Author POV

Somewhere,

The air was thick with the scent of incense, the forest alive with whispers and shadows beneath the waning light. The clearing, framed by ancient trees, stood as a sacred space, a place where time seemed to stretch and bend. In the center of it all, standing tall and commanding, was the man.

His broad shoulders were draped in dark robes that clung to his muscular frame, the fabric pulling against his powerful build as he moved. The weight of his presence seemed to make the air itself thicken, a subtle tension settling over everything in the vicinity. He was tall, easily above average, his body honed from years of discipline — the kind of muscle born from hard work and determination, not vanity. Every movement was deliberate, each step a testament to his strength.

His face remained an unreadable mask, stoic and untouched by emotion. His sharp jawline was set with a quiet intensity, and his ocean-blue eyes, like the sea during a storm, cut through the atmosphere with an almost supernatural clarity. 

They held a depth that seemed both unfathomable and all-knowing, reflecting the darkened sky above as if they, too, were part of some forgotten storm.

The priest beside him, elderly and stooped with age, looked up at him with reverence. He motioned to the small, carved urn clutched in the man's large hands, wrapped carefully in white cloth. His voice was low, reverent, murmuring the incantations that had been passed down through generations. The wind carried his words like an ancient echo.

"Do as tradition commands, son. This is the last ritual... The final tribute."

The man didn't respond, his gaze focused solely on the task at hand. His grip tightened, fingers flexing with the faintest hint of restraint, as though the act of holding it was a burden he could barely endure. His lips remained closed, not out of disrespect, but because words weren't needed. In his silence, the weight of his purpose spoke louder than any chant.

Without hesitation, he moved toward the riverbank. His every step was measured, purposeful, as if every inch of his being was attuned to the task ahead. His eyes never wavered from the flowing water, its dark surface rippling with a quiet force. The waves seemed to pull at him, just as the years of his life had pulled him into the folds of this moment, this ritual.

The priest's voice broke the silence once more. "Offer the memory," the priest had told him earlier, voice rough with age. "Offer the breath of life back to the river, and pray the soul finds peace in the beyond. Light for their path. Flowers for their honor. Cloth to carry the memory home."

He had listened without protest. Rituals were not for the dead — they were for the living who stayed behind, carrying the weight of loss.

Before him, laid out carefully on a worn cloth, were the offerings: a length of faded saffron, a handful of crushed wildflowers, a small clay lamp flickering against the wind.

One by one, he released them into the river.

The cloth first — drifting like a forgotten banner into the waves.

The flowers next — caught and swallowed by the current.

The lamp he held longer, whispering into its fragile flame:
"May your soul find peace where I could not protect you."

The man knelt, muscles flexing beneath his robes as he carefully placed the lamp in the water. The river, wild and untamed from the storm, seemed to part for him, as if the earth itself recognized the man's power.

For a brief moment, the man paused, his eyes staring out across the water. His chest rose and fell slowly, each breath heavy and deep, as though absorbing something far beyond the ritual, something personal. The priest's words faded away as he stood, still and strong.

A flicker of emotion passed over his face — not sorrow, not anger, but something far more complex. The ocean-like depths of his eyes seemed to mirror the river before him, vast and full of unsaid things. But just as quickly, his expression hardened again. He turned, ready to continue, the calm before the storm now firmly settling around him.

The priest took a step back, his gaze filled with quiet awe, as the man stood tall again, face unreadable. There was an aura about him, powerful and ancient, a force that couldn't be easily explained. It wasn't just the physical strength he commanded, but something far older — an energy, a presence that carried with it the weight of loss, of survival, and of a quiet resolve.

The man turned once more, this time not toward the priest, but toward the trees, as though listening to the whispers of a world he alone understood.

The ritual was complete. The offerings had been released to the river's current. But for the man, it was just another part of a much larger journey.

And in the depths of his ocean-blue eyes, the quiet stillness remained. Still waiting. Still watching. Always searching.

The priest's murmurs faded as the man's gaze again fixed on the river, though his body remained motionless. The ritual, the sacred words — they all seemed to fall away as he found himself caught in the pull of the water, as if it spoke to him, calling him deeper than any ritual could.

His eyes never wavered from the river's surface, even as he took a slow step forward, his bare feet pressing into the cold, slick earth. With each step, the air grew heavier, and the sound of the river's current seemed to grow louder. There was a silence in the way he moved, as though he was listening to something beyond the physical realm, beyond the eyes of the priest, beyond the world he stood in.

