The necessary shit. (If that sounded disdainful, it was.)

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to actual events, characters, persons, alive or dead, or beings of Earth or the multiverse, past, present or future, is purely coincidental. Unless, of course, I'm psychic, in which case this is a work of non-fiction. But I highly doubt that, I'm not that attuned. I mean if I was, I’d have won Powerball by now and been able to afford creative writing classes. And a proofreader.

Be forewarned, these writings, including this warning, may trigger some issue or issues that you have. Either by the language used or it’s content in general. If you are one to get bothered by every little thing, you have to make a decision now. You have two choices. One, you can decide, you can be a mature adult about things and continue. Or Two, you can decide, you can't, in which case just close it now and step away from wherever the hell it is that you are reading this.

he sunlight revels through the leaves of the trees, embracing the silhouette of a girl in a ramshackle chair.

She's a little smaller than average. Graceful, in an uncoordinated way. With blonde hair, that falls fluidly, almost halfway down her back. There's a star away look, in her glacier-blue eyes, that makes her appear, younger than her years. And so much more innocent, than the sorrows she’s endured.

Her face, is airy and thread worn. Yet, there lies in it, a countenance of steeled determination. Hidden, ever so cleverly, by that day dreamy gaze.

It's a doe-eyed visage, that obscures the vivid glow, of a fiery, calm, resilience.

Calloused, dexterous fingers, smooth the wrinkles in her garment, as she, methodically, eyes the body of the stranger, laying in the bed, beside the chair where she sits.

For seventeen days she's been here. Alone with her thoughts and chores. In silence mostly. Save, for the sounds of the life outside and the, more than occasional, groans of agony, from that same unconscious form.

Urgent sounds break the stillness, prompting a rush of adrenaline. Fueling her. Surrounding her. Her fatigued mind flares. Her overtaxed body rises towards action. Her arms strain to the sky, stretching a will into the thew.

The light fondly touches upon her pale skin, caressing through the gossamer fabric of an old lace curtain. A relic, of this odd, aged place, that she's fashioned, quite nicely, into a practical sundress. The vision, within the chiffon that she dons, whispers of her points and curves. Hinting, reverently, at the multitude of scars that call her skin home.

Scars, that rival those on the body of the man, that writhes in pain, prostrate, on the makeshift bed she sits vigil over.

Those urgent appeals repeat their call. So, she reaches for the rag in the wooden bowl at her feet. And tenderly washes his wound ravaged body. With a practiced patience and an intrinsic care.

Tendrils of steam rise, from the ivory, cotton cloth, hinted with the essences of mint and clove. And other spices and oils, that she’s mixed together, to aid his healing.

The cloth touches him softly. Affectionate in it's task. His body trembles, sighs, then settles again, as her fingers delicately guide it along every curve. Tracing lines along paths she now knows so well.

Her breasts swell and ache, as the purled fabric, of her dress, teases upon the more rigid flesh, of their tender, dark protrusions. She fights off the desire it instills, while relishing in the energy it invokes within her.

Focusing her will on her calling. She strengthens her shoulders and exhales, fortifying her attention on the healing. Earnestly ignoring the seductive calling of the flesh. Flesh that glistens, with each passing of the rag, as her hand smooths, over every familiar inch.

A moan, different in message, escapes his throat and tests that resolve with vigor. She grinds against the chair anxiously.

There's a shift and a stirring, in one particular muscle. The one just on the edge of the swabs healing touch. She can scent her own heat building. And she wiggles away, once more, from the urge, that calls her focus, to that restless place within her. That inner sanctum, where her desire, is tenuous, anxious and growing.

For far too many days she's been aware of the others heat. It’s an aromatic aura, like musk. Clean and heady and tinged with a saltiness. It mixes with her own fragrance and makes her skin go flush. Her mouth waters. Her spine tingles.

She dips the cloth one last time in the bowl and washes his face affectionately. Paying delicate attention to, the almost fully healed, wounds, still red and raw on his cheek.

Finished, with this repetitious ritual, she rises from the chair and walks out of the cabin. Reverently spreading the cloth to dry, atop the cabin's weathered, porch rail.

Her arms reach fervently to the heveans. She sways and stretches, breathes in slow and deep, closes her eyes, exhales slowly and sighs.

