Chapter 1: Crash in the Snow
The engine wasn’t screaming. That was the first wrong thing. It was a ragged, wet cough, spitting metal and oil into the Alpine blizzard. Lieutenant James “Jim” Holloway wrestled the stick of his P-51, his knuckles white inside his gloves, but the plane had stopped being an aircraft and had become a two-ton piece of falling debris. The flak burst had torn through the left wing like paper, and the storm had done the rest. Now there was only the whine of the wind and the sinister rush of the ground somewhere below the cloud.
“Mayday, Mayday, Firefly Three—” he began, but static swallowed the rest.
The world spun in a dizzying gyre of white and gray and black. He caught glimpses of jagged rock teeth, of sloping walls of snow, then nothing but the milky void again. The altimeter was useless. He braced, the harness cutting into his shoulders. He thought of his mother’s porch in Ohio, the swing creaking in a summer breeze. A stupid, peaceful thought.
Then the mountain rose up to meet him.
The impact was a sound he felt in his teeth—a colossal, wrenching crunch, a screech of tearing metal that went on and on. His head snapped forward, the world flashed a brilliant, painless white, and then dissolved into a deep, ringing silence.
He came to because of the cold. A sharp, invasive cold that already gnawed through his flight jacket. And the smell—acrid, sweet, terrifying. Aviation fuel.
Jim blinked. His vision swam, then settled. The cockpit was a crumpled nightmare. The canopy was gone, shredded. Wind-driven snow swirled in, collecting on the instrument panel, on his lap. The nose of the Mustang was buried in a snowdrift; behind him, the tail section was twisted at a sickening angle. He tried to move his right leg and a bolt of pure, nauseating fire shot from his knee to his hip. He cried out, the sound ripped away by the gale.
Get out. Now.
He fumbled for the harness release, fingers clumsy and thick. The buckle gave. He pushed himself up with his arms, dragging his useless leg behind him. Every movement was a fresh agony. He hauled himself over the shattered cockpit rim, tumbling into the deep, soft snow beside the wreck.
The cold was a shock, a slap. It stole his breath. He crawled, an awkward, lurching motion using his elbows and one good knee, putting distance between himself and the plane. He made it maybe twenty feet before the fuel found a spark.
The explosion wasn’t a Hollywood fireball. It was a deep whump that kicked the air from his lungs and sent a wave of heat over him, instantly gone. Shrapnel—bits of his plane—hissed into the snow around him. He buried his face in the drift, the snow melting against his burning cheek. When he looked back, a black, oily pyre clawed at the sky, fighting the blizzard.
No one would see that. Not in this.
He was alone. Truly, utterly alone. The map in his head was blank. His squadron was gone, headed back to base in England, assuming he was just another ghost in the clouds. The Germans were probably in these mountains. And the cold… the cold was everywhere.
So he crawled.
Time lost meaning. It became a cycle of pain: drag, breathe, whimper, drag. The wind scoured his face. Snow packed into his collar, his sleeves. His broken leg was a leaden, throbbing anchor. He couldn’t feel his toes in his boots. A dizzying lethargy began to wrap around his mind, soft and inviting. Just stop. Just close your eyes. It’s warm if you just stop.
Then he saw it.
A flicker. A faint, buttery smear of light in the white gloom ahead. A window.
Hope, a dangerous and desperate drug, flooded his veins. He sobbed, a ragged, broken sound, and redoubled his efforts. His gloves were torn, his hands raw and bleeding, painting the snow with faint pink smudges. The light grew no closer. It seemed to dance, to taunt him.
He passed a shape in the gathering dark. A post. A crooked wooden signpost, leaning heavily, almost swallowed by a drift. He squinted up at it, ice crusting his lashes. The words were foreign, carved into weathered wood, rimed with frost.
Willkommen in Tal der Riesen.
He didn’t know German. But Tal sounded like ‘dale’. A valley. A place. The light was from a place.
With a final, grinding effort, he pulled himself over a low, snow-covered stone wall. He was in a lane. The light was closer now, spilling from a square window set in a dark timber-framed building. A barn, maybe. Or a house. He tried to call out. His voice was a dry croak, lost in the wind.
He couldn’t crawl another inch. The last of his strength bled out into the frozen mud of the lane. He collapsed onto his back, staring up at the swirling, indifferent snow. This was it. He’d made it to the edge of a village and he would die on its doorstep.
The light from the window blotted out. A shape filled the doorway, huge and backlit by the glow from within. A giant silhouette against the warm yellow light.
