NIGHTFALL came slowly.

The light seemed to make sure to drape everything in its blood orange haze, bathing all in flame-like colors. Hand-in-hand with the sun, the warmth left too, leaving only a cool breeze, and so the night had announced its cold arrival.

Devorah was terrified.

She had thought that maybe the darkness would shelter her from the day's horrors, draping a wool of endless black over her eyes and mind, but no such thing occurred. If anything, she was now terrifyingly trapped with the gruesome images threatening to bury her underneath their thick suffocating blanket.

It was at that moment she found herself lost, alone and cold, wandering and trying to navigate the crowd of bloodthirsty people. She had come to see that many had joined the band of Crusaders - oh, what a more honorable cause than to execute or convert Christ's murderers? To do so would be paid rightfully with absolution and peace in heaven.

She shook her head in a tidal wave of disgust. To justify murder and persecution with God? Even one that wasn't hers? Absolute insanity.

Devorah watched with a heavy heart as families huddled together, children pressed their frightened and tired faces into their mothers' bosoms. The mothers’ ashen faces themselves were watching the men strut around, their armor clinking and glinting in the fires' glows. They were having the time of their lives while boasting of their own nobleness, the earlier 'failure' conveniently forever forgotten.

Her heart burned with rage and ferocity and ached with hurt and pain, but most importantly, it still beat for her father, herself, her people.

Devorah, herself, was sat rigidly against a tree, the hard trunk digging into her back, arms wrapped around herself in a tight hug, trying to spare any warmth. A few fires lit around the camp which housed about 2 000 now, the number having grown along with the increasing and new-found desire of Christians to fulfill what was 'righteous'.

It was laughable. And sad. And- horrifying.

Wild shadows illuminated the forest ground, morphing into things that no longer owned any human semblance and the night was filled with the crackling and sparks of flames, men's laughter and chatter, and the soothing talk of women to their children and each other.

The Jew-converted-Christian felt like crying out. In fear, in pain, in hopelessness, in sadness - everything.

Where was she? What was she doing? They had trekked the whole day until her feet had ached under her weight and she had feared they would fall off, and made camp in some far away clearing in the woods, surrounded by only large trees and the overhead dark sky.

Should she run? That would be suicide. How would she find her way back home? Would there be a home left for her? Her father was gone. And besides, would she survive the cold night? The hunger that was bound to come? The animals that would see her as easy prey? Her betrayal to her religion? How could she even want to survive that, a part of her wondered.

Devorah’s head pounded with thoughts and memories and heinous voices; the lights blinded her instead of giving her the solace of being able to see, the presence of so many people made her feel only more endangered than if she were alone and the thought of her family only brought pain and death and sadness to her mind, instead of all the love and happiness they had before.

But it was all of no matter - where would she have sought comfort and help? A man who would murder her without second thought had she not renounced her identity?

Her head snapped sharply to the right, the movement echoing in a slight pain in her neck from the strain. Through all the noise, she had heard someone approaching slowly, walking heavily and crunching leaves and twigs underneath their large soles. It was a rather tall man, his face obscured from view, aided by the darkness.

"Well, who might you be?"

The voice was a scratchy and rough one, the words slurred in a low tone and the figure stumbled forwards, swaying back and forth between the steady support of trees and the air. He finally came to a clumsy stop, ending his drunken game and chuckled to himself, resting his left hand and head on the tree she sat at. She now sat awfully close to the dark, reeking trousers of this man.

She moved away in an automatic convulsive motion. Through his drunken haze, he registered the movement, his right hand shooting to her shoulder to stop her from backing away further. It took all her might not to curl away from the sweaty rough skin.

"Where... you...goin’?" the voice heaved.

Fear shot through her, from the top of her head all the way to her feet. It lay restless in her chest and stomach, swirling like a storm, threatening to be released out of her throat - whether through a scream or retch, she wasn't sure.

The man, whose face was still hard to define, tightly gripped her arm. She let out a sharp breath as if he had just burned her.

She felt herself revolt at his firm hold; part of her meant to cry out at the unwanted touch, but Devorah doubted anyone would come to her aid.

Her nerves were on edge; a cold breeze blowing by caused her to shudder.

"What are you doing?" she asked, half-whispering, her tone both frightened and enraged. She wished it would only be one.

"Anything I'll please to," he spit out, his fingers tightening a fraction, eyes glinting too seriously.

