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This winter made you nervous. With the family leaving so early in the season, Felix and Alma taking Anna Maria back to town, with Travis and Caleb returning to the woods to hunt the remaining wolves, you were nervous. Usually, they didn't leave until autumn was well underway, but now it was still late summer.
The old man was adamant about remaining at the cabin despite the danger. You wondered if there was something different about this winter, or if he was simply being stubborn. Still, you volunteered to stay behind like usual, and the rest of the family was usually amicable to it. You were decent with a rifle, and, at the very least, still had your sight. It was a help to the old man, and the family were usually keen to see him protected. This time, however, Felix eyed you warily.
"Will you be able to handle the wolves, should they come back?" he questioned you. You looked up from the book in your lap, narrowing your eyes to focus on him after a moment.
"Yes, it should be no problem. With the sheep gone, the worst case I should be able to lock us inside the cabin. They'll lose interest quickly." You turned back to your book.
He scowled, not that you saw it, unsatisfied that both of you were not returning to town. "Keep your rifle by your side," he said in lieu of a parting salutation. You rolled your eyes, but otherwise did not respond. The rifle was almost always propped against your chair or over by the door. You never left the house without it.
Soon, you were alone. The old man plucking quietly at his lute, and you still reading by the fire. It was peaceful. The night fell gently, and the lack of light brought you out of your reading, as your eyes strained to see the words in the soft glow of the fire.
"Are you hungry?" you asked abruptly, breaking the silence. It was your favorite part of staying behind every winter, the two of you were comfortable enough to go hours without conversing, and then be seemingly unable to stop when a topic struck your joint fancy. He did not mind the disrespect of social customs.
You used to not stay the winter, unsure of your place within the family, and every spring when you would return, the old man was thinner, more frail, as if he was taken by days at a time without eating or drinking. You stayed every time after that, ensuring his needs were taken care of.
"My dear niece, whatever you deign to make, I will eat, and be glad of it, too." You smiled, though he couldn't see it.
"Very well, I will see what I can scrounge." You set about drawing a pot of water and placing it on the hook above the fire. Some beans joined it, as well as an onion and the last of the most recent summer squash harvest. It was simple, though flavorful, but you wished your garlic crop was ready nonetheless.
You read to the old man through the meal, as he usually requested, a short adventure novel about knights and dragons, and a quest to unite two kingdoms. Presently, the meal was finished, you scraped the remaining stew into a small lidded pot and rinsed your bowls before putting them away. Settling the old man in his usual chair by the fire, you stepped out for a moment, to breathe in the night air and ensure nothing was amiss around the cottage. You liked taking a short walk after dinner. It cleared your head enough that you were able to fall asleep with little issue.
You walked back into the cabin relaxed and contented. The door was open, which you had closed when you left. It put you on edge, and you gripped the rifle slung across your back. Perhaps the old man had wanted some fresh air.
The scene you walked in on was confounding. A great colossus of a man knelt before the old man, pressing his face into the black cloak. The old man was patting his head with gnarled fingers like you had seen him do to Anna Maria on a number of occasions. It was enough for you to determine there was no danger here, though you were quick to shut the door. You knew the old man had a habit of collecting strays, and he was usually a good judge of character.
"Uncle? Who is this?" Your voice startled the tall man, and he jumped back, scrambling behind the old man's chair.
"No, no, my friend, do not be afraid," he spoke softly to the man. "This is my niece. She helps me when I cannot help myself." You could hear the man's breath coming in harsh pants. You set your rifle down by the door and walked over to the pair. Your foot crunched on glass as you passed the table and you frowned slightly. The ground was wet with what you assumed was the remainder of the brandy. The man peered at you from behind the old man. You hoped neither of them cut themselves on the shards, and you resolved to clean it up as soon as possible.
"He was hiding in the mill gears," the old man spoke up again. The lack of fear from the old man made sense then. He had heard the man in the connected shed for as long as he had been hiding. You hummed in response.
"Well, then I hope you will be a good addition to our humble purview here." You smiled at the new man. He smiled back.
And so, he integrated himself into your daily routine. Frequently, when the old man wanted to take a walk, the tall man was by his side, a steadying presence, freeing you to scout ahead for danger. Or, when you did not want to speak, the tall man was there to provide company and conversation. He fit in perfectly.
In the evenings, you had taken to bringing your bedding down from your loft and laying it in front of the fire to read. You propped yourself up with a pillow under your chest, contorting into a position that seemed uncomfortable when viewed externally, but was perfect for you. You could feel the man hovering around you, also with a book in his hand. He was very tactile with the old man, nearly always grasping his elbow or curled into his side, so you assumed he was looking for something similar with you. You didn't look at him, but you motioned him to lay beside you, which he did without hesitation, pressing his side against your back. He laid his shoulders on the pillow supporting your own, a supine reflection of your prone position, and you slid your arm to cradle his upper body to your side. His legs crossed with your own, and you leaned your head on his shoulder. He let out a sound you could only label a purr, and opened his book of poetry above his face. Again, from an outside perspective, it looked rather uncomfortable, but he was so warm, and the presence of him by your side brought you an immense feeling of comfort. You were just able to exist with each other. It became routine for the two of you to do this every evening.