The wind whispers around her, teasing her. Exciting her nerves, causing shivers in her skin. Trembles, that will the fine flaxen hair, on her arms and legs, to spring to life. They rise, in an effort, to capture the last warmth of the waning sun. Entrancing the energy it offers.

Pulling off the sundress, she half skips, half runs, to the misty falls, that cascade from the cut in the mountain and flow down to the pond nestled at it's base. The water pulses down upon her, buffeting away the pain of her toil, heating out the stress and carrying away the salt, grit and grime from her chores.

Dewy rivulets dance their way down her body. Not in a rush, but with a slow, caressing, almost playful descent. They trickle and smooth over her ankles, and glide off her feet with a hint of sadness. Then they scramble across the stones and become one again, in the pooling pond, that nuzzles comfortably around her toes.

She steps from the spray and breathes in deep, then points herself to her toils. Gathering wood and fruit and finally checking on the fish traps. Her eyes reveling in the sight of a trout, that wriggles slowly, in the weave of sticks and grasses that ensnare it.

"Thank you, for energy and life." She solemns, "I try honor to that you give. Become spirit, Be free."

Her hand touches a stick to the fishes head. A light-green spark pulses between them. A translucent blue shape, of piscean form, smooths out of the creatures body. It goes slack. The opalescent glow drifts it's way into the waters and disappears. Into the ripples, with a flick of it's tail.

Her time, is entirely consumed with activities. Unplanned. Compulsive. Sometimes, seemingly cruel, in their frequency.

Nursing him has occupied almost all of her days. Ensuring their survival, much of the rest. From sun up to sun down she takes care of the mundane. You can find her outside, chopping wood, collecting water, or gathering food and ingredients from the valley around them. Never far from the sound of him, just in case he should stir.

When the moon takes it's turn in the sky, it changes her course but not her momentum. She sits at the table, mixing liniments, potions and teas. Or, cross-legged on the floor, by the fireplace, turning fruits and berries into a loose syrupy manna. An infusion she feeds him three or four times a day. When time affords she crafts what she can, out of the few resources the cabin has left. Like the dress she wears when she tends him, or the chairs she's repaired with sticks and sisal, that she's found scattered across this isolated vale.

The only times she takes for her health, is when she eats, drinks, and catnaps. The only time she takes for herself is when she bathes. The cool, clear, crispness of the pooling pond is enticing. Energizing to her soul. The warm, almost hot, water of the falls, cleansing to her body and mind. The short walks and the breeze on her wet, bare, flesh are reviving.

Time gives her little cause for thought. But she can feel an end is near. So she feeds the fire and cooks the fish and thinks on the last few days. Trying to put some understanding to what has happened here and why.

"What we know?" She thinks, half out loud, to the comatose man just a few feet away. "Well, we come to this place in a 'culiar way. An energy, I never felt, not learned, not even thought could exist, caught me up. Then you there, I touch out to you. Then... We here. Plopped right in that stream, right there. With nothin on, but the sun. Then, the energy that lift us here just left and got away. Like fog in the morning. I saw the cabin. You hurt bad. So I carry you here. There been nothing awkway since… less, you count this place. A Cabin. By a lake. In the hollow of a mountain. In a valley, I'm sure no map ‘members… If one ever knew at all."

He shifts and groans and writhes some more.

She grabs the kettle from the hearthstone, fills the little wooden bowl half way with the healing wash, retrieves the towel from the rail and pauses, for just a moment, to look out on this curious, little vale.

"If one knew this place here, they be here," she continues, "And this cabin, it old and lonesome. Can feel that. And this valley has way of it’s own. It feels 'live… crafty."

Softly, on tipped-toe, she breezes back to her stirring companion, sits down, strengthens her back and takes up the task she’s come, so well, to know.

She is, essentially, alone in this place and, with the exception of the wildlife that scurries outside, her mind has few distractions to keep her from her charge. Sure, there's the bird that comes to eat the pickings that she gives and the rabbit that's taken to sitting on her lap, when she sits in the short grass, chewing straw. But their conversations, are somewhat lacking. And they offer her brain little more than innocent stimulation.

Her attention is set on mending the man. And he's been wordless, since the moment he came to her care.

He is the central point of her activity, the primary focus that keeps her moving, through these isolated days and nights. She is dedicated to easing his pain and getting his body healed. And she's honestly thankful for the purpose and the task.

