Chapter Text
Hanzo’s feet made no noise as he wound his way across the hillside, following a faint trail back down the mountain. Fallen fir needles cushioned his path, and the trees that had laid down this carpet were even now creaking and sighing overhead.
It was one of his favorite sounds, like the roar of the ocean, or the stroke of a brush across paper. He let it wrap around him, thick as a blanket, pausing for a moment when the top of his little cabin came into view through a gap in the branches. Hanzo was still extremely pleased with how well he had been able to disguise his home, surrounding it with undergrowth and moss, softening the corners and hard surface of the roof with well-placed vine maples. The only thing that would ever catch a casual eye was the smoke from the squat chimney. And he knew he put more effort into than was necessary into using clean-burning fuel, since the only person who ever strayed this far into the forest was Reinhardt, the traveling merchant.
Seven years, and at last he was beginning to feel comfortable in his life, and finally safe from the damage that living among people had done to him. He adjusted the straps of the berry basket on his shoulders and continued down the trail.
Hanzo was within sight of the fallen log that marked the entrance to his sheltered enclave when something made the hairs rise on the back of his neck. He ducked instinctively into the sword ferns and tried to ignore the thumping of his heartbeat as he identified the threat.
There! Through the noise of the trees and the burbling of the river further below, Hanzo could hear the sound of whistling. This was no birdsong; it was distinctly musical. And it wasn’t Reinhardt, who had already made his last visit for the year and couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. This was an intruder. Hanzo’s wariness flashed into anger. How dare this stranger infringe upon his hard-won peace.
The whistling continued for a few minutes, but seemed to grow no closer. When it stopped, Hanzo strained to hear footsteps, but the ambient noise provided too much cover. And then it started again, on the other side of his hiding place, and faded away towards the river.
Hanzo slipped through the branches that shielded his home, which was really no more than a one-room hut with a lean-to, tucked between a rock outcrop and a small yard. It was enough; it was all he needed. He had worked hard to make it snug and secure, and he would be damned if he let it go without a fight. Hanzo tried to let the rage flow through him, knowing it would never subside otherwise. He would need a clear head to deal with the situation.
But he couldn’t slam things around like he wanted to, to release his anger—he had to keep silent until he was sure he was safe. So instead, after carefully setting down the basket of berries, he dipped his hands into the rainwater barrel outside his door and splashed cool water on his face. Hanzo sighed as he looked around the tiny yard. He’d have to go out later, after dusk, to find the invader.
*
Cole woke to raindrops hitting his face. They were thankfully few, but he still was less than pleased to be disturbed so early. He rustled his tiny campfire back to life and considered his situation.
The original plan had been to make the week’s journey over the mountains and then lie low outside the next village for a bit, until he felt certain of his safety. He had followed the road for three long days, and the sun had begun to drop too quickly behind the trees on the mountainside when he had glimpsed the path that would lead him to this place, barely even a deer track, really, and followed it away from the road towards the promising sounds of running water.
Then he had found this bit of forest, and it was quite nice, with a well-flowing stream and plenty of ripe berries. He figured could do worse than to hunker down here for a few extra days and then continue west later. Gods knew he needed a rest.
Cole looked up at the leaden sky. He would have to do something about shelter, though. He shook out his blanket, then rolled it up and tucked it into his bag next to his other few possessions.
The spot he’d chosen for his camp still seemed like a favorable option, just at the edge of the taller trees, which provided some cover, but open enough that his campfire wouldn’t become a conflagration. It was just twenty or thirty feet from the river, yet up above the obvious flood line. It was even level, if a bit rocky. There had been plenty of bracken along the track Cole had followed from the road; it would be little trouble to collect enough to cushion his body.
He filled his tin cup with river water and set it by the fire to boil, and while he waited, Cole got out his knife and began to cut flexible shoots from the alders that lined the edges of the riverbed to build a temporary shelter. He had cut about half a dozen surprisingly straight rods when he realized that the tree bore the scars of someone else doing the same. Cole looked more closely at the other trees that surrounded his camp. They had all been similarly coppiced.
He sat down, hard, next to the fire, and swore under his breath. No wonder this part of the forest seemed less wild. It was managed. But surely there were no manor houses or hunting lodges out this far? He’d stared at that map in the pub long enough. Maybe it had been older than he thought. Maybe he’d missed a detail, or he was further along on his journey than he’d calculated.
Another raindrop hit his nose, and his cup of water began to boil. He pulled the sleeve of his coat down over his fingers and used it to nudge the hot cup away from the flames. As the steam rose from the hot water, Cole contemplated his options further. In the end, he settled on staying put for at least a few days, until his feet and legs were less sore. He would have to be careful, though, in case the area was inhabited and not merely used for resources.
But for now, shelter. He sighed, and got back to his feet, beginning to weave his cuttings together to form the skeleton of a long, low lean-to; something long enough that he could stretch out to sleep, and just high enough that he could sit in it upright. He would add some fir branches to provide protection from the elements, and a thick layer of bracken ferns would cushion his body from the hard, cold earth below. It wouldn’t be as nice as a warm corner of a manor house kitchen, but it would do for now. Far better to have this rustic freedom than to be tossed into some foul jail cell and left to rot.
