Chapter 2: The Healer's Touch
He woke to the low murmur of voices and the smell of something savory and rich. Sunlight, real sunlight, streamed through a small, high window, cutting through the dusky air of the cottage.It landed on the wooden floor in a bright, dust-moted rectangle. For a confused moment, James thought he was back in the barracks, the crash a terrible dream.
Then he tried to move his leg.
A white-hot lance of pain shot up from his knee, and a groan escaped his lips before he could stop it.The murmuring stopped.“Ah. He’s awake.” It was Elara’s voice, calm and knowing.He turned his head. The two women were at the massive table, their forms silhouetted by the light from the window. Anya was cutting vegetables on a board that looked like a door, her hands moving with swift, precise strokes. Elara was grinding something in a mortar. The sheer size of them, even sitting, was still a shock to his system.They weren’t monsters; they were just… proportionally enormous. The table came to their chests.The mortar looked like a small bowl in Elara’s hands.
“How do you feel, little one?” Anya asked, not looking up from her work.
“My name is James,” he said, his voice a dry rasp. It was a feeble protest, but it was all he had.“James,” Elara repeated, as if tasting the word. “A good name.But you are little to us. It is only fact.” She stood, her height making the ceiling seem suddenly lower, and walked over to the hearth. She lifted the lid on a simmering pot, releasing a cloud of steam that smelled of herbs and marrow bone. “Hungry?”
He was starving.His stomach clenched painfully.He nodded.“Good. Strength returns through broth first.” She ladled some into a wooden bowl—a bowl the size of his washbasin back home—and brought it over.She didn’t hand it to him. Instead, she sat on the edge of the bed, the frame groaning in protest, and dipped a large spoon into the liquid. She blew on it gently, her lips pursed, then brought it to his mouth. “Slowly.It is hot.”
The humiliation burned worse than the broth. “I can feed myself,” he muttered, trying to push himself up on his elbows. A wave of dizziness swamped him, and his arms trembled violently.Elara waited, her expression patient. When he collapsed back against the pillow, panting, she simply brought the spoon to his lips again.“Today, you cannot. Tomorrow, perhaps.Today, you are my patient.Drink.”
Defeated, he opened his mouth. The broth was incredible, deep and salty and revitalizing. He drank sip after sip, each one warming him from the inside out.With each swallow, a little more of his military resolve seemed to dissolve. He was utterly dependent.A captive of kindness.
“The burns need attention,” Anya said from the table, wiping her hands on her apron.“And the bruises. They will stiffen if we do not work the blood.”
Elara nodded, finishing the last of the broth. “We must.It will be uncomfortable.”
James’s eyes widened. “What do you mean ‘work the blood’?”
Before he could protest further, Anya was at the bedside too, a basin of warm water in her hands and soft linen cloths over her arm. Their combined presence was overwhelming, like two benevolent cliffs deciding his fate.
“The clothing must come off,” Elara said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “It is only practical.”
“No, wait—” he began, but Anya was already pulling back the blanket. He wore only the thin cotton shorts they’d left him in before.The cool air raised gooseflesh on his skin. He tried to cover himself with his hands, a gesture that felt ridiculous even to him.Anya’s stern face softened slightly. “There is no modesty here, James.You are injured. We are healers.” With a matter-of-fact ease, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of his shorts and drew them down over his hips and off his good leg, then carefully over the splint. He shut his eyes tightly, a hot flush spreading from his face down his neck and chest. He was completely exposed, naked under the gaze of these two giant women.
He heard the cloth wring out in the basin. Then Anya’s warm, wet hands were on him, wiping away the last traces of grime from his chest and stomach. Her touch was firm, clinical, leaving no part of him untouched. She cleaned the soot from his neck, the hollows of his armpits, the plains of his abdomen. He bit the inside of his cheek, focusing on the sharp pain there to anchor himself against the dizzying vulnerability.When she was done, Elara moved in. She had a ceramic jar of golden oil, which she warmed for a moment by holding it near the fire. The scent of lavender and rosemary filled the air.
“This will help the skin heal and ease the bruising,” she explained. She poured a generous amount into her palm, which easily covered the whole of his chest.Then her hands were on him.It was not a gentle, tentative touch. It was a deep, kneading pressure, starting at his shoulders and working down his arms. Her strong fingers probed the muscles, working out knots of tension and trauma he didn’t know he had. She turned his arm over, massaging the tender, burned flesh with an oil-slicked thumb, her touch miraculously light there. A mix of pain and shocking, involuntary relief made him gasp.“Breathe, little one,” she murmured, her hands moving down his ribs. He flinched as she found a spectacular purple bruise along his side. “This is the worst of it. The bone is not cracked, only angry.” She worked the oil into the discolored skin, the pressure just shy of agonizing. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he turned his head away, ashamed.
