Chapter Text
You were broken and bleeding when you were found. It was supposed to be a routine hiking trip around the Hohe Tauern - something your fiance had done plenty of times before - one last trip before the wedding. But you had been off taking photographs of the mountainside when the storm blew through. You had tried keeping still, keeping yourself where you could be easily found, but the rocks beneath you had become difficult to walk on. A hundred-foot descent had found you in a crumpled pile thinking about how your father would cry for the first time in his life when he finally realized you would never be coming home, his only child - his only baby - lost to the Austrian countryside.
You had wished, prayed for the first time since you were a kid, for death to come quickly as the rain nearly drowned you. It was a miracle full of pain when you rolled yourself over to your side, your scream reverberating off the mountain, to keep the rain from pooling in your mouth.
When the wind picked you up, you knew you were dying then. You had to be - no such softness or warmth could have come from the mountain. The vague pressure of your camera strap against your chest kept you tethered to the mortal world, but that didn't stop you from trying to speak to the soft wind that had picked you up.
"Don't lose my camera."
Even to you - on the brink of death - your voice sounded terrible: full of gravel and glass.
"Sprich nicht. Sie werden in Ordnung sein."
"What?"
You know you are dreaming - you haven't been home in years. Nevertheless, you don't question the warmth on your cheeks or the sweet scent of your grandfather's orange grove in the air. Your curl your bare toes in the dark loam and start running, the aisle of trees flitting past you. You have no idea why you were running - if you were running towards something or away, but something is calling you forward.
In the distance, you see your grandfather waving his hat at you, just like he did when you were a kid and he was calling you in for dinner. The urge to cry with happiness overtakes you, you haven't seen your grandfather in years, since he died when you were 15. You raise your hand, trying to wave at him, to catch his attention and let him know you're coming in when you hear him screaming for you.
"Turn around Moja miłość! Nie podchodź bliżej. You need to go home!"
His face comes into sharp focus, and you can see terror etched into the lines of his face; you've never seen him look like this. You try to slow yourself, but you can't. Your feet move of their own accord pushing you towards him. The sound of a wolf's howl cuts through the orchard.
The dark shadow of a clawed monster appears behind your grandfather. You try to scream for him, tell him to move, to turn around, to do something. But your face is forced into the same smile it's been wearing.
The monster pounces.
You awake to intense nausea. Your stomach rolls and on instinct you try to push yourself up. You dry heave before you can stop yourself, stomach acid burning your esophagus. A pair of warm hands are on your shoulders, pulling you back. You panic - the room spins, everything is in the wrong place, and everything smells wrong. The hands that hold you are too large to be your fiance's.
You can hear yourself, as if from a distance, screaming, fighting back whoever is holding you. It takes what must be an hour to realize you're yelling in Polish, probably the first time you've spoken it since your grandfather died, and the thought punches you in the gut, pulling up the image of his face from your dream.
" Zejdź ze mnie! Pozwól mi odejść! Pomoc! "
The hands let you go and you fall, hitting the ground sharply on your hands and knees. The pain brings the present into sharp focus. Beneath your hands is a stone floor, polished smooth by hundreds of feet. A pair of boots, larger than you've ever seen lay abandoned at the end of the bed. The musky scent of a man covers your clothes. With shaking hands you grab the shirt around you and realize that this isn't the shirt you had been wearing, it's not even a shirt of yours. It hangs down to your knees, more dress than shirt.
The sound of wood creaking and fabric on fabric catches your attention. You freeze, a mouse pinned beneath a cat's paw, as a shadow looms over you. Again hands larger than you've ever felt grasp you by your shoulders. You expect to be dashed to the ground, stomped on, and left there, but instead, one hand slides down to cup your elbow, helping you to stand.
"Are you alright, Taube ?"
You turn to answer, to see who pulled you from the mountainside and freeze at the sight of him. He's larger than any man you've ever seen, a piece of the mountain broke off, a Baetylus brought to life. His face is covered in a mask, bleach stains running down like tears, and his eyes are ringed in black grease. A statue of Ares brought to life and hidden beneath a thin black mask, hiding the horrendous figure from the world. You think of your grandfather, screaming at you to turn around and go home. A sliver of ice slides through your belly, and you remember being a girl and your grandfather telling you about dreams and premonitions.
The man seems to realize the apprehension that fills you. He pulls his hands away, the warmth of him going with him, and steps away from you.
" Es tut mir Leid . I didn't mean to frighten you, but you need to get back in bed. You are still injured."
His voice is steady, his hands move behind his back in parade rest. You take a half step away from him when a woman's voice makes you jump.
" Was machst du, König? Lass sie in Ruhe. Du wirst sie zu Tode erschrecken ."
