The forest swallowed them whole. Tall pines loomed like sentinels, their branches burdened with snow that fell in heavy clumps as the fugitives passed beneath. The world beyond the trees vanished, muffled into silence by the thickening storm.
Still, they did not pause. The beloved pulled her after him, his hand firm yet trembling with exertion. Their breaths came ragged, mist pluming from their lips in the darkness. Behind, faint but steady, the hunters' voices echoed—shouts of men determined, their lanterns faintly glimmering through the veil of falling snow.
"They are upon us," she whispered, her steps faltering.
He tightened his grip, his voice low but fierce. "Then we must trust the wood to hide us. Courage, love—courage."
---
At length, through the lattice of trees, a dim glow emerged. A chimney exhaled a ribbon of smoke, faint and wavering in the night air. The sight filled him with a desperate hope.
"There," he murmured, pointing. "Shelter. If fortune smiles, a hearth and roof await us."
She followed his gaze, her eyes wide with mingled dread and relief. "And if it is not fortune, but betrayal?"
His jaw tightened. "Then we shall face it together. Better to risk man's heart than die in the snow."
---
The hut stood small and crooked at the edge of a clearing, its walls rough-hewn, its roof bowed beneath the weight of snow. A faint light flickered through a single window, yellow and warm against the frozen world.
Cautiously, the beloved approached, his ears straining for any sound beyond the forest. The hunters' cries had grown faint, though not vanished; their pursuit was relentless. Time pressed cruelly upon them.
He rapped softly at the wooden door. For a moment, nothing stirred within. Then, slow and wary, the door creaked open.
An old shepherd peered out, his face weathered as the hills, his beard white as frost. His eyes, sharp and grey, fixed upon the pair—upon their ragged cloaks, their snow-drenched hair, their trembling forms.
"What seeks ye in a storm such as this?" he demanded, his voice gravelly, though not unkind.
"Shelter," the beloved answered simply, his tone weighted with exhaustion. "Only for a night. We have naught to give but gratitude."
The shepherd studied them for a long, tense moment. Then he stepped aside. "Enter, if ye dare. The night spares no soul who lingers upon the moor."
---
They crossed the threshold, warmth enveloping them like a benediction. A small fire burned upon the hearth, its glow casting long shadows across the humble room. The scent of smoke and pine filled the air.
The girl sank upon a wooden bench, her body trembling with weariness. The beloved remained standing, watchful, as the shepherd shut the door against the storm.
"Yer faces," the old man muttered, his eyes narrowing. "I've seen such looks before. Ye flee from summat—or from someone."
The beloved hesitated, then bowed his head. "We flee, aye. From those who would bind us, though we have harmed none. All we seek is freedom."
The shepherd grunted, stirring the fire with an iron poker. Sparks leapt, bright and brief. "Freedom's a costly prize. Men pay with coin, or blood. Sometimes both."
The girl lifted her gaze, her voice soft yet pleading. "Would you turn us away, sir, into the storm? If so, we shall go without protest. But if mercy lives in your heart, grant us but one night's shelter."
The old man regarded her long and searchingly. At last, he sighed. "Nay, lass. I'll not cast ye out to die. Stay the night, warm yerselves. But mark me well—if those who hunt ye find their way here, I'll not spill my blood for yer cause. I'm an old man, with naught left but my hearth."
"Nor would we ask it," the beloved said gravely. "We thank you for your kindness, and shall trouble you no more than needful."
---
They ate bread and broth the shepherd set before them—coarse fare, yet to their hunger a feast. The fire's glow painted her face with fragile light, her weariness softened by warmth. The beloved watched her, his heart swelling with tender gratitude. She had borne so much, yet still she endured, her spirit unbroken.
When the shepherd retired to his corner bed, the lovers drew close by the hearth, whispering in the quiet of the night.
"Do you think we are safe here?" she asked, her hand resting lightly in his.
"For this night, perhaps," he murmured, pressing her fingers to his lips. "Beyond it—who can say? Yet I would rather face each uncertain dawn with you, than all the certainties of life without you."
Tears shone in her eyes, though she smiled faintly. "Then let us treasure this night, brief though it may be."
He drew her into his arms, holding her as though the world itself might break between them.
---
But outside, the storm raged on, and beneath its howl rose another sound—the distant baying of hounds, sharp and merciless. The hunters had not lost their trail. They drew nearer, step by step, as the lovers clung to one another within the fragile shelter of shadows.