But, having him here is a triple edged mercy. One side good. The other two, more than a little unkind.

Though his presence offers her little time to think on her solitude, it also grants her very little rest. And the body, though average in almost every way, teases at her mind and her intimacies. Especially, when the fire's light tempts upon his skin, enhancing his form wistfully, with it's hypnotic tempo and shadowy dance. She watches as her hand moves over the knee, up across his thigh, transfixed on the bare skin, left glistening, behind the satin cloth’s glistening path.

She has memorized every muscle and sinew. Every bend of his still listless form. Every scar. Every hair. Every shape.

Still, sometimes, she is taken by surprise. Like when her hand touches a sensitive, pleasurable nerve. And there's a certain throb. To a certain flesh. Or, when he moans, the way he did just a short time ago.

For quite a few days she's felt that too.

The task once more complete. She splashes her face and fights off her desires, finishes her meal, rises from her chair and crushes some berries and herbs. Or stokes the fire. Anything, to distract from these unyielding yearnings.

She crosses the threshold and steps on the porch. Removes her dress. And just stands there. Feeling the air and the sun, or the moon, or both, as is tonight’s case, flowing statically across her skin. Embracing her in their spirits. She closes her eyes just to listen to the sounds of the life that’s around her.

The water, babbles in the stream, steadying her thoughts. The birds, gently sing their songs, giving her a whimsy. The leaves rustle a calm in the air.

Then that stirring calls her back.

It always calls her back.

She grabs her frock, donning it nimbly, and listens again to the sound. Because she thinks, she's mistaken, or maybe, her ears are playing tricks. But she swears she hears a word start to form. It's been so long since she's heard a voice, other than her own, that it takes a minute for her brain to translate it. And even longer for her heart to register it as real.

And there it is again. Raspy and low.

'Where?'

She drifts across the floor, nimbly, takes his hand in hers, kissing his forehead with a tender acquaintance, and whispers, "Shhhhh , It's okay. Hush now, you safe." She strokes the back of her fingers from his temple to his chin, "Shhhhh, just rest, don't fret… Shhh," and she, like so many times before, starts to hum.

It's the same lilting lullaby, she's used, to both, ease his mind, and keep her own thoughts at bay.

There's more color in the face, she notices, as his hazel-green eyes, wearily, close. His breathing shallows and he drifts away. Towards, a more comfortable sleep.

"Cheep! Cheep!" she hears from the cutout of a window.

"A'most there," she muses, to the bird on the sill. His head cocks to one side in curiosity. "You see, he be up on his feet, feeding you seeds in no time… If they do such things where he from," she wonders aloud, "So run along now, go play, I still work to do."

There's a flurry and flutter as the bird takes flight, tweeting and chirping on his way to his nest. The puff from his wings cools on her neck, sending a tickle down her spine that makes her shiver. She settles in the chair, one more time, and embarks on her nightly calling.

The shadows inch lazily along the floor as she eats.

A frantic rustling of fabric catches her ear. She casts her eyes upon him. The shakes start. Just twitches at first, then, with a rush, they come on him hard.

She grabs the quilt, from the mantle over the fireplace and makes her way back to his side. With a strength in her step that defies her exhaustion.

She slips off her gown, with an elegant ease, placing it over the back of the chair. The muscles of her legs flex and draw as she slides onto the patchwork, of rags and pelts, and nuzzles up against him, to give him her warmth. His breath teases on her cheek as she gently covers his body with hers, pulling the blanket, snugly, over them both.

The touch and the heat of his skin against hers awakens the tempest inside her anew. So, she does what she does and she hums.

The fireplace crackles. Sparks fly in a hurried unison up the flue. Ash and ember fall to the stone and dance a fiery waltz.

His spasms wane.

Tendrils of smoke reach out from the chimney and get swept up and away, in swirls on the breeze.

His body relaxes and stills.

The humming subsides.

The fire now just a glow.

His fever breaks.

His body settles into a calm.

She giggles when as her belly grumbles with hunger, even though her mind aches with the same ferocity for sleep.

She stands from the bed, careful not to wake him, slips on her dress, walks back to the table and sits. With a thump. The fruits and tea taste a little bit... sweeter. Sensing that her task is near completion, she allows her mind a little time to wander.