The man cowers, stepping away from you. You turn to find an elderly woman in the doorway of the room, a large bowl in her hand.
" Entschuldigung, Oma. Sie hatte einen Albtraum und ich hatte Angst, dass sie aus dem Bett fallen würde. "
" Bitte. Sie kommen jede Stunde hierher, um nach ihr zu sehen. Verlasse uns. Gehen. "
You understand bits and pieces of their conversation, enough to know that the woman, his grandmother, is chastising him, but you can't make out why. The man nods at you, and leaves the room, stopping only to bend down to whisper something in his grandmother's ear before he leaves.
When he leaves, the grandmother points at the bed and barks out an order.
" Hinsetzen ."
You follow her order, wincing at the pain in your chest when you do. She sets down the bowl on the side table and wipers her hands on her apron.
"Do you speak German?"
"No, I don't."
She hums at you, dipping her hands in the bowl to retrieve a white rag.
"Lift up the -" she drops her words, her fingers plucking the fabric of her own shirt. When you don't, she gives you a withering look.
"You are still hurt. You are bleeding all over the place."
With a start, you realize she's right. Blood drips from your elbow onto the stone floor beneath you. Painfully, you peel the shirt off, letting out an involuntary whine when you try to lift it above your shoulders.
The woman wipes you down like you're a child, refusing to let you have the rag. You watch as the water in the bowl slowly turns pink. You can feel the tell-tale itch of stitches on the back of your arm. You venture a look at yourself - the valleys of your skin are black and blue; you realize why your chest hurts so bad. You must have broken a rib or two in the fall.
"What is your name?" The woman asks, pulling a fresh roll of gauze from her apron pocket. You tell it to her, extending your arm so she can wrap it around the cut you opened.
"And what should I call you?" You ask softly; the hint of a smile plays on her lips.
"You can call me Oma."
"And him?"
The woman sighs; you can tell she's searching for the right things to say to you.
" Mein Enkel heißt König. "
"König?"
"Ja."
When she finishes cleaning you up, she points to a pile of clothing on a wooden chair in the corner.
"Your clothes were destroyed in the accident. Those might fit you better than this," she says, throwing König's shirt over her shoulder.
"Get dressed and come eat. You've been sleeping for days."
When she leaves you, you take stock of the room you're in. It's small, but large enough for a king-sized bed and a chair, but barely. A small window with thick glass overlooks a green valley, the Hohe Tauern looms in the distance, and for the first time since waking, you remember your finance and the hiking party. Oma said you had been asleep for days, they should be looking for you for now. You need to find a way to contact them, or the embassy or someone that can let your father know you're still alive.
It takes an act of god to get dressed; you grit your teeth and push back the tears that threaten to overflow. You have to steady yourself against the windowsill and press your forehead onto the cold glass of the window to keep yourself from puking.
The stone floor is cold beneath your feet; you stumble out of the room and catch yourself on the doorway.
The main room is larger than the bedroom - large enough for a small living room and kitchen. With a sardonic chuckle, you realize you're in a semi-modernized mountain villa stuck halfway between 1560 and the present day. König shoots up from his spot at the scrubbed wood table.
"Brauchst du Hilfe? Do you need help?"
You shake your head at him, still too wary of letting him help you, of letting him touch you again.
You manage to cross the room, holding yourself up on the wall until you manage to sit down across from König, your arms wrapped around your ribcage in a vain attempt to keep yourself together at the seams.
König doesn't stand - he leaves the table and crosses the room in two strides until he's at the stove, a quaint woodfire thing that reminds you of something you'd see on television.
"Where are we?" You finally ask, the silence growing awkward. When König answers you, he doesn't look at you. Instead, he keeps his gaze affixed to the burbling pot on the stove.
"We are outside Rauris. I found you in the mountain, what were you doing there?"
König ladles what's in the pot into a bowl and slides it across the table to you, still refusing to meet your eyes. The smell of the soup, creamy and heavy, makes your stomach growl.
"I was hiking with my fiance; we're supposed to be married," you trail off, realizing you don't know what day it is and if your wedding was supposed to have passed already or not, "soon. This was a trip before we had our wedding. I need to find somewhere to try and contact him."
König clutches the crusty bread in his hand tight enough that it crumbles in his grip. With a sign, he shakes the bread off in the sink before grabbing another piece to hand to you. He doesn't speak again until he settles down across from you, arms crossed tightly.
"Eat."
He barks it like a command, and you follow his order.
"I will take you to town tomorrow. It is Sunday today; tomorrow you can speak to the police about your fiance. But the storm was," he stumbles over his words for a moment, " schrecklich ."
He doesn't need to say anything else. You scrape the bottom of the bowl with your spoon, stomach turning sour.
"Tomorrow."