Elsewhere, far from the darkness of the wild, beneath an oak moon, purifying snow drifts through the air.
He slows after the long, winding escape, the forest still stretching endlessly, blanketed in white, along the asphalt road.
Her naked hands are numb with cold, her arms wrapped tight around his torso as she soaks him in.
No words have been exchanged since he found her, and she prefers it this way, for although uncertainty of tomorrow looms, serenity ripples within her.
For she has already become sole with the soul of her beloved, riding the current of this blessed life... hand in hand with him.
Ivory-coated pines line the road, few of them twinkling with Christmas lights, a blurry dazzle in the darkness as they speed by,
far from the home they left behind in Vernellia.
Yet, she knows she could leave everything behind. Bare and unburdened, so long as her Father shelters them, so long as Rhett walks by her side.
As the street fades into a blinding fog behind them, a modest, honey-lit vintage inn glows amidst the pines, tucked along a narrow turn off the main road.
After the grim, uncertain hours spent without another trace of human life, hope finally unfurls within her.
Low fences, layered in snow, surround the inn beside a lamppost as he pulls to a stop at the roadside.
Slipping off the helmet, she slowly dismounts, her fingers threading through her wet, wind-tangled hair.
He dismounts the bike, unfastens his helmet, and stows it on the top case behind the seat before taking hers and putting it away as well.
His hair is tousled, his expression unreadable as he glances at her.
Without a word, he scoops her into his arms and carries her toward the inn, snow feathering around them.
As she worries over what he must be thinking or feeling, the tinkling chime of bells greets them as they enter.
The whoosh of the wintry wind is muffled as the door falls shut behind them, and he lowers her to the floor.
A chubby, kind-looking man with a greying beard greets them with a smile from behind the counter.
"Looking for shelter from the weather, I presume?" he asks, already ducking below the counter. A jingle of keys follows as he straightens again.
Neither of them answers as her fiancé takes her hand and leads her toward the counter.
"A pair of shoes as well?" A mild surprise slips into the inkeeper's tone.
Rhett's gaze falls to her feet, and her cheeks heat up, her toes curling in embarrassment at her wet, once-white socks, now blackened with grime.
Guilt, worry, and tenderness shadow his face as he looks at her. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"We've had worse walk in," the innkeeper says. "Some salve, and something dry should do. I suppose?"
"Yes," Rhett says.
The innkeeper nods before gesturing toward a door beside the counter. "Come along."
Intertwining their fingers, they follow the innkeeper into the small shoproom.
The scent of bitter herbs lingers in the air, woven with a musky trace of wood and the starchy smell of clothes. Her gaze moves over the array of glass jars with tiny labels,
lined along the rows of one wall, and the neatly folded shawls and boots stacked against the other.
"Hoard whatever you wish for." The innkeeper waves a hand toward the shelves.
She steps toward the small selection of sweaters and coats hanging from the rack.
Her fiancé studies the boots with a taut frown between his brows, the one that appears when his concentration runs deep.
Deciding on the grey and white oversized sweaters, for their smoother texture,
thickness, and seemingly better-preserved condition, she tucks them into her arms.
She turns just as Rhett lifts a pair of brown leather boots toward her.
"Not exactly comfortable," he says, his brow furrowing as he tests their weight. "But they're all they have in your size."
The innkeeper lifts a fist to his mouth, clearing his throat in disapproval, one arm tucked behind his back.
Neva only smiles at Rhett. "They'll do."
"This salve might be just what you're looking for." The innkeeper takes a mini, cylindrical jar of ointment.
"Homemade, with calendula and plantain leaf."
"We'll take it," he says before surveying the storeroom for something else. "Where do you keep your socks?"
"Here they are," the innkeeper declares, stepping aside to reveal a wicker basket filled with neatly folded socks.
Standing closer to the shelf, she checks the socks first.
Rhett approaches her with two pairs of woollen trousers and the boots. "Take whatever you need."
"I've got what I need," she replies, grabbing two pairs of grey socks in different sizes.
"What about underwear?" he asks nonchalantly.
Blushing, she glances toward the innkeeper, who only shrugs.
"I'm afraid we don't have any for women," the innkeeper declares, walking toward the door.
"I can have someone get for you from a nearby market in the morning. Now,
if you've finished, we can tally up your goods."
With nothing else left to purchase, they return to the counter and settle their payment.
"Room number six. Down the hall," the innkeeper announces from behind the counter, handing over the keys.
"As it says," Rhett remarks, studying the key, the number six sharply etched into the metal.
The innkeeper smiles. "Enjoy your stay."
The lobby leads to a lantern-lit, narrow corridor, the quiet broken by a cough somewhere behind the wooden walls as they reach the last room.
With a turn of the metal key, the door opens into pitch-black darkness. He switches on the light, an amber glow flooding the room to reveal a small but neat space with a single bed draped in lacy white canopy curtains, a nightstand, a closet, a fireplace, a single sofa, and a narrow rectangular wooden table.
"You should take a warm shower first," he suggests, the door humming closed behind them.
She lays their purchases across the table. His presence stirs behind her before his arms wrap around her, drawing her flush against him.
"Did you report it to the cops?" she asks quietly.
Without answering, he buries his face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in. "There's nothing they can do."
Her fingers curl against his hands. "What do you mean?"
An awful dread, like scattered nails, gnaws at her as he remains silent.
"Who is he, even?" Her voice falters. "Can we ever go back home?"
"Wherever you are, I'm home, Angel," he replies gently.
"He just showed up at our apartment," she explains. "He wanted me to come with him, but I refused.
Then he forced his way inside and knocked me unconscious. After that, I don't remember anything except waking up in his bedroom." Her throat tightens. "He's so very strange, Rhett. I'm scared."
