Chapter 3

3 | scents that linger

The splash of water on his face was refreshing.

Kneeling over the clear, cool stream winding its way through the silent forest floor, the hunter gazed intently at his reflection. Sharp eyes, dark and unblinking, peered up at him from the water's surface, interrupted only by the occasional ripple as the current brushed past stones and roots.

His gaze glided across the planes and sharp corners of his visage, tracing each scar as if reacquainting himself with old companions, remnants of battles and encounters long past.

You look worn, the voice came unbidden to him, quiet yet distinct.

Sometimes he cared to listen to that voice, take heed of it and allow the thoughts to simmer when he had nothing else to do. If it prickled at his self esteem, he would listen, maybe even act on it.

But most days, he would rather drive a dagger into the shell of his ear and silence that voice. That sojourning guest that seemed to have made its home somewhere in the dark corner of his abysmal mind.

Old and worn hunter, it mused. After all this years in the wild you might have learned not to let them so close to your face.

"Old." He scoffed aloud, feeling a flicker of defiance at the suggestion.

His own voice sounded foreign, deep and rough as if grated down by years of disuse. Speaking was nearly a forgotten habit; conversations were now more frequent with that inner voice-when he would temper his pride just enough to indulge in it- as it wandered the unlit pathways of his thoughts. It tested, touched and pried out ideas it wasn't privy to.

Yes, old. The only redeeming quality you have is that fa-

He cupped his hands, watching the water pool into the bowl of his palms, and splashed his face determined to silence the voice. The hunter webbed his long fingers through the matted tangle of dreadlocks that cascaded over his shoulders, slicking them back and resting on his sun-roughened nape.

Sitting back on his heels, he scanned the forest. The trees around him stood like ancient sentinels, their branches arching and winding together, forming a dense canopy that allowed only dappled sunlight to filter through and map the forest floor in scattered patterns. The sound of the gurgling stream and his own breathing filled the silence.

All was quiet. And all was safe.

With no one around, and the pervading stench of his body odour -- a steaming concoction of loose bowels from enemies slain, perspiration and a week's worth of grime accumulated on his skin, the hunter knew it was time for a scrubbing.

His fingers rose and deftly slid under the leather strap that hooked his sword to his back firmly. Sliding it off, he set it aside with a reverence befitting a weapon that saved his life countless times. Next was the cloak worn and frayed from years of use in the wilderness. It had taken on a sour smell, and he kept telling himself that he would change it for something else. Though he never did.

Buckles came undone, clothes shacked to the side with a casual, indifferent flick of the wrist until he knelt bare before the stream. The forest a silent witness to this sacred, vulnerable moment.

A cold breeze whispered through the trees, prickling the hunter's bare skin, a fine pebbling rising along his arms and shoulders. His eyes lingered on the plains and valleys of his body-- from the breadth of his chest mapped with scars that crisscrossed each other, to the welts still tender from burns, bruises now faded a shade darker than his burnished bronze skin. His fingers tentatively pressed on the novel scar that ran down the length of his bicep. Still fresh and pink like the underbelly of a lizard, held together with threads of stitching made from impatient fingers by the dying light of the fire.

Someday, consider finding a mirror to work on your hair. The voice simmered at the edge of his consciousness, refusing to be muffled by his audible grunts as he worked the handful of moss gathered from the stream banks over his skin.

Might be surprised by how even your shaving will turn out.

He snickered, digging dirt out from beneath his nails with the edge of his knife, "Ain't none left to impress."

Who said anything about impressing? It retorted dryly.

His biceps strained from the exertion, using the abrasiveness to scrub away the dirt and grime from his chest, arms, down the expanse of his torso and legs. He tossed the worn piece aside and rinsed himself thoroughly before reaching for another handful of moss, scrubbing himself as though the act could cleanse away the stains of battle, each stroke digging deeper until he felt raw.

He picked a stick and peeled the bark away, chewing on the edge until bristles came away then passing it around his teeth ceremoniously cleansing them.

He felt better. More alert.

Gathering his clothes on the crook of his arm, the hunter made his way through the forest and back to his hideout.

The inside was as it always was. Untouched with all his belongings neatly folded and packed in one corner. Food stash alongside it.

Drawing on a fresh pair of pants, he hooked a finger through the slab of smoked meat courtesy of the merchants -may their souls rest in the abyss - still wrapped in paper. A handful of potatoes and some foreign herbs which he had not ate before yet smelled alluring altogether. The idea of a hearty dinner enticed him, lifting his spirit.

Unaware of the single, palm-sized footprint left in the ashes beside his fire, he hummed, kneeling by the earth.