Jim blinked snow from his eyes. His mind, fogged with pain and hypothermia, struggled to make sense of the scale. The figure had to be standing on the porch, a step above him. That was it. They just seemed… tall.
The figure stepped down into the lane. Not a step. A stride. The ground trembled faintly under him. They moved closer, bending from a tremendous height, features resolving from the gloom.
It was a woman. A young woman with a severe, clean-lined face and a thick blonde braid draped over one shoulder. She was staring down at him with an expression of sharp, practical curiosity, not shock. She wore a simple, heavy woolen dress, and a shawl was pulled tight around broad, square shoulders.
And she was, impossibly, enormous. She stood over seven feet tall if she was an inch.
Jim’s brain stuttered. The crash. The blood loss. He was hallucinating. That was the only explanation.
She knelt beside him, the movement fluid and graceful despite her size. Her shadow enveloped him. Up close, her features were starkly beautiful, but her size was disorienting, making the familiar world of the lane, the wall, the buildings, seem like a child’s toys. She reached a hand toward his face. Her fingers, when they brushed his frozen cheek, were warm and rough, and each one was as long as his entire hand.
“Mein Gott,” she murmured, her voice a low, resonant alto that he felt in his chest. Her eyes, a pale Nordic blue, scanned his torn uniform, the burned leather of his jacket, the obviously mangled leg. She didn’t look frightened. She looked… concerned, and slightly annoyed, as if he were a lost animal that had caused a mess.
“American?” she asked, in heavily accented but clear English.
Jim could only manage a faint, stiff nod. His teeth were chattering too hard to speak.
She nodded once, a decision made. “The leg is broken. You are frozen.” She stated it as simple fact. Then, without any apparent strain, she slid one arm under his shoulders and the other under his knees. He cried out as his leg moved, the sound thin and pathetic.
“Quiet,” she said, not unkindly. “It is worse if you stay here.”
In one smooth motion, she stood, lifting him as if he weighed no more than a child. The world tilted, the ground falling away. He was cradled against the rough wool of her dress, the heat from her body radiating through the fabric. He had never felt so small, so utterly helpless. The pride of a pilot, the stubborn resolve of a soldier, it all shriveled away, leaving only a primal, shuddering relief and a dawning, bewildering awe.
She turned and carried him, effortlessly, toward the open door and the waiting light.
She turned and carried him, effortlessly, toward the open door and the waiting light.
The warmth hit him first, a solid wall of it, thick with the scent of woodsmoke, dried herbs, and yeast. It was a single large room, a hearth dominating one stone wall where a fire crackled in a grate so massive he could have stood upright inside it. The ceiling beams were blackened with age, hung with bunches of onions and fragrant herbs. The scale of everything was just… wrong.The table was taller than his chest, the chairs like thrones. A cast-iron pot hanging over the fire looked like it could bathe a horse.
“Easy now, little one,” she murmured, her voice a vibration against his ear. She knelt, which still placed her head far above his if he were standing, and laid him with surprising delicacy on a thick sheepskin rug before the fire.The heat was almost painful on his frozen skin.
Her hands, those impossibly large, capable hands, went to the clasps of his flight jacket. He flinched as she peeled the sodden leather from his shoulders. “It is stuck,” she said, her voice calm.“From the blood.I must cut.”
He gave a tight nod, bracing himself. She produced a small, sharp knife from a pocket and sliced through the heavy fabric. The cold air bit the burns on his arms, but worse was the jacket pulling at the crusted wool of his sweater beneath.A whimper escaped him.
“Shhh, I know.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, not pitying.It held the patience of someone used to tending fragile things. “It must be done.”
She worked with a brisk, gentle efficiency, cutting away the sweater, the uniform shirt beneath.Each tug sent fresh shards of pain from his leg up his spine. He cried out, a sharp, ragged sound, when she had to move his right arm.
“Almost,” she soothed, one huge hand cradling the back of his head for a moment. “The worst is past.”
Once his torso was bare, she left him shivering on the sheepskin and moved to the hearth. He watched, dazed, as she poured milk from an earthenware jug into a small pot and set it in the embers at the fire’s edge. She crumbled a dark, woody herb into it from a pouch on the mantel. The smell was pungent, earthy.
When it steamed, she brought it over, sitting cross-legged beside him, her form blocking the firelight and enveloping him in shadow. She lifted his head and shoulders with one arm, bringing the cup to his lips.“Drink. Slowly.”
It was hot, creamy, and tasted of the forest—bitter and green and sweet all at once. He gulped at it, the heat spreading through his chest.