The moon light casts images, of the leaves, on the sill, the table and the floor. They shift and flicker with a narcotic cadence. Sparkles, on the waters of the brook, call her into their captivating grip. She thinks on the years she's spent mostly alone in her world and wonders what his world, and this one, are like beyond this valley.

"Cheep!"

She looks up. The little bird curiouses his head side to side. She picks up a red berry and holds it out for him to eat from her fingertips. His tiny beak pecks the meat from the raspberry, careful not to nip her. Her eyes, heavy and dry, unconsciously drift towards the man in the bed .

"It's habit," she guesses, but it could be something more.

She returns to the chair by his bedside, finishes her snack and tea and, with sated stomach and a sigh of relief, she arches her back and stretches. Drifting off and away into dreams of her own.

Visions fill her head, of flesh and light. She grinds in the chair. Teased by the scents of their bodies as they intermingle and swirl all around her. They find their way, deep inside her, and tantalize her blood. Enticing her, with a carnal pulse, from way down in the depths of her core. She wakens with a shudder. A moist heat and an uncomfortable throbbing grow within her, causing her to moan with an appetite that’s not for food. She is too tired to fight it. But way too weary to give in.

---

Darkness, gives way to light. The chatter of the morning fills the air. The new day's sun shines upon the eyes of the man in the bed.

He wakes with a start, in a place unfamiliar. His vision is unfocused and burns in the brilliance. His ears pound with the sound of his own heart and the cacophony of life around him. His brain fills with remembrances, of death and agony and blood and screams. His own screams. His own agony. He can smell the fear of those around him.

Panicked eyes dart around the room searching for an escape as adrenaline courses through his veins and set his thoughts ablaze.

The blinding light focuses through the window, snapping his attention to the figure in white, sleeping fitfully in the rickety chair, standing vigil over his bed.

A face comes to view, alien yet familiar, adorned in a serenity that settles his pulse and tenders his pulse.

The sun’s rays silhouette her curves as they glow upon her skin, flickering through the diaphanous cloth, offering him a glimpse, of her. His pulse quickens, anew, at urges more rousing. More passionate than animal or cruel.

Figments, of days past, filter through him fondly. Her soft healing touch, the firmness of her breast against his chest, the warmth of the energy she seemed to will into him, and that soft soothing melody she hummed. A gentle, encouraging hymn, that charged him against surrender. He can hear it play on the back of his mind. Calming. Soothing.

From where these visions come, he does not know. From where she has come, and how they happened to this place, he realizes he's blind to that too. He watches as the light touches on her face and, as her chest rises and falls, reveals more to him of her subtle charms.

She looks soul-spent, but beautiful.

He turns to his side and grimaces at the stiffness in his neck and shoulders, his neck cracks and he freezes, in an excruciating moment of ecstatic release.

She wakes, just like she's done every time the bed's creaked under the return of his discomfort.

She stretches her back, raises her arms to the sky with a stiff, side to side sway, then opens her eyes to check on his state. She smiles when she sees him awake. His pain now at ease.

Her eyes spark with an energy that seems to command her body to life and, with a slow and deliberate effort, she stands from her vigil, slips off her dress, places it on the seat and drifts towards him, watching his attention embrace her, as she silently closes the distance between.

His eyes dilate as they trace the contours of her hips and the delicate curves of her waist. They track the scars, that flow from just under her chest, then up her ribs, only to wane from his view, behind the soft indentation in the crook of her arm. She flushes as they widen at the sight of her small, but firm, breasts, and again when they touch upon the subtle mound of flaxen curls that adorns her sex.

Their eyes meet again and he sees a longing. No. He sees a knowing. A burning and honest sense of things that drowns out the distance of their unfamiliarity. Entwining their fates, within a single thread.

She leans to the fabric and grips the edge.

He doesn't protest when she pulls the blanket from him, or as she nestles her body into his. It's a comfort he remembers from somewhere within the haze.

She places her head on his chest and exhales. Content, and happy. He pulls the blanket over them both, wrapping an aching arm around her. Her hand falls delicately on his chest and she settles into a much deserved and very deep rest.

The questions, in his mind, somehow, don't matter in this moment. They'll just have to wait until time decides to reveal them. He brings her in tighter, brushes the hair off her face and falls into a gentler sleep. One that’s finally free of pain and, kindly, void of nightmares.