His breathing grows uneven. "What did he want with you, Angel?"
Afraid he'll get the wrong idea, she hurriedly clarifies, "I don't know. He said he's been looking for me.
He said my grandpa took him in when he was eleven, and that we grew up together on an island. I don't remember its name. He also asked me about a bus accident that caused my amnesia. But you know it as well as I do, I had a car accident where I lost my parents and ten years' worth of memories," she adds slowly. "He wanted to help me recover them."
"You're sure you've never met him before?"
"No. Never. ...Rhett, what happens now?"
He gently turns her to face him, then strokes her cheek. "We'll have to move away for some time."
Her fingers curl into his jacket. "What about Aunt and Uncle. Are they safe?"
"They should be."
He offers no further reassurance, and her knees begin to weaken.
"Can't they come with us?"
"We can't risk any contact with them, Angel."
Unable to hold herself up any longer, she reaches for the bed and sinks onto the mattress.
He quietly moves toward the door branching off the wall beside the sofa, probably the bathing room.
With a heavy, burdensome heart, she tugs off her dirty socks, faint blood smearing the torn fabric.
He returns with a washbasin, a jug, and a towel.
"What are you doing?" she asks as he kneels before her.
He tenderly guides her feet into the basin. "Looking after my wife-to-be."
She doesn't reply, only watching as he tends to her feet, warm water cascading from the jug while he carefully cleans the cuts.
A small gasp escapes her as his finger glides over a cut rather carelessly.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, his breath shaking. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine," she assures him.
He carefully places her foot on his lap before patting it dry with the towel.
"Everything will change now, won't it?"
He reaches for the green jar of homemade salve, his fingers tracing carefully over the cut as he applies the soothing, slightly stinging salve.
"You and I won't, nor will our love and faith," he answers, his voice low. "Isn't that all that matters?"
"I'm sorry, Rhett," she croaks out, gripping the bedsheets tightly. "It's all my fault."
"No, Angel," he says, frowning.
"Come here." He enfolds her in his arms, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head as she silently lets her tears fall.
"I should've been there with you," he says. "You didn't have to go through that."
"Why... why is this happening to us?"
"I don't know, Angel."
"Are you upset with me?"
"No, Angel. I'm not."
His tender expression doesn't betray him, and he wipes her cheeks with his thumb.
"I'm only angry at myself for letting that happen to you. I couldn't forgive myself if—" His jaw hardens.
"You got me out of there. And I'm not hurt," she assures him, swallowing. "Cuddle with me, please."
A smile grazes his lips, and he unzips his jacket and reaches into one of the inner pockets before
pulling out a small, familiar square red velvet box.
"I guessed you might want it back."
He opens the box to reveal the engagement ring.
Taking her left hand, he slides it onto her fourth finger.
"I... I thought I might never see you again." Her tears burn anew.
"Nothing can take you away from me, Angel." He lifts her chin before sealing his affirmation with a kiss.
"Nothing," he repeats.
Gripping his collar, she pulls him into another kiss, and he gently lowers her onto the mattress.
Losing herself in him as the kiss deepens, the heat building between them in a slow wildness, she barely realises she's helped him pull off his jacket.
His rough hand glides against her skin, drawing her closer by the waist as his mouth
explores hers in a way that threatens to slip into something far more dangerous than it should.
A sudden spark of sense and sensibility reminds her of the effort they've put into their togetherness to honour the Lord and preserve the sacredness of their bodies until marriage, and she pushes against him.
"Rhett," she breathes, only for him to trace soft, lingering kisses along her neck.
"Not yet," she cautions him, voice catching. "Not yet."
He buries his face in the crook of her neck,
sighing deeply. "I want to make you mine," he mumbles. "Mine in every possible way."
"Wait... just a little longer," she trails off, fingers stroking his damp hair.
"Should we get married tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow?"
"I've got all our documents ready."
"I think we'll need a little more time for the paperwork and arranging the ceremony. And what about
my wedding dress, veil, makeup, and everything?"
"You could be dressed in rags, your face unwashed for days, your hair a mess, and still manage to look the most beautiful."
A smile spreads across her lips, and he kisses her forehead before settling beside her, his arms locking around her.
"What date is it, Rhett? And where is this place?"
"Twenty-sixth. We're in Solveria."
Solveria, an independent country just an hour and a half away from Erriador. Even though all her memories are threaded to being raised in France after the accident, Erriador is as much her homeland as it is Rhett's, and was to her late parents.
She was born here, spent ten years of her lost life with her parents here, and, over the past precious months, has made a home here again, in her apartment, church, college, among her friends and the churchgoers, in the familiar strangers she encounters in bakery cafés, in the amber-red streets, flower farms, and especially because of Rhett.
Carrying with her blessings, hopes, and dreams,
she came to Erriador. Who could've imagined she would have to bid it farewell so soon?
Yet, her fiancé is right. All they need is to be true to themselves, to each other, and to God; to let love be part of this world, a world with a mind of its own,
to play within its grim rules, and to prevail upon it.
"You found me so soon?"
"Not soon enough. But I had help."
"Who?"
"From up there. From some people down here."
She chuckles softly. "I need to take a bath."
He leans back enough to meet her eyes. "Can I join you?"
"No." A pause as she considers. "Do you want to bathe first?"
He only smiles, intertwining his fingers with hers and kissing her knuckles. "After you, Angel."
"I'll make it fast," she declares, beginning to rise before he pulls her back into another kiss.
And as she always does, she surrenders this gloomy hour, too, into her Heavenly Father's hands,
praying for their safety, for her aunt and uncle's,
and for Him to turn all the strange, vile intentions of the unknown future away from them. For in Him, even the most irreparable can be restored again.