The fire nurtured itself to life under deft fingers, flames steadily consuming the wood he fed it, expanding within the territory permitted. Skewering the meat onto a sturdy branch, the hunter suspended it carefully over the flames and sat back on his heels whilst reaching for the cluster of earthen potatoes at his side.

He stripped away the coarse exterior with the practised ease of one accustomed to a blade, carefully working the glinting edge of his dagger under the skin of the potato, watching as the brown layer curled around his calloused fingers and fell to the ground. He tossed the peeled potatoes into a small pot brimming with water, setting it carefully over the flames where the heat could coax it into a boil.

Bent over his culinary work with the sun falling on the nape of his neck, brows smoothed over in relaxed concentration, the hunter remained fixed on the spread before him.

Unaware of the pair of bright eyes watching him, wide and unblinking.

Hidden within the shadows of trees, the girl stood as still as stone, her gaze fixed on the hunter.

The tension in his shoulder eased as he tended to his meal, slowly turning the meat over to even out the roast. The wafting scent of charred flesh and herbs threading the air all around him, carrying its scent towards her.

She sniffed the air tentatively, nostrils flaring to catch the scent drifting her way.

Her eyes burned alive as she observed the hunter's back with an intensity that betrayed both curiosity and trepidation as though witnessing a wild animal in its natural habitat.

Oblivious to her lingering presence, the hunter prodded at the pot of now boiling potatoes, leaning over it with the dagger. A lock swayed free from the loose ponytail held together with a teared piece of sac clothing, and brushed along his cheek as he speared a potato.

She glanced at the scarred lines of his hands then the bubbling pot of potatoes, and back at the man.

Potatoes.

Man.

Steak.

Man.

Potatoes.

Steak. Steak. Steak.

Man.

A faint breeze stirred the leaves around her, and she instinctively shrank back, pressing into the shadows, unwilling to betray her presence. But her eyes never wavered from the man, absorbing every detail, every subtle shift in his posture. A thread of longing thrummed within her, testing at the limits of her hunger for the previous night's meal was scarce. Shreds of meat still wedged themselves between her teeth.

The hunter sat back on his heels with a relaxed sigh. He span the dagger between his fingers and turned to the piece of roasted meat, expertly carving out a thin slice and watching in satisfaction as fat dripped with a hiss onto the spitting flames.

He bit it, chewing as his gaze lifted to the forest thoughtfully.

Salt. It needed more salt. If only he had foraged the merchants' goods much thoroughly. Perhaps they would have had salt on them somewhere. But he knew returning to the scene of the crime would be in vain.

Whatever he left had been ravaged to nothing by the night creatures.

Then, without warning, he rose - a smooth, graceful movement that sent a ripple of tension through her. She held her breath as he disappeared into his hideout.

With his presence gone she could focus on the food much more clearly. He was a skilled hunter, this man. Everything about his skills and the manner in which he carried himself - like a predator lurking - was a testament to his years of survival. She saw it in the scars of his hands.

And the jagged galleys of claw marks racing down his back.

The hunter reappeared moments later with a bowl in hand and a hunger that demanded to be sated. Crouching before the fire, he lifted the slab of meat from it and placed it into the bowl. Next was the potatoes. Draining the water, he speared one and bit into the burning piece, indifferent to the sting of heat on the roof of his mouth.

All the while, she watched him with hungry eyes and a tender parted mouth. She leaned forward, transfixed, her breathing shallow and gaze steady on the white of his teeth as he bit into the charred meat.

Then, a breeze swept through the trees.

The leaves rustled and the undergrowth shivered gently. She felt it faintly as it curled past her hair and neck, threading her scent with it... drifting to the hunter.

Gentle hands brushed along his nape, curling up his nostrils as he took another mindless bite of the meat.

His nostrils flared in the slightest, picking up the novel scent-a fragrance neither musky nor wild, not the scent of the forest beasts or the sharp earthiness of the woods.

It was something altogether different.

An essence he had not known in years.

The hunter stilled. His body shifted imperceptibly, head tilting to the side as tension wound around his muscles, drawing him like the taut string of a bow. His nostrils flared, sifting through the myriads of scents that dwelt in the vicinity; from the spread before him, to the autumn leaves... and that scent again.

That thread of unknown scent just at the threshold of his honed senses.

His hackles rose, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling as his mind sharpened, dismissing everything else.

In one fluid motion, he turned, eyes narrowed piercing the forest's edge as his hand instinctively found the hilt of his sword.

He caught the faintest glimpse of a shadow, a figure retreating behind a tree just beyond the treeline.

He waited a breath.

Then rose.