She hummed as she worked, a low, resonant tune that was the same as the one from the night before. The vibration of it seemed to sync with the motion of her hands, a hypnotic rhythm.Against his will, his body began to relax under her ministrations. The pain began to recede, replaced by a heavy, drugging warmth that seeped into his very bones. His fight bled out of him, leaving him limp and pliant on the sheepskin.
He felt her hands glide over his hips, down his thighs. She massaged his good leg thoroughly, then moved to the injured one. Her touch here was feather-light, careful not to jostle the splint, but she worked the oil into his swollen foot and unmoving toes, encouraging circulation. The intimacy of it was absolute. He was a thing being tended to, a broken toy being lovingly repaired.Anya watched, her arms crossed over her broad chest.“He is yielding. Good.”
“The body knows what it needs,” Elara replied softly, her hands now smoothing oil over his stomach in slow, circular motions.His skin prickled everywhere she touched. A deep, unnatural calm had settled over him, his earlier humiliation now a distant, fuzzy notion. He felt himself floating, anchored only by the immense warmth of her hands.The door latch clicked.
A new voice, lighter and brighter, filled the room.“Guten Morgen! I heard we had a new little sparrow who fell from the sky!”
James’s eyes fluttered open. A third giantess stood in the doorway, younger than the others, with a wild mane of chestnut hair tied back with a piece of string and a smile that seemed to take up half her face. She was slightly shorter than Anya, but her energy made the room feel smaller. In her hands, she held a small, clumsily woven basket of vivid blue and yellow wildflowers.
“Elke,” Anya said, a note of warning in her voice.“He is in treatment. Be calm.”
“I am always calm!” Elke declared, dropping her voice to a theatrical whisper that was still perfectly audible. She tiptoed with exaggerated slowness toward the bed, her eyes wide with open curiosity. She peered down at James, her head cocked.“Oh, but he is handsome! Like a storybook prince, only… pocket-sized.” She giggled.
James tensed, the floating feeling receding slightly under the scrutiny of this new, vibrant creature.
“Elke,” Elara said, not pausing her work.“Do not overwhelm him.”
“I’m not! I’m just looking.” Elke set her flower basket on the floor near the bed and knelt. From this angle, she was still towering over him.Her eyes, a warm green, scanned his oiled body. “The bruises are like a painting. Terrible, but dramatic.” She reached out a long, slender finger and very gently traced the edge of the large bruise on his ribs. Her touch was electric, different from Elara’s purposeful pressure.James flinched.“See? He’s strong,” Elke said, impressed. She turned her gaze to his face, her smile turning mischievous.“Do you talk, little sparrow? Or only blush?”
“I talk,” James managed to say, his voice weaker than he wanted.
“What’s your name?”
“Lieutenant James Holloway.”
Elke’s eyebrows shot up.She looked at Anya. “A lieutenant!So important!” She looked back at him, her smile softening into something more genuine. “Well, Lieutenant James Holloway, I am Elke.Welcome to the valley. We will take good care of you.” She picked up one of the blue flowers and, with a playful flourish, tucked it behind his ear.Her fingers brushed his temple, lingering for a second.
The gesture was so absurd, so infantilizing, that a strange lump formed in his throat. He was a decorated pilot, a man who had faced death in the skies, and here he was, naked, oiled, with a flower behind his ear, being cooed over by a giant girl.
Elara finished, wiping her hands on a cloth.“There.That will help him rest deeply. The body heals in sleep.”
Anya nodded and pulled the clean wool blanket back over him, tucking it securely around his shoulders.“Sleep now, James.”
Elke pouted.“So soon? I just got here.” But she stood, towering over the bed once more.“I will come back. I have stories to tell you. And maybe I will bring you a proper gift.” She winked, then turned to leave, her movements a fluid, energetic dance compared to the older women’s solid grace.
Elara gathered her things, gave James a final, assessing look, and followed Anya toward the table, speaking in low German about poultices for the burns.
James lay there, the flower a soft weight against his hair, the scent of lavender oil clinging to his skin, the deep, worked warmth spreading through his limbs.The sunlight shifted on the floor. He could hear the calm, domestic sounds of their world: the chop of a knife, the clink of a jar, the murmur of their voices.His war was a universe away.Here, he was not a lieutenant. He was a patient.A little one.A sparrow.