“Slowly,” she chided again, and he obeyed. As he drank, she adjusted her position, and his head, supported by the crook of her arm, came to rest against the soft, firm curve of her breast. The sheer physical solidity of her was a shock, a warm cliff face. He felt the rumble of her voice through her body before he heard it.“There.Poor lost bird. Drink and be warm.”
The liquid settled in his stomach, a glowing coal. A deep, heavy lassitude unfurled from his core, leaching the sharp, terrified tension from his muscles. The pain in his leg softened, receding to a distant, bearable throb.A floating, blissful detachment washed over him. The firelight blurred, painting her severe profile in gold.He felt loose, untethered. Safe.
“You’re… you’re awful pretty,” he mumbled, the words slipping out unfiltered, thickened by the tea and exhaustion.
She looked down, those pale blue eyes wide for a second, then her stern mouth crinkled at the corners. A low, rich giggle bubbled out of her.“Oh, the tea speaks.You are a very cute boy. And very foolish to fly in such weather. Now rest your tongue.”
She finished the tea, then returned to her work. With a careful, clinical touch, she unfastened his trousers, cutting them away from his bad leg. He was too far gone in the warm haze to feel much more than a distant embarrassment at being stripped to his cotton shorts, his skin pale and battered against the dark sheepskin. She bundled the ragged, stinking clothes aside.
From a wooden chest, she fetched a clay jar and a roll of clean linen. The salve she applied to the burns on his arms and face was cool, smelling sharply of comfrey and pine.Then she turned to his leg. Her touch was feather-light, but he still gasped as she probed the swollen, purpling flesh below his knee.“Clean break,” she pronounced softly. “A good thing.”
She took two flat pieces of smooth, polished wood and, using strips of linen, bound them firmly along either side of his leg.The support was immediate, a relief that made him groan. Finally, she unfolded a blanket of soft, thick wool, warmed by the fire, and wrapped him snugly within it, swaddling him like an infant.
She gathered him into her arms again, blanket and all, and began to rock, a slow, steady rhythm. A low hum started in her chest, a resonant melody that was neither quite major nor minor, something old and echoing as the mountains outside. It vibrated through him, syncing with his slowing heartbeat.Fight it, a fading part of his military mind insisted. Assess the threat.Gather intel.
But the warmth, the humming, the overwhelming sense of being small and cared for… it was a lure far stronger than the cold had been. His eyelids fluttered once, twice. The firelight smeared into a tunnel, at the end of which was the soft, singing darkness.
Seeing his breaths deepen and even out, she smiled a small, private smile to herself. She rose, still cradling him, and carried him to a curtained alcove where a wide bed stood piled with down quilts. She laid him in the center, his head sinking deep into a feather pillow.The blanket remained tucked tightly around him.
She watched him sleep for a full minute, the strange little man from the sky, already looking less like a soldier and more like a boy. Then, with a last glance at the fire, she threw her shawl over her shoulders, pushed open the heavy door, and vanished back into the blizzard.
The wind caught her braid as she strode down the lane, her steps swift and sure on the hidden path. She had to find Elara, the healer. A new little one had come to the valley, and he was in need of more aid than simple salve and splints could provide.
A new little one had come to the valley, and he was in need of more aid than simple salve and splints could provide.
The blonde woman, Anya, pulled her shawl tight and plunged back into the teeth of the storm. The wind howled through the pines, but she moved with a steady, ground-eating stride, her boots finding the hidden path beneath the fresh drifts by memory alone. The world was a roaring, white void, but the lights of the healer’s cottage, a softer glow than her own, soon emerged from the chaos.
She didn’t knock, simply opened the heavy plank door and stepped into the dry, herb-scented warmth.
Elara, the healer, sat in a rocking chair by a robust fire, a thick wool blanket draped over her lap and shoulders. She wasn’t looking at the flames, but through them, her sharp, kind face smooth with a private thought. She turned at the sound of the door, dark eyes reflecting the light.
“Anya? Was ist los?” Her voice was softer than Anya’s, a murmur that nonetheless carried.
“Ein Amerikaner,” Anya said, shaking snow from her braid. “Ein Flieger. Sein Flugzeug ist draußen am Osthang zerschellt. Ein Bein ist gebrochen, Verbrennungen. Er ist bei mir, er schläft jetzt.”
Elara’s brows lifted. She shifted in her chair, the blanket slipping. It revealed a small, frail man in soft blue pajamas nestled against her, busily nursing from her breast. His eyes were closed, his thin hands splayed against the vast, warm skin. He made a soft, contented sound.
