The wind whistling through the cracks in the old oak wood walls woke Rubie before dawn had even begun to paint the distant snow-capped peaks pink. She sat up, the aching pain from yesterday's fall still lingering in her knees, reminding her that this wasn't a bad dream, but her new life.
The room was silent. Rowan's resting place in the corner by the fireplace was now just a smooth woolen blanket, its warmth long since dissipated. Her inherent shyness made Rubie's heart skip a beat; the fear of abandonment, a fear that had taken root since her mother's carriage disappeared, surged within her. She hastily threw on her velvet cloak, already covered in wood dust, and awkwardly slipped her feet into the new deerskin boots Rowan had brought home the night before. The boots were a little too big, and the strong smell of animal hide was slightly unpleasant for a young lady accustomed to the scent of rose perfume like her, but the warmth from the sheepskin lining enveloped her feet with an unusually secure feeling.
Rubie gently pushed open the heavy wooden door. A rush of thin, icy air filled her lungs, causing her to cough a few times.
Behind the house, amidst the hazy mist, Rowan's pale figure emerged like a spirit of the mountains. He wasn't wearing a thick coat, only a faded, coarse cloth shirt. His pale hands were busily scooping up handfuls of mud mixed with dry straw to patch the cracks in the walls. His slender fingers were now stained with dirt and sand, his fingernails covered in black mud.
Rubie stood there, silently observing. She had never seen anyone work so hard just to prepare for a storm. In the city, when winter came, servants would bring extra coal, draw the velvet curtains, and tightly close the crystal-clear windows. But here, survival was measured by handfuls of mud and the labor of their hands.
"You... what are you doing?" – Rubie's voice was tiny, quickly fading into the sound of the mountain wind.
Rowan didn't stop working; he just tilted his head slightly, his platinum blonde hair obscuring his dull white eyes. He took a deep breath, his sensitive nose twitching slightly.
"The smell of a storm," he replied, his voice abrupt and dry like snapping wood. "It's going to snow heavily this afternoon. If you don't patch these holes properly, you'll find snow all over your face while you sleep tonight."
Rubie moved a little closer, her bright blue eyes scanning the mud at her feet. She felt utterly useless. She had beautiful eyes, radiant blonde hair, but she didn't know how to stop a storm, nor how to keep herself warm. A feeling of self-pity crept into her mind, but looking at Rowan's serious and focused expression, a strange sense of respect suddenly arose within her.
"I... I can help, can't I?" she asked hesitantly, her delicate hands clasped together.
Rowan stopped what he was doing. He turned, staring intently at Rubie's clean, white hands as if they were something utterly alien and frivolous. He sighed, his breath carrying a cloud of white mist.
"Help? Are you planning to use those delicate hands of yours to play in the mud?" – He said sarcastically, but there was no malice in his voice, only a harsh truth. – "Go inside and light the fire. Learning how to keep the fire going is what you need to do. In the Alps, fire is life. Don't let the fireplace be empty of cold ashes when I get back."
Having said that, he bent down again, continuing his work, even as the chill began to seep through his thin coat. Rubie stood silently for a long time, watching his lonely figure silhouetted against the gray sky. She wasn't angry at being scolded; on the contrary, she felt a heavy responsibility weighing on her shoulders. Rowan was protecting the house, and he had asked her to protect the fire. A silent division of labor between two people with no other choice.
She turned and walked inside, her heavy animal-hide boots clattering on the ground, carrying the bitter taste of mud and the scent of an impending storm.
The dry, crackling sound of flint striking against flint echoed through the empty room. Rubie knelt on the floor, her cheeks flushed red from the heat of her struggle and the rising tide of self-pity. Her hands, accustomed only to holding needles, embroidering silk, or turning the pages of books fragrant with ink, were now covered in tiny scratches.
The sharp edges of the flint cut into her soft skin, causing drops of bright red blood to seep out and soak into the gray ash on the floor. Rubie pressed her lips together, not daring to cry. She remembered Rowan's words: "Crying won't burn the wood." She didn't want to be looked down upon by him, didn't want to be a useless "porcelain doll" waiting for pity.
