The Inner Beast

It had already started to snow and lightening danced around her as Cloella pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Her fingers were numb and she fumbled with the hammer and last of the nails, having pursued on until the gaping hole was boarded up. Life had changed when the soldiers came, and their battle broke out less than half a mile from her small house; the cannon ball that tore a hole into her roof had been another unwelcome encounter. Even now it was difficult to tell if it were really lightening and thunder from the sky above her, or just more of the growling, grumbling and spewing forth from the big guns. Being a girl of only nineteen, and facing her first winter alone since the fever took her mother, father and two older brothers, Cloella preferred to take the noises and horrible flashes as part of the snowstorm.
Carefully she straightened up again on the ladder, bracing her slim white hands against the back of her trim waist and stretching her spine. The sun was all but set; she’d been crouched over for at least an hour. What she wouldn’t give to have a man, a husband, to take on such chores, but there were no men out here in the desolate Western Woods. There was only her, and lately, a few hundred soldiers whom she could hear at night, but never see face to face.
The previous night she’d dreamed of encountering one of those soldiers, a tall, magnificent warrior with striking blue eyes, who had fallen in love with her. It was in the middle of that dream that the cannon ball crashed through her roof, rousing her from her sleep and startling the dream out of her head. But, now as she descended the ladder with the wind blowing her long red tresses about her face, she thought back to that dream. There had been a time before the fever ravaged her family that she had time and money for social events, and silk dresses and suitors, whom she had many of. Young men and old men lined up for her, all wanting a “favor” of hers to treasure, a lock of her hair, a leisurely stroll, one of her dance cards. They wrote her sweet but horrible poetry about her azure eyes, flame red hair, alabaster skin, sweet lips, and the curves of her form. Cloella smiled now thinking back to those days, and for a brief second regarded that it would not be such a rare thing for some soldier, passing by, to see her and instantly fall in love with her. Or would it now? She was no longer an eligible and courtable young lady; she was the soul-surviving member of her family, and a slave to the upkeep of what was left of their home.
She heard the unmistakable echo of guns before she could even begin to feel sorry for herself. With the musket fire came the sounds of men yelling and clamoring about, and horses neighing in fury, the wintery night carrying their voices to her ears in almost perfect clarity. She rolled her eyes, glancing up towards the hole she’d just patched and hoping they would take tonight’s skirmish elsewhere, when she again heard the sound of muskets, men yelling, grunting, growling, and the horse, angrier than before. She swore she could hear it’s hooves pounding against the frozen ground, and then the clinging of metal on metal, like swords slashing away at one another, and then suddenly meeting with flesh, and bone. Another musket fired, and a man groaned a noise more beast-like than human. She stood still, not wanting to listen but not able to block out the sounds. She felt even colder now than she had before, and her small feet refused to move from the spot where she stood listening helplessly.
The gunfire ceased, the yelling and grunting of men also stopped, but before Cloella could breathe a sigh of relief, the sound of horse’s hooves grew stronger, and louder, and closer, and closer. She gasped, for weaving it’s way in between the trees came the biggest blackest horse she’d ever seen; its rider was an indistinguishable lump in the saddle that seemed to have no control over his powerful mount. She felt her face go pale and she wanted to run, but again her feet remained fettered in the snow. The big horse slowed to a trot as it neared her, tossing its head as if beckoning her towards him and his master, who slumped over the animals strong shoulders. Blood spotted the snow they’d ridden upon, and the horse kept a slow pace directly towards Cloella, who could now make out the black high collared cape, wild hair and rapier that was still clutched in the rider’s hand, and the fiercely pointed teeth, clenched in agony. This was no ordinary wounded soldier; this was The Hessian.
