her palm to his cheek, giving a weak smile before the light left her eyes.

Winter stared at her face, now empty of life, and carefully extracted his arm from under her. Loosening the drawstring on the pouch he upended it and dumped its contents into his palm, staring wide eyed at the silver coin that was identical to the one ornamenting his hair.