But the cold from the surrounding wooden walls still seeped in, and the small fire she had just kindled was extinguished by a gust of wind blowing through the crack in the door. Rubie let her hands drop, looking at the bloodstains beginning to dry on her fingers, her heart heavy with bitter disappointment.
The wooden door creaked open, and Rowan entered, bringing with him a blast of icy air. He stopped when he saw the still-cold pile of firewood and Rubie's slumped figure. His dull eyes glanced at her hands, hastily hidden behind her skirt.
Rowan didn't scold her. He simply walked silently to her side, picked up a flint, and with three decisive strokes, the fire blazed brightly. He remained silent until the meager dinner of boiled potatoes.
Late that night, when Rubie was exhausted and had fallen asleep by the fireplace, Rowan remained awake. In the flickering firelight, he pulled a scrap of animal hide from his pocket, and busied himself with a bone needle and coarse thread made of animal tendon.
Rowan's hands were large and rough; holding the tiny needle seemed more difficult than carrying a heavy sack of firewood. He squinted, trying to see each stitch in the dim light. The needle pricked his fingers at least a dozen times, causing him to curse softly under his breath, but he patiently continued sewing. He didn't know how to sew like a nobleman; he sewed instinctively, trying to create something that could cover the girl's delicate hands.
The next morning, when Rubie awoke to the sound of snow pattering on the roof, she found a strange object on her knee.
It was a pair of animal skin gloves, their stitching so crooked, uneven, and clumsy it was laughable. The coarse thread was sticking out, and the fur lining was still matted. But when Rubie put them on, she found them strangely warm. They clung to her injured hands, shielding the still-aching cuts.
Rubie looked around. Rowan was standing by the window, his back to her. He was trying to hide his hands – his fingers also riddled with needle marks from the night before.
"This..." – Rubie hesitated, her voice trembling with emotion.
"Don't look at me like that," Rowan snapped softly, but his ears flushed against his snow-white skin. "It's your ladylike hands that have soiled my flint. Put it on while you work, and from now on, don't let blood spill all over the house."
Rubie bowed her head, a faint smile appearing on her lips. She knew that behind those abrupt reprimands was a heart trying to learn how to warm another person, however clumsy the method might be.
Night fell over the Alps as quickly as a thick, black velvet curtain was pulled down. Outside, the wind whistling through the cracks in the wooden door sounded like the groaning of a hungry beast. But inside the small house, the fire Rubie had painstakingly built that afternoon was now burning brightly, casting a warm, orange glow that danced on the clumsy animal skin gloves she still wore.
Rowan sat opposite her across the fire, his dull white eyes reflecting the flickering flames. He no longer had the harshness he had during the day, but a strange gentleness. They sat there, amidst the pungent scent of pine smoke and the crackling of dry wood, the silence no longer threatening, but a space for broken souls to find solace in each other.
"The villagers..." – Rubie hesitated, her voice as fragile as morning mist – "Did they... did they treat you well?"
Rowan paused for a moment as he stirred the ashes in the kitchen with a twig. He subtly curved his lips, a smile devoid of any joy.
"Well? Perhaps," he said slowly. "They treated me like some kind of 'bad luck charm.' Whenever someone fell ill or livestock died, they would look toward this house with apprehension. But they also pitied me. They threw me a dry piece of bread or some rotten potatoes because I was an orphan, a child 'who shouldn't exist.' That pity was sometimes even more terrifying than hatred, Rubie."
Rubie looked at Rowan's mud-stained hands clasped tightly together. Her heart ached. It turned out that behind his blunt exterior lay a heart worn down by the judgmental stares of the past fifteen years.
"And you?" Rowan suddenly looked up, his dull white eyes staring directly into her bright blue eyes. "Why did your mother leave you here? A young lady like you should be in the palace, not in this corner learning how to light a fire."
Rubie lowered her head, her long, golden hair falling down to partially obscure her sorrowful face. She fiddled with her new gloves, feeling the rough sheepskin under her palms.