He took another step.

And then another.

Until, slowly, the water began to rise, swallowing the hem of his robes, and the river's chill reached his knees, his waist. His breath deepened, his chest swelling and falling beneath the weight of the moment. His muscles rippled with each subtle movement, his broad form a silent force in the water, commanding it to bend to his will.

His eyes never left the ripples, his gaze unfaltering. The wind stirred, but it was the water that seemed to carry him, pulling him into a trance-like state. He stepped forward again, deeper, until the water reached his chest. His steps slowed, and then he dipped below the surface, his body fully submerged.

For a moment, everything went still. The world around him quieted. No sound. No movement.

It was as if time itself had stopped.

And then, just as suddenly, he broke the surface again, gasping for air, his chest rising and falling sharply with each breath. His powerful form surged from the water, water streaming down his body like a cascade, his eyes still locked onto the river's current.

But this time, something had changed.

As he took another step into the deepening water, he felt it — something, no, someone, pressing against him in the dark, rushing current. At first, it was just the faintest of sensations, an odd, weightless shift in the flow of the water. But then it became undeniable.

He reached down, his hand closing around something soft, something warm. His fingers brushed against skin — cold skin, almost lifeless, but still clinging to a faint trace of breath.

His heart skipped a beat.

Without hesitation, he lifted her, pulling her from the water as if she were nothing more than a fragile doll, her body limp in his arms. And then he saw her.

A woman, broken and breathing.

He approached slowly, reverently — as though stepping into another kind of prayer. She was cold. Unmoving. But not gone.

A flicker of breath. A whisper of pulse beneath soaked skin.

Her face was turned slightly to one side, strands of soaked hair clinging to her forehead and cheeks. Her skin was ghost-pale, like moonlight filtered through fog, and it made the faint flush of life in her cheeks seem almost unreal. Her lips were parted, a shallow breath slipping in and out with the softest sound.

 The wind picked up, swirling around him as he rose from the water, dragging her to the shore with the same unwavering strength that had carried him through countless battles.

The priest stood in stunned silence, his mouth slightly agape, as he watched the man carry her with brutal efficiency, his gaze unwavering. The man's focus never faltered, even as his bare feet hit the mud, the water dripping from his skin in heavy drops.

He knelt down slowly, gently laying her on the earth, his strong hands still holding her face, turning her toward him. His fingers shook slightly as he brushed the hair from her pale face, his touch soft, almost reverent. She was cold. Too cold. Her face, once full of life, now looked ashen, as if the river had claimed her and was now attempting to drag her into its depths.

Her body was bruised, battered. Torn cloth clung to her skin like a second layer of pain, and there were handprints on her arms — dark marks of struggle, of someone who had fought, who had tried to escape.

The man stared at her, his ocean-blue eyes darkening with something far deeper than concern. It was a rage, a quiet fury, burning beneath his calm exterior.

His hands gripped her face harder, his jaw clenching as he scanned her body, the horror of what he saw making his heart ache in ways he had never known. Her breath was shallow, her lips pale and cracked, the life in her slipping away as quickly as the river had tried to claim her.

His gaze flickered down to her torn clothing, the bruises that marred her skin, the marks that told the story of a woman who had been hunted, used, and abandoned. The faintest shudder ran through him, a deep-seated sorrow for her that threatened to crack through his stoic resolve.

He found himself unable to look away. Her dress — once delicate, now clinging and torn — was no longer clothing but a ruin of threads. The neckline was ripped unevenly, as if wrenched by force, baring one shoulder, marred by finger-shaped bruises. The fabric at her waist was gathered and stretched, seams burst as though she had twisted against restraints or lashed out in defense. Hemlines were shredded — some by the forest, some by something far more deliberate.

Beneath the soaked cloth, her skin told the story her voice could not.

Long red marks slashed across her arms and thighs — some angry and fresh, others already darkening into bruises. Scrapes traced her spine, suggesting she had been dragged. Or had crawled. The flesh above her ribs bore the mottled shades of struggle — not just the bruises of impact, but the deep, soul-chilling kind of hurt left behind by intent.

But it was the pattern of it all that spoke loudest.

It wasn't random.

It was desperate.

Every injury looked like the aftermath of a fight — not one she lost, but one she refused to let go of. Her hands, balled even in sleep, bore bite-marks of earth and stone, as if she'd clawed at the ground for purchase, for escape, for anything to hold onto. Her knees were scraped raw. Her lower lip was split, likely from biting it herself to stay silent or stave off screams.