He was barely conscious, or even aware that Daredevil had taken him safely into the thickness of the woods and away from the enemy that had dared to place a shot midway between the breast and belly of The Hessian. He knew only the dizziness of the burning pain and the fatigue from the blood he’d lost. He felt his horse stop suddenly, heard him toss his noble head and mutter a low rumble to someone or something that stood before them both. His vision was clouded, but in the dimming light he thought he could make out red hair blowing in the cold wind, and the sloping hourglass form of a woman. He attempted to shift himself more upright to get a better look, when his weakened state saw him able only to drop onto the snowy ground in a heap by Daredevil’s feet, and then all became black.
Cloella trembled, what was she to do? The towns’ people, all distant neighbors, spoke of the Hessian as being more monster than man, cold blooded, a fiend with an insatiable lust for blood. And now, here he was, laying two feet away from her, not moving, not breathing—Was he dead?! Without thinking, she dropped to her knees, reaching out to the large form before her and brushing his cape back from where it obscured his face. Then she bent over him, her breasts pressing against his strong arm as she laid her ear against his chest, listening for a heartbeat. He groaned before she could discern any other sign of life from him, and she jumped back, half afraid that she’d hurt him, and half fearing that he was about to come up swinging at her with his rapier and lop off her head. But, he didn’t move, other than his hand gently closing around a stray lock of her hair, not relinquishing it, and she suddenly understood that it was her touch that had brought forth the noise, not due to pain or warning, but more from some sort of sad longing that instantly made her decide to give him shelter and aid.
The Hessian lay still unconscious, lost in the delirium of his injury, when suddenly the scent of a woman filled his nostrils, and her soft head pressed down over his chest. He’d given up being caressed by women; he was a mercenary, a beast, and a warrior, there was no woman who wanted any part of him. And so it had been for years, but even in his unconscious state, a deluge of stimulations from his younger days, days before killing had become his business, washed over him, and he was helpless to suppress his longing groan.
Gently, Cloella reclaimed her lock of hair from his grasp and looked down at his full form. He was easily a foot taller than she was, and probably twice as heavy as herself. She needed to get him inside and into a bed soon, the falling snow was beginning to stick. She sighed and looked up to the great black horse before her and said, “I think I will need your help.”
She stood again, approaching the horse, rubbing his muzzle gently as she took him by the reins and lead around in a half circle near the Hessian. She reached down and carefully took the Hessian’s arm; threading his hand threw his stirrup up to the elbow, and then walking the horse all the way to the front door of her house. How she got him in the door and into her bed was something she couldn’t wholly remember as she was busied with putting water on the fire and gathering soap, towels and bandages. She’d removed the Hessian’s black cape and his boots, but struggled with the hinges that held his black breastplate in place. Finally they gave in and unhinged, the weight of the breastplate more than she had anticipated as she removed it from his body. He must be an incredibly strong man to wear it into battle she thought to herself as she began to unlace the black tunic he wore. She pushed the garment back from his chest to locate his injury, but she was not ready for the expansive, muscular chest that was revealed. She was in a sort of awe, for she’d never seen a man so undressed before, yet knew that all men were not built like the Hessian. He was a strong man, his shoulders were broad, so was his chest, and without thinking, her fingers lightly traced the grooves of his seratus muscles, right above the bloody entrance wound of the musket shot.
His ice blue eyes suddenly sprang open and he stared at her. Again Cloella jumped, but wondered if he really saw her at all. Nonetheless, she did her best to comfort him. “You are safe here. I want to help you.”
But the Hessian was too lost in what he saw to here the words she was saying. Yes, he was definitely seeing a female form, a beautiful female form, but why? There were no women in his life, and he did not welcome women in his life. He was probably dying, and this female was just a vision conjured by his bereaved brain. He did like women, once. He loved women, in fact. All women. But he’d sacrificed his love and desire for their company to become the fierce, cold, unrelenting, frightening thing he’d become. Yes, he was dying, and by such a humiliating circumstance too; the fiendish Hessian Horseman, Mercenary Extraordinaire, killed in a minor skirmish, ambushed by miscreant rebels, what would the world say? And now this redheaded apparition would see him to his end…this was never what he had planned, he was disappointed in himself, yet let this female vision minister to him, and closed his eyes once again in exhaustion.