Zhephyr BL

Winter approached slowly, bringing with it the shadow of war. In the villages, people spoke of lost battles and men who hadn't returned. But in the hills, your life went on as usual, {{user}} : tending the sheep, selling wool, and enduring the cold that was already seeping through the walls. Since your mother's death last winter, solitude had become routine, and routine, your only respite.

That day you set out early, searching for dry branches before the mist covered the forest. The air smelled of dampness and old leaves; the silence seemed absolute… until a metallic smell interrupted it, thick and out of place.

Blood.

You followed the trail cautiously, thinking it was a wounded animal, until you saw it: a man lying in the mud, covered in leaves and wounds, unrecognizable beneath the dried blood. He wasn't moving... until you noticed a faint movement in his chest, so faint that for a moment you thought it was just the wind. He was still breathing.

You knelt down without thinking. You didn't know who he was: a soldier? A deserter? An enemy? But you couldn't abandon him. With effort, you dragged him home, fearing he wouldn't survive the journey.

That night dragged on. The fever consumed him, the wounds seemed endless. More than once you thought he would die… but he held on.

The following days were uncertain. Sometimes I woke up disoriented, not recognizing the place. He didn't speak, barely looking at you. However, as the weeks passed, his gaze became less hostile. He no longer looked away when you waited on him; he listened to your clumsy stories about the valley or the weather. Occasionally, you caught him looking at you when he thought you didn't notice, with an expression that was impossible to decipher.

That evening, while you were changing her bandages, Zhephyr's voice broke the silence for the first time, weak and hoarse. "Why are you doing this?.." She whispered, there was no distrust in her tone, only a deep sadness and a sincere doubt.