She had been hunted — but not quietly. She had fought every second of her fleeing, body-first, soul-deep.

The priest stood frozen, unsure of what to do. He had seen many rituals, but this... this was not part of any tradition.

**********

The man didn't look at him, his gaze still locked onto her. His breath came faster now, his chest heaving, the intensity of his focus growing with each passing second. He could feel the urgency building in him, an animal instinct rising to the surface — to protect, to fight, to save.

He didn't know who she was. He didn't know why the river had brought her to him. But in this moment, she was his to save. And he wouldn't let her slip away.

"Stay with me," he muttered under his breath, though he wasn't sure whether he was speaking to her or to himself. His voice, low and rough, seemed to echo in the still air.

With one hand, he reached for the torn cloth, carefully pulling it away to assess the damage. His eyes moved lower.

Beneath the heavy folds of fabric, her belly rose — swollen, unmistakably full with life. It struck him then, with a force like a wave: she wasn't alone. She carried another heartbeat within her, hidden, fragile, and impossibly brave.

The fabric clung to her skin, dark with riverwater, revealing the curve of motherhood that had not yet been claimed by the world.

But it was the rest of her — the wounds, the bruises, the rawness — that truly broke something in him.

Her face, even in sleep, held a kind of anguish too deep for screams. A cut at her temple, dried blood streaked to her ear. Her lips were chapped, her cheeks hollowed from strain. One arm lay at an odd angle, trembling faintly beneath the surface of breath.

He looked at her belly again — swollen, stretched tight with the life inside. And it struck him: she hadn't just been protecting herself. She had fought like a fortress, like a mother.

And in doing so, she had survived.

His heart beat faster.

His throat tightened. A slow-burning fury began to coil low in his chest — not wild, but precise. Focused. Reverent. Because she had endured what should have shattered her. She had not surrendered.

And now she lay at his feet, broken but breathing, still shielding what mattered most with a strength no storm could wash away.

She had fought for her dignity. For her child. And the proof of her defiance was carved across her body like battle-markings — not shameful, but sacred.

He reached out, brushing a strand of wet hair from her brow with a touch gentler than breath.

"You are not lost," he whispered.

He couldn't lose her, lose any of them.

Not while breath stirred her chest.

Not while her fight still echoed in every torn inch of her skin.

She looked like someone who had fought the whole world and barely lived to crawl away from it.

He knelt beside her once more, slower this time.

And his heart ached.

Not with pity, but with something deeper — a quiet fury at the cruelty that had chased her, and a helpless reverence for the strength that had carried her through it.

Who was she?

What did they do to her?

And what kind of world had cast her into a river, alone and hunted, with a child still waiting to be born? as he turned his eyes back to the sky, searching for answers.

Inside him, a tide had begun to rise — slow, relentless, impossible to ignore. Her wounds whispered to it. Her silence fed it. And the story etched across her skin carved itself into his soul.

The question burned, even though he already knew. Not in facts, not in detail — but in the way her body bore its truth. In the shape of her curled hands. In the tension still caught in her brow. In the bruises that painted her like sorrow's own canvas.

Who let this happen?

Rage stirred, but it was the quiet kind — the kind that didn't shout or curse, but burned hotter for being contained. He had seen violence before. He had carried grief. But this? This was different. This was desecration. Not just of a woman, but of something sacred. A soul that had tried to protect more than just itself.

His eyes moved again to the curve of her belly.

She ran while carrying life.

Not just hers. A child. Innocent, fragile. And still, she fought. She bled. She didn't give up.

And still they came for her.

***********

The priest, standing a few paces away, watched the man's every movement, his eyes narrowing in a knowing way. Finally, after a moment of silence, the priest's voice broke through the weight of the stillness.

"You do not understand, do you?" His voice was steady, but it carried the weight of centuries of belief, of teachings, of faith. The man's eyes flickered up to the priest, his gaze unyielding. The priest continued, his tone softening, but the words resonating with a power that filled the air.

"God has a way of showing mercy even in the most dire of circumstances," the priest said, his voice almost reverent, like a prayer whispered in a sacred space. "You have been chosen. She... and this child... they are meant for something greater. This moment, this trial, it is not by chance. It is a test of strength, of sacrifice, of care. The river has given her to you... not as a burden, but as a gift, a calling."