He closed his eyes, and this time, the darkness that came for him felt like being gathered into a giant, gentle hand.
He closed his eyes, and this time, the darkness that came for him felt like being gathered into a giant, gentle hand.
The deep, rhythmic murmur of their voices pulled him partway back sometime later.He kept his eyes shut, feigning sleep. The oil treatment had left him in a heavy, languid state where listening was the only action possible.
“The bone will knit cleanly,” Elara was saying, her tone low and practical. “But the best thing now is a steady diet of rich milk. It will aid the repair from within.”
There was a pause.“Are you producing?” Elara asked.
Anya’s answer was a soft, affirmative hum.“I have plenty. For one his size.”
A quiet, shared chuckle followed.James heard the rustle of fabric, a shifting of weight. “Good,” Elara said, her voice warm with amusement.“You see? He is no burden.”
“It is not the burden,” Anya replied, her voice closer now, sounding thoughtful. “It is the claim.”
“The Council will expect one.You know the law. No male stays in the valley unless he is in the clear care of a woman.”
Another silence stretched. James felt the weight of a gaze on him. He focused on keeping his breathing slow and even, the flower from Elke still a faint, botanical scratch against his temple.
“Look at him, Anya,” Elara whispered, and James could imagine her gesturing toward the bed.“So peaceful. So… helpless.”
A sigh, long and resigned, whispered through the room.It was Anya’s. “Yes,” she said finally, the word soft but decisive. “When the time comes, I will accept the responsibility.”
“Good.” Satisfaction warmed Elara’s reply. James heard the clink of ceramic, the sound of items being gathered.“Here.More of the salve for the burns. And this,” she said, a rustle of paper or cloth accompanying her words, “is a bundle of roots and leaves.Mix a pinch into his milk, twice a day for the next while. It will soothe his nerves, keep him pliant and docile while he adjusts. It is gentler that way.”
“Thank you, Elara.”
Footsteps moved toward the door, then stopped. “You are doing a kind thing, Anya. He would have died out there.”
The door opened, sending a brief, cooler draft across the room, and clicked shut.
For a long minute, there was only the crackle of the fire.Then, slow, deliberate footsteps approached the bed. James felt the air displace as Anya stood over him. His heart thumped a slow, heavy rhythm against his ribs. He could smell her scent—woodsmoke, dried herbs, and something uniquely, softly maternal.She let out a breath, not a sigh this time, but something softer. A release.He imagined her shaking her head, a small, private smile touching her lips.
Her footsteps receded toward the hearth. There was a quiet, domestic shuffle—the scrape of a stool on stone, the rustle of linen. Then a new sound, soft and steady and liquid: a rhythmic ping… ping… ping as milk struck the bottom of an empty jug.
He risked slitting one eye open, just a hair.
Anya sat on a low stool by the fire, her profile illuminated by the flames.One side of her dress was loosened. Cradled in her hand was the full, heavy curve of her breast, easily the size of his own torso. She was guiding a steady, strong stream of milk into a wide earthenware jug held between her knees. Her face was calm, absorbed in the simple task, the firelight dancing on her skin.
Best not to scare him with our customs yet, she thought, and the thought in his mind felt so clear, so aligned with her patient expression, that he knew he was understanding her perfectly. He will need time.The jug filled.The steady stream became a trickle, then stopped. She adjusted her clothing with efficient grace, sealed the jug with a wooden stopper, and set it near the hearth to warm slowly.She returned to the bedside, looking down at him for a long, silent moment. His little chest rose and fell under the blanket. Such a weak, simple creature, she mused, her heart softening further.They needed someone to keep them safe and warm. It would be nice, having a male to tend to.
She gently plucked the now-wilted flower from behind his ear, her fingers brushing his hair. Then she turned, banking the fire for the night, and settled into her own large chair with a blanket, keeping watch as the deep Alpine dark pressed against the windows.
Then she turned, banking the fire for the night, and settled into her own large chair with a blanket, keeping watch as the deep Alpine dark pressed against the windows.The dream began with the screaming wind.
It was the storm again, the cockpit shuddering, the altimeter spinning uselessly. This time, the canopy blew clean off and he was ripped from his seat, tumbling out into the frozen, roaring void.He fumbled for the parachute ripcord, his fingers numb and clumsy. The silk bloomed above him with a comforting crack, then instantly snarled, the lines twisting into a useless, flapping streamer. The ground, a jagged chessboard of rock and snow, rushed up to meet him.He prayed, a single, silent wordless plea hammering against his ribs.
Instead of impact, he plunged into a deep, soft chasm.
