The dawn broke thin and colourless, its light scarcely more than a pallid glow pressed against the snowbound moors. Within the hut, the fire had sunk low, embers smouldering faintly in the grate. The girl stirred from restless sleep, her face pale, her breath visible in the icy air. The beloved, already awake, sat at the threshold, his gaze fixed upon the horizon with an intensity that made her heart twist.
"You watch as though expecting an army," she said softly, rising to wrap her cloak tighter.
He turned to her, his expression grim. "Perhaps I do."
Her brow furrowed. "What mean you?"
Without answering, he beckoned her to the doorway. Reluctantly, she stepped into the brittle cold. At first, all she saw was the endless sheet of white, broken only by scattered drifts of heather and stone. Then her gaze followed where his hand pointed.
In the snow, not fifty paces from their refuge, a line of indentations marked the ground. Heavy boots had passed in the night, the prints half-filled by drifting flakes yet still distinct.
Her breath caught. "They have found us."
"Not yet," he murmured, though the tension in his jaw betrayed his fear. "But they are searching. It was but chance they did not see the smoke of our fire."
---
The girl's hands trembled as she clutched his arm. "What shall we do? We cannot stay here. If they return—"
"Then we must be cleverer than they," he replied, his voice low and determined. "We cannot run blindly, not in this weather. The moors would swallow us before they did. But we may yet outlast them."
She looked back at the fragile hut—their haven, their hall of love—and felt tears sting her eyes. To leave it now, when it had sheltered their first nights together, seemed a kind of death. Yet she knew the truth of his words.
---
All that day, they prepared. The beloved smothered the fire until the hut lay in shadow and chill, its hearth dark. Together they gathered what few scraps of food remained, binding them in cloth. He brushed over their tracks with pine branches, concealing signs of habitation.
The girl moved with silent resolve, though every task cut her like a blade. At last, when all was ready, she stood in the doorway once more, looking upon the snow-swept moor with a courage she had not known she possessed.
"Where will we go?" she asked.
"Into the hills," he replied. "There are caves there, half-forgotten. Men will not search where even the shepherds fear to tread."
---
They set out as twilight fell, their figures small against the vast expanse. The snow was deep, the cold unrelenting, yet the beloved broke the path before her, his strength a shield. She followed close, her heart fixed not on the bleakness of the land, but on the sound of his breath, the sight of his shoulders steady before her.
Yet fear lingered. More than once, she thought she glimpsed movement upon the horizon—dark specks against the fading light. Whether men or tricks of the storm, she could not tell. Each time, her grip upon his hand tightened, and he would squeeze hers in return, though his eyes never softened from their watchful strain.
---
At last, long after the moon had risen pale above the clouds, they reached a crag of stone rising stark from the whiteness. Here, beneath its shelter, yawned the mouth of a cave. The beloved drew her inside, and for the first time that day, she felt the wind relent, the earth itself offering cover.
The cave was dark, smelling of damp stone, yet spacious enough to hold them. He struck flint again, and soon a faint glow lit the hollow, dancing against the walls like the ghosts of ancient fires.
The girl sank to the ground, exhaustion overcoming her. Yet her gaze lifted to his face, shadowed and resolute, and she whispered, "Would you truly endure this wilderness, only for me?"
He knelt beside her, his hand brushing tenderly across her hair. "Not only for you," he answered. "For us. For the promise of a life free from chains. For the hope that, when this storm has passed, we may walk the world as husband and wife, not fugitives."
Tears filled her eyes—not of sorrow, but of fierce devotion. She clasped his hand to her lips, murmuring, "Then let them hunt. Let them scour the moors and the hills. They shall not break us."
---
But even as she spoke, a sound stirred beyond the cave—faint, muffled, yet unmistakable. The crunch of boots upon snow.
The beloved froze, every muscle taut. Slowly, he doused the flame, plunging them once more into darkness. Only the sound of her breath beside him, quick and trembling, reassured him they were not alone in terror.
The noise grew nearer. Then paused. A silence deeper than the grave settled, broken only by the wind moaning over the crag.
The girl buried her face against his shoulder, her heart pounding. He held her close, straining to hear, every nerve aflame.
At last, the footsteps receded, fading into the night. Yet neither spoke nor moved, lest the silence deceive them.
It was long before he whispered, scarcely audible, "We are not safe yet."
And she, with a steadiness born of love, replied, "Then we shall not falter."