out, through the leaves...I almost had it. My fingertips brushed against its smooth, perfect surface. But then I heard a sound. Someone was clearing his throat. The deep rumble was so close behind me it startled me and I lost my grip, tumbling to the ground in an unruly heap.
Slightly dazed from my fall, I looked up to see the most striking vision I had ever laid eyes on.
A man.
He was very tall and backlit by the sun so that his lit silhouette was framed by a wash of bright, molten gold. The shape of him was somehow superb, as though he’d been carved by a master. I could see the colors of him and the details of his white shirt, loose and open at the neck to reveal the tanned skin of his throat. His shirt was exceptionally well made and of high-quality cotton but worn to the point of visible softness. Strapped around his waist was a thick leather belt that holstered two weapons: a gold-handled hunting knife and an exceedingly large sword that was not sheathed in a scabbard but slung bare and shiny into its looped harness. That exposed blade seemed to signify something, purposefully advertising not only its gargantuan size but its artful craftsmanship. He has the biggest sword of them all. His leather trews were tucked into tall boots. On his wrist was a wide leather band adorned with gold ornamentation and he wore a gold chain around his neck that was mostly hidden from view inside his shirt. His hair was a deep midnight-black and hung past the collar of his shirt in thick, sun-glinted skeins, curling slightly at the ends. He wore a small braid at either temple, as his traveling guards had also done: a Highlands warrior custom. I noticed all these details abstractly; it was his face and his demeanor that riveted me most of all. His posture was upright but relaxed, utterly confident. Power seemed to radiate from the wide set of his shoulders in heatlike, shimmery waves. The features of his face were bold but aristocratic, from the wide, straight nose to the carved, masculine jaw roughened by the light shadow of stubble. Strong, black, expressive eyebrows arched slightly with a note of absorbed assessment. And his irises, arresting in their charcoal-rimmed pale gray glow, as though alight from within. Long, thick black lashes brushed almost elegantly against his cheeks as he closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, there was a flash of bemused satisfaction. His full lips curved in an arrogant pout that wasn’t a smile.
“And who,” he said, his deep voice curling into me with unusual effect, “might you be?”
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