The priest stepped closer, his worn hands clasped before him, his eyes fixed on the man who was still holding the woman with a mix of desperation and defiance. "She is a mother," the priest continued, his voice taking on an almost ethereal quality, "and this... this is the power of motherhood. It is a force that even death cannot easily deny."

The man's grip tightened on the woman, his eyes flickering to her vulnerable form, her pale face so fragile beneath his touch. He could feel the life in her slipping through his fingers, but the priest's words pierced the chaos of his mind, cutting through the fear that had begun to choke him.

The priest placed a hand on the man's shoulder, his touch firm but gentle, grounding. "You must help her," the priest said, a sense of urgency in his voice. "She is not the only one fighting. You are, too. You have the strength. You have the power to guide her through this."

He paused, looking at the man with an intensity that seemed to search his soul, as if seeing something the man himself hadn't yet realized. "You were meant to protect her. To protect the child. This is no accident. You were chosen for this moment, for this woman, for this life that grows within her. You have the strength, the will, to help her survive this."

The man's chest tightened. His throat ached. He looked down at her, his heart a mess of emotion — anger, fear, sorrow, and the flicker of something deeper he couldn't quite understand.

The priest's words seemed to echo in the air, his voice like a steady drum, pushing the man forward. "Now is the time. You cannot let the river take her. You must save them both."

For a long moment, the man remained still, his gaze never leaving the woman in his arms. He could feel the weight of the priest's words bearing down on him, like a mantle he had never asked for but somehow now had to bear. His heart raced as he searched for something — anything — to grasp hold of.

The priest stepped back, giving him space, but his eyes never left the man. There was an ancient wisdom in the way he observed, as if he knew something the man had yet to realize. The wind howled once more, the storm above them intensifying, but in that moment, it felt like the world itself held its breath.

The man's jaw clenched as he looked down at the woman, his heart thundering in his chest. He hadn't been prepared for this, for the weight of her life in his hands, for the responsibility he now carried. But the priest's words sank deep, igniting a fire in him he hadn't known existed. He could feel the call to action in his bones, the duty to protect, to save, to fight for her and the child.

He wasn't just a man anymore. He was the protector. The one who had been chosen.

Without another word, he gathered her into his arms, his hands moving carefully yet with purpose, cradling her close. This woman the river had not claimed — holding her like something sacred, something that fate had given him instead of taking more away. Her face was still pale, her breathing shallow, but there was something about her that pulled him forward, that made him refuse to let her slip away.

The priest, standing back with quiet reverence, watched as the man lifted her gently, his gaze never wavering from her frail form. The storm above them continued to rage, but in that moment, there was a quiet that settled in the space between them — a quiet of understanding, of fate, of something greater than either of them could fully comprehend.

"Go," the priest urged, his voice soft but insistent. "Take her. Protect her. And remember... the strength you need is within you."

The man nodded once, the weight of the moment settling upon him like a cloak. There was no turning back now. He could feel the shift in the air, the pressing need to protect, to shield her from everything that had come before and everything that could come next.

With one final, lingering glance at the priest, the man turned, carrying her into the storm, the power of his resolve and the force of his presence radiating around them. The storm may have raged, but in this moment, he was her shelter. He was her protector.

He clenched his jaw. His fingers curled against his knees. Every instinct in him — the protector, the mourner, the man who had come to let go — now screamed to hold on instead.

You weren't meant to die in that river, he thought. You were meant to be found.

A part of him — the part still draped in ritual and reverence — understood something else too. This wasn't just chance. He hadn't found her. He'd been led. The storm hadn't trapped him here; it had brought him to her.

And now, the ashes of his past had been scattered.

But the future?

The future breathed faintly beneath his cloak, its heartbeat not his, but bound to him now.

This is not where your story ends, he thought fiercely, watching her brow twitch in some distant dream. This is where it begins again. And I will not let them take anything more from you.

The oath took root in his chest like iron, forged without words. He didn't need to know her name yet. Didn't need to know the faces of those who had harmed her.

All he needed to know was this:

She had survived the storm.

And now, so had he.

The wind howled again, the weather shifting with an almost unnatural force. But all he could focus on was the woman in his arms, the river's cold grip still lingering on her skin.

He looked to the trees, to the sky, then back to her.

This was the one he had been meant to find.

His past had been carried away by the river.

And in return, the river had delivered something back.

A beginning.

 ♡

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