He just wished he could be sure that he was alone.
*
Hanzo woke early and banked the fire right away. The stranger had set up his camp down by the river, and generally upwind of his smoke, but there was no point in leaving such an obvious marker of his location. He’d even left a kettle of mixed grains simmering overnight for his breakfast, to eliminate his need for morning cooking. As he ate, he contemplated how he should spend his day.
There were still the berries to sort and preserve. Some he would dry, laid out in the early autumn sun, and some he would turn into vinegar. Others he would mix with wine and honey and herbs, making a nutrient-rich syrup that gave him energy in the darkest parts of the winter. The work was enough to keep him busy for a day or two, and still allow him the time to keep an eye on the intruder.
Soon it would be time to forage for mushrooms, once the fall rains had provided enough moisture. By then, hopefully, Hanzo would be alone again and free to roam. Surely the stranger had the sense to know that a mountain winter came early and fierce, and would see himself back down to the easier valley-ways. He rinsed his bowl and spoon and tossed the dirty water out into the yard, pausing at the door to note how the clouds brushed the treetops and turned the world to mist.
*
The sun had burned away the fog and rain long before Cole had finished layering fresh evergreen boughs on the frame of his little three-sided shelter. It was therefore a relief to escape into the cool, green-lit shade of the forest to gather bracken fern for his bed, gathering handfuls of tiny purple berries from the bushes along the way. They exploded with juice in his mouth, more tart than sweet, but with a fragrance that reminded him of the fruit pies his grandmother used to make.
He kept his wits about him, though, as he worked, searching for signs of human habitation. More than once, something had made him turn his head, but Cole had only seen another trackless expanse of forest, another long slope of mountainside. He found another patch of trees that had been cut back multiple times and left to regrow as straight poles, this time cedar. But the new shoots were taller than his head now, suggesting it had been some years since they were last cut.
It was mid-afternoon by the time he had finished arranging his shelter. He sat cross-legged on his new mattress, elbows on his knees, and stared out at the river. Cole felt almost content with his situation. The sun was warm, the air fresh and rich with the sounds and scents of the forest. His body was comfortably tired from the exertion, his limbs relaxed. It was peaceful.
*
Hanzo could feel the days getting shorter, and even though the afternoon sun was warm, the nights were rapidly growing cooler. Autumn was a glorious season—his favorite—but altogether too quick here in the mountains. Soon, winter would fall heavy and hard, and blindingly white.
And yet the wayward stranger had not moved on, nor had he made any sign of making preparations for the hard weather to come. Even the rainy days had failed to shift him. Hanzo checked in on him for a few minutes daily, and always observed from cover. He was easy to find; he never made any pretense of hiding anything, and he never seemed to stray far from where he’d built his bivouac.
But at last, Hanzo’s temper got the better of him. It had been a glorious day, the sky a rich blue overhead once the morning mist had evaporated, leaving only puffs of fleecy white to drift through the sunlight. He had hiked a long circuit, his bow on his back, looking for signs the elk were descending from their high summer grazing. He returned empty-handed, tired and frustrated, and pulled up short at the edge of the river.
The stranger was standing out on the gravel bar just downstream from the crossing Hanzo had meant to make. He had a line in his hand, and he was flicking it deftly out over the deep side channel, trying to tease out a fish for his dinner.
The afternoon sun cast a golden glow on his skin, highlighting the clean lines of his cheekbones and nose, and turning his brown hair and unruly beard to burnished copper. It did no favors for his clothing, though, showing how threadbare his knees and elbows were, how ragged his hems, how loose it all hung on his lean frame. The gold braid that trimmed his scarlet cloak still sparkled in the light, but it was frayed and missing in several places.
Hanzo’s bow was in his hands before he had a conscious thought, an arrow nocked and ready to fire. Unfocused anger flashed through him like a wildfire, and he loosed the arrow.
It sailed past the man, nearly close enough to brush his cheek, and buried itself in the trunk of a tree on the far side of the river, landing with a loud thunk that seemed to reverberate forever in Hanzo’s head.
The stranger jumped, his fishing forgotten, and swung around towards Hanzo. His hand, still wrapped in fishing line, went for his belt knife. His eyes scanned the riverbank, seeking his attacker, his body taut like a wire.
Hanzo faded back into the cover of the alder branches, another strong emotion twisting in his gut. Was it fear? Guilt? Regret for initiating the confrontation? The man held his ground, and did not give chase. Hanzo was certain he was protected by shadow and the noise of the water, but he could almost swear that their eyes had met, if only for a second. He turned and slipped back into the forest, and swiftly made his way to another river crossing, hoping his warning had been clear enough.
Before he retired for the night, Hanzo stepped outside one last time. The night was quiet, and the lack of a breeze meant that the smoke from the stranger’s fire, if it was burning, was not noticeable from Hanzo’s cabin. But the chill in the air was no longer subtle, and the sky above was as hard and clear as glass. It would be another hard freeze tonight, and the next storm to come would likely bring snow instead of rain. He inhaled deeply, trying to feel at peace again but failing. It was too late. Everything had changed.