It was warm and yielding, enveloping him on all sides with a gentle, immense pressure. It smelled of lavender and woodsmoke and clean skin. Grateful, gasping, he tried to climb out, pushing against the warm, soft walls.He looked up, seeking the sky.
A pair of bright blue eyes, the size of cathedral windows, looked down.Anya’s face, beautiful and serene, filled his entire vision. She smiled, her lips curving like a new moon. “That’s right, little one,” her voice echoed, surrounding him, vibrating through the softness that held him. “You landed right where you belong.”
Dawning horror seeped through the warmth. He wasn’t in a chasm. He was pressed deep within the valley of her cleavage, trapped between the immense, soft curves of her breasts. With a renewed, frantic energy he tried to scramble out, digging his fingers into the soft, warm skin.She only shook her head, a monumental, slow motion. “No, no, no, my little treasure.” Her voice was a lulling thunder. “You are right where you need to be.With Mommy.” She laughed, a sound that rumbled through his bones. With a gentle, deliberate motion, she used one colossal finger to part her breasts just enough for him to slide deeper, down into the warmer, darker, suffocating softness. Then the pressure returned, final and absolute. The last pinprick of light above him vanished as her skin closed over him.He tried to scream.
He woke up face down on a warm, soft, and profoundly unfair surface.It moved with a rhythmic, swaying motion. His heart slammed against his ribs, the panic from the dream still throttling him.He took a sharp, shuddering breath. Lavender.Wool.Her.
He realized he was in a carrier, a sling of sturdy, embroidered linen, tied securely around Anya’s torso and across her back. His world was the broad expanse of her shoulder blades and the fall of her blonde braid, thick as a ship’s rope. His own legs were splayed out behind him, draped over the prodigious curve of her backside.With every step she took, his pelvis shifted against the soft, full swell of her rear.
Heat flooded his face, a dizzying mix of residual terror and acute, squirming embarrassment. She was humming softly, moving about the cottage. He heard the scrape of a chair, the clatter of a bowl. She was doing chores, seemingly oblivious to his weight, which to her must have felt like a light knapsack.
He tried to stir, to push himself up on his hands within the confines of the sling.A jolt of pain from his splinted leg made him gasp.
The humming stopped.The rhythmic motion ceased. “You’re awake,” she said, her voice a vibration he felt through his entire body. She reached one enormous hand back, her fingers gently brushing his spine before coming to rest between his shoulder blades, holding him steady.“You were restless. Calling out. This seemed the best way.”
“Put me down,” he said, his voice muffled against the wool of her dress.
“In a moment.” Her hand remained, a warm, inescapable weight.She resumed moving, walking toward the table. He was helplessly carried along, his vantage point lurching.“You needed to be kept close. The dream was a bad one, wasn’t it?”
He didn’t answer. He was focused on the mechanics of her walk, the powerful shift of her hips beneath him, the way his body was compelled to move with hers.She stopped at the table and reached for something. He felt her muscles coil and shift under him.“Here,” she said, her hand reappearing in his field of vision. It held a wooden cup, steaming gently.“Drink this. It will settle you.”
The smell was familiar—the warm, herbal, slightly bitter scent from before.The milk she had expressed. A fresh wave of humiliation crested over him. “I don’t want it.”
“It’s not a matter of want, James. It’s for healing.” Her tone was placid, immovable.The cup didn’t waver.“Your body is working hard to mend. This helps. Drink.”
Trapped against her back, utterly reliant on her for even the basic dignity of sitting up, he had no leverage.No choice. He turned his head slightly, found the rim of the cup with his lips, and took a small, reluctant sip. It was warm, rich, and subtly sweet with honey.Against his will, a tense part of him unwound.
“Good,” she murmured.She held the cup for him until it was empty, her patience absolute. When he was finished, she set it down with a soft click. “Now, we can sit.”
She didn’t untie the carrier. Instead, she simply sat down in her wide chair, easing back into the wood and cushion. He was lowered with her, coming to rest not on a separate surface, but fully seated in the sling upon her lap.Her body was his chair. Her warmth seeped through the linen. One of her arms came around, her hand resting possessively on his thigh, just above the splint.“There,” she said, as if arranging a blanket. “Better?”
He was staring out at the room from what felt like a great height, yet he was lower than her chin.Her breath stirred his hair.He said nothing, his jaw clenched tight.
“The dream is common, for those who fall from the sky,” she said quietly, her voice a low rumble above him.“Your body remembers the fear.But you are safe now. You are grounded.” Her fingers gave his thigh a soft, reassuring squeeze. “This is your place now.”