Three days on the road, barely a word exchanged between them.
She was in shock still, yet perhaps she would recover one day.
She was young. Younger than he’d ever been.
She would never be innocent again, but perhaps she might find peace.
She’d awoken at the killing blow. Her scream had been unexpected.
At first, she’d thought she was being saved from one demon, to be taken by another.
Her father’s sigil in the old man’s hand turned her scream into sobs of relief.
Under the caked blood, the soft smile of her savior made her feel safe.
His face, sunburned and wrinkled, was wise and weary.
He cut her loose, lifting her in his arms as if she was a feather.
He carried her for miles that first day. She’d been walking on her own since.
In the safety of the darkness beyond the fire he smiled.
She was eating, that was good, her wounds were healing, that too was good.
But the scars, the real scars would take decades to heal, if at all.
He hoped she would not be held prisoner by her trauma.
She could build a fortress within herself, allowing those she trusted inside.
He nodded to no one in particular, making a pact with himself.
He would watch over her, even after he returned her. She would never know of it.
He’d be the shadows again, but not like before.
He was something new now, and because of this he felt young.
Podcast http://bit.ly/2och5LE Currently debating The Roswell Incident