Seeing Anya’s eyes on him, Elara smiled a little. With practiced gentleness, she eased the man off. He immediately whimpered in distress, his eyes fluttering open, thin arms reaching up for her with a blind, desperate need.
“Shh, mein Schatz,” Elara cooed down at him, tucking a strand of grey hair from his worried face. “Sei geduldig. I will tend to you soon.” She wrapped him snugly in the blanket, then leaned down and kissed him deeply, a slow, consuming kiss that made his reaching hands still and his tense body go pliant. When she straightened, his dazed eyes were already closing.
She adjusted her clothing, stood, and grabbed a well-worn leather herb bag from a hook and a heavy cloak. The man in the chair struggled feebly against the blanket’s confines for only a second before succumbing to sleep, his breathing evening out.
“Komm,” Elara said, and followed Anya back out into the screaming night.
The fire had burned lower when Elara entered Anya’s home, shedding her cloak. Her presence seemed to make the room itself shrink, her focus a tangible thing. She went straight to the alcove where James lay.
“So small,” she murmured in German, not unkindly. She sat on the edge of the bed, the frame creaking under her weight, and began her assessment. Her hands, though large, were deft and sure, probing the splint, checking the alignment of bones with a pressure that made James groan in his drugged sleep. She peeled back the blanket, her lips pursing at the colorful bruises blooming across his ribs and the angry burns.
“The leg is clean. The tea was wise. The rest is shock and cold.” She opened her bag, extracting a different jar and a bundle of dried leaves. “Build up the fire, Anya. We must get his core temperature up, not just his skin.”
Anya fed logs into the hearth until the heat became a physical force. Elara crumbled the leaves into a cup of hot water from the kettle, letting them steep into a bitter-smelling tea. Together, they worked to rouse James just enough to drink.
“Come on, little bird,” Elara whispered in heavily accented English, supporting his head. “Drink. It will chase the cold from your bones.”
James sipped, coughing at the astringent taste, his hazel eyes clouded with pain and confusion. He focused on Elara’s face, then his gaze drifted past her to Anya, standing behind her, then to the monumental scale of the room—the giant chairs, the huge hearth, the two immense women surrounding him.
A fractured lucidity returned. This was not a dream. The pain was too specific, too sharp. The women were real. His breath hitched, a tremor of pure, undiluted panic seizing him.
“Where… what…” he croaked, trying to push himself up on his elbows, his arms trembling violently.
“You are safe,” Elara said firmly, pressing a warm hand to his chest, easily holding him down. “You crashed. This is the Valley of the Giants. Tal der Riesen. You are in our care.”
Giants. The word bounced around his fractured mind. He looked from his own hand, grimy and scratched, to Elara’s, which could have enveloped his entire head. The truth of it, absurd and terrifying, settled into him.
“The war…” he managed to say.
“Is far away,” Anya said from the foot of the bed. “It does not come here.”
Elara finished the medicinal tea and then produced a jar of honey, spreading a thick layer on a rough slice of black bread. “Eat. Strength first. Questions after.”
He was too weak, too thoroughly outmatched, to do anything but obey. The bread was dense and sweet, the simple act of chewing exhausting. The women spoke over him in soft German, discussing poultices and the weather as if he were a sick lamb. He was an object of care, not a person. A pilot, an officer, reduced to this.
Anya brought a basin of warm water and a cloth. Elara began to wash the grime and blood from his face and arms with a matter-of-fact gentleness that was somehow more humiliating than roughness. He shut his eyes, unable to bear the sight of it, the feel of the cloth moving over him with the same attention she might give to a piece of fine pottery.
“The others…” James whispered, eyes still closed. “My squadron. They’ll be looking.”
There was a brief silence. He opened his eyes. The two women exchanged a glance.
“No one looks here,” Anya said finally, her voice quiet but absolute. “The mountains hide us. They always have.”
Elara finished washing him and pulled the clean wool blanket back up to his chin. Her hand, resting for a moment on his chest, felt like a weight keeping him anchored to the earth. “Sleep now, little one. Your war is over.”
It was the final blow. Not a comfort, but a sentence. The stubborn pride that had kept him crawling through the snow, the defiant resolve of a soldier, fractured. A hot, shameful pressure built behind his eyes. He turned his head away from the firelight, into the soft feather pillow that smelled of lavender and sun, and as the giants moved about the room, speaking in low tones, the first silent, helpless tears soaked into the cloth.