"My mother... she treated me like a commodity, Rowan." "Her voice trembled. "Mr. Black is rich and powerful; she needs the title 'Mrs. Black' to return to high society. My presence is a stain, a reminder of a past she wants to erase. I'm not her daughter; I'm just an obstacle that needs to be hidden away somewhere no one can find me."
She looked up, two hot tears rolling down her cheeks, reflecting the blazing red firelight.
"You and I... we're alike, aren't we? Both rejected by others."
Rowan didn't reply. He simply looked at her silently, for the first time in his dull white eyes there was no wariness or sarcasm, only profound understanding. In the dimly lit room, two fourteen- and fifteen-year-old children sat opposite each other, without vows or passionate touches. They simply saw their own pathetic, lonely reflections in each other's eyes.
That empathy was as silent as the falling snow outside, yet more enduring and steadfast than any flowery words. That night, in the only house in the Alps, the two outcasts found a reason to continue enduring the long winter ahead.
As night deepened, the Alps' cold grew more relentless. The wind whistling through the pine needles outside was no longer a rustling sound, but a long, eerie howl, like the wailing of vengeful spirits. Inside the house, the fire burned, but it wasn't enough to ward off the biting cold that permeated every fiber of the wood.
Rubie huddled on her small bed, her thin shoulders trembling beneath the rough sheepskin blanket. The deerskin boots and gloves Rowan had given her couldn't keep out the chill rising from the stone floor, penetrating to her very bones. But more terrifying than the cold itself was the darkness and silence of the house. Every time a dry branch struck the corrugated iron roof, Rubie jumped, her timid heart pounding.
She glanced towards the fireplace. Rowan was still sitting there, leaning against the wall, his dull white eyes closed as if fast asleep. The flickering fire cast his shadow on the wall, solitary and silent.
"Rowan..." Rubie whispered, her voice trembling with cold and fear.
The white shadow didn't move.
"Rowan... I... I'm so cold." This time she risked calling out a little louder, her voice tinged with the sobs of a child about to cry.
Rowan slowly opened his eyes. He squinted towards the bed, where Rubie's blonde hair peeked out from under the blankets like a fading ray of sunlight.
"Just bear with it. It's snowing, it'll be even colder tomorrow," he replied curtly, intending to close his eyes.
But Rubie didn't give up. Loneliness and fear of the dark suddenly overwhelmed even the shyness of a young lady. She scrambled up, dragging the heavy blanket with her, and cautiously made her way to the fireplace. She sat down right next to Rowan, her bright blue eyes brimming with tears as she looked at him pleadingly.
"Can I... can I sit here with you? It's too dark and cold over there. I'm scared..." she murmured, her gloved hand clumsily grasping the hem of his shirt, tugging gently as if whining. "You're so big, you must be very warm. Let me sleep with you, just for tonight..."
Rowan was stunned. His whole body stiffened like a block of ice. In his fifteen years of existence, no one had ever approached him, let alone asked to "sleep together" for warmth. His pale cheeks suddenly flushed, and an unprecedented feeling of confusion spread through his chest.
"You... what are you saying? You're a young lady, I'm..." Rowan tried to push her away, but when he saw Rubie's lips were pale with cold and tears welling up, the words of reprimand got stuck in his throat.
He sighed deeply, his face full of helplessness. Rowan moved aside, creating a small space next to the fire.
"Sit down here. But just sit!" – He snapped softly to hide his embarrassment – "Don't lean on me, I'm not your heater."
Rubie was overjoyed. She quickly spread out the blanket, enveloping both children. Despite Rowan's words, in the cramped and cold space, their arms still touched. The warmth from Rowan's body—the intense warmth of a highlander teenager—began to spread to Rubie.
She gently rested her head on his shoulder, ignoring Rowan's nagging. The white-haired teenager tried to push her away, but his hands were clumsy, and he just sat there motionless, his breathing becoming more rapid than usual.
That night, amidst the howling snowstorm of the Alps, two children sat huddled together by the dying embers of a fire. One was experiencing the feeling of being pampered for the first time, the other the feeling of protecting someone for the first time. Their bond remained pure, like the white of the snow, yet as enduring as the eternal limestone mountains.