She nestles against his neck, breathing in the scent of blood and death and sheer forest. He doesn't know to hold to hold a woman, doesn't know how to do anything save fuck them witless, then disappear into a shadow, but then this strange creature shivers, and Teyr finds himself stripping his cloak and hood, wrapping it around brown shoulders.
This girl, she doesn't even thank him, only steals what little breath is in his lungs away, the thieving woman- Teyr thinks. But, is she really a woman? With the soft fullness of her cheek that Teyr aches to reach out and touch, with the soft downy curls (they are blacker than night he thinks) covering her brow and tumbling down past her neck. He can't believe that she is a woman. She is a maid, he dares to think, She is my maid.
She is till a girl.
She is still so young.
She is still so unknowingly naive of the ways of the forest, of outlaws. She doesn't belong in this world, his world of lost boys and merry men and murders and thieves but she is here now.
And he cannot bring himself to let her go.