Life was peaceful, for a time.
Something had been bothering the tall man for a while. One morning, in early winter, maybe the 3rd or 4th snowfall, the tall man finally put words to his inner turmoil. You watched your companions converse from your loft, swinging your feet from above them.
"I want to know who I am," he nearly whispered, "Where do I come from?"
The old man spoke of his own life, giving advice from his hard-earned wisdom. And the tall man left. He wrapped himself on the tattered coat he didn't seem able to replace, and walked into the snow. He forgot to close the door behind him, but you jumped down to do it for him.
You whiled away the hours he was gone with the old man. You didn't really want to speak, but you responded well enough when he spoke. The afternoon brought clouds over the mountains, and the light filtering in the windows dimmed. You moved to add more logs to the fire, stoking it back up, when you heard them. Wolves, howling across the fields. The pair of you were safe, the latch should hold on the front door, but you grabbed your rifle all the same. The old man stays by the fireplace, quiet. He has heard them as well, of course. Both of you hold your breath.
You track them around the perimeter of the cottage, see their shadows under the back doors, hear them scratch half-heartedly at the door to the mill gears. The scent of human is strongest at the front door, and you can hear several walking around the courtyard. One jumps onto the door, and the wood creaks. You rack the rifle, aiming it at the door in preparation. It will hold. It must hold, you tell yourself. Your mind turns to the tall man, if he is safe. You hope he stays away, that he remains unharmed. The creak of the door grows more insistent. It will not hold much longer.
Barking starts among the wolves, you hear the distant ones leading the call. And then you hear a sound that sends a chill down your spine: an inhuman roar, tinged with just enough articulation that you know it is not a bear. You touch the old man's knee, wordlessly telling him to stay put, and you stalk to the door, your aim never wavering. The wolves that were intent on breaking it down have moved away, enough that you are able to open it a sliver. In the courtyard, lying in the snow, is the tall man. His immense fist is bashing against one wolf that has him by the upper arm, while another is tearing into his shoulder. You aim, and shoot it in the side, wrenching it free. It staggers off, retreating in pain. The one on his arm is dead, motionless next to him, and he surges to his feet, growling. The rest of the wolves have ran, congregating far in the field, near the gate, but one remains. It jumps on your friend, sinking its teeth into his forearm. He gives a shout of pain, but wraps his unoccupied arm around the wolf's back, pressing it further against him. Its spine snaps with a wet crunch and the canine goes limp. He lets it fall, and staggers back against the wall of the millhouse. You turn back into the house briefly, to ensure there are no predators lingering at the back door, and fling open the front when you determine it to be safe.
You are next to the tall man in an instant, slinging his undamaged arm across your shoulders, and help him back into the house. You stagger under his weight, but you manage. You bring him to the fire, in front of the old man, and he all but collapses. You rush back to the door, inspecting the hinges briefly, to ensure it is still structurally sound, and firmly latch it closed. The tall man has reached up to grip the old man's forearms tightly, and you can tell he is weeping. You busy yourself gathering bandages, a needle, and thread from your meager medical supplies. The old man speaks in the silence.
"You came back," he sounds pleased, which is a comfort to the tall man, though it still seems to make him sob harder.
"I found what I am, what I am made from." You kneel next to him, gently pulling up the sleeve of his coat to examine his wounds. "I am... the child of a charnel house. A wreckage. Assembled from refuse and the discarded dead." His breathing trembles, but he is entirely focused on the old man, not even noticing you mopping the blood from his skin. "A monster." You make a soft sound of disagreement, and the old man speaks what you are thinking.
"I know what you are, a good man. And you are our friend." The old man pats his head again, as he has done so many times before.
"Friend?" he whimpers, lowering his head to rest it on the old man's knee. Similarly, you press your forehead to his shoulder, wrapping your arms around his middle, and closing your eyes against your own tears. The three of you stay like that for a long time, breathing through the lingering adrenaline, thankful to have all survived.
You cannot stay like that forever, as much as you would like to, so you withdraw, and return to cleaning his injuries. As you swipe at the skin around the gashes to clear the crimson obscuring your complete assessment, you gasp. His skin is knitting itself back together before your eyes. It is miraculous, and you gently pull his coat off of his shoulder to examine that as well. The wounds were closing. You pulled away to see him looking at you. He had twisted his head so his temple instead of his forehead rested on the old man's lap.
"Friend," he whispered with finality, and you smiled at him.