“Let me go,” she shakily said, “Do not dare put your hands on me.”

The man reeled back in anger. Fear had her in shackles. The male laughed. She stared at her shaking hands and felt terror crawl up her throat.

“Oh, I’ll dare…,” he whispered, then took a sharp intake of breath and sighed, “You… oh, you are a very beautiful woman.”

Devorah swallowed - she felt as if part of her was making sure her throat hadn’t closed up yet.

“Beautiful, indeed.”

He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and dragged her upwards along the tree bark. A silent cry evaded her mouth.

God, no!

Her assailant threw his weight against hers, pushing her hard into the tree, the scruff of his beard digging into her cheek. “So flawless,” he whispered into her ear, in what was supposed to be a sensual tone, hands grabbing roughly at her flesh.

Her cry was muffled by his hand.

“We’ll have lots of fun, you and I,” he continued on, free hand working on his pants. He groaned in frustration as he could not loosen it, and thus threatened, the dangerous gleam of his eyes even evident in the darkness, “I will take my hand off your mouth. Scream and you are dead.”

Devorah already was frightened to death.

“Please, no, please,” she begged quietly, “spare me. Leave me. I will stay silent.”

The man looked up at her; his face was dirty, two thin white scars stretching diagonally reaching across his right cheek, his nose crooked and his mouth stinking and filled with unhealthy teeth. Her assailant growled at her, took her by the arms, and threw her head against the tree. Devorah moaned in pain.

“I told you, stay silent!”

Tears sprung to her eyes. He hoisted her against the tree. Desperately, she struggled and thrashed, quiet cries evading her lips. He threw his weight forward, ramming into her body, and she felt herself crushed underneath him.

The man went to cover her mouth again, her distress becoming gradually louder - too loud for his liking and tolerance. Having decided enough had been enough, he grabbed her by the throat and squeezed, no sound escaping now.

Devorah’s hands tore at his one, struggling to breath, and she tried to scream and cry and-

I cannot breathe. I cannot breathe.

Hot white pain seared through her where he bit her and dug his nails deeply into her; she must surely have begun to bleed already, bruises forming on her neck, back, arms, stomach and legs. His arousal was clear and vivid against her upper thigh and he ran his lips eagerly across her light, soft skin. Devorah felt like dying.

His hand muffled any attempts of obtaining help, the night only filled with her thrashing and his grunting. She meant to cry out, No! Please no! Please- please, I beg you… Mercy! Stop this! No- It hurts- Let me die-

I cannot breathe!

“Enough!” a voice called.

The rapist reeled back in surprise. Devorah cried out. Hungrily, she breathed. Tears ran down her cheeks in streams and she sobbed. She had never thought her heart could sigh in relief as much as it did in that moment.

The vile piece of humanity stayed rigid against her. “Shut your mouth,” he said to her in a low voice, then continued loudly, “Kind man, I do not see your involvement in this.”

“Step away from the woman,” the voice commanded in a low and threatening tone, approaching closer, the clang of his sword made noticeable, an unspoken threat conveyed in the sound.

She did not know what made the man raping her step away from her - he seemed as though he would have beaten the man interfering? - but she was overwhelmed with relief when he did. She shoved him away, falling onto her knees, crawling hastily away. She let out a sob.

Her hands desperately tore her dress down, running her hands along her skin, already feeling the burn and aching of the wounds.

“Thank, oh, thank you,” she hoarsely said to her saviour, “Oh, thank you.”

The kind man smiled gently, his soft face illuminated by the slight shimmering of moonlight, and offered her a hand.

“Are you well?” he asked softly, “Has he hurt you?”

“I-” Devorah felt her mouth go dry, her heart jumping to her throat, still overcome with terror, with horror, with the feel of this monster’s flesh against hers, its finding pleasure in her pain, her-

“I... am alright, I suppose,” she said, biting back the sobs she feared to release, “Certainly better than I would have been had you not found and rescued me.” She evaded his eyes and breathed, trying to calm herself. Breathe, she urged herself, breathe!

“Hugo,” the man said suddenly, his voice conforming into a quiet comforting tone, “My name is Hugo of Steiningen.”

She mustered up what she hoped was a kind of smile and tilted her head slightly up at his, heartbeat still stuttering in terror and fear and pain-

I cannot breathe. I cannot breathe.

“Thank you, Hugo. I am Devorah.”

I cannot breathe!

She politely refused his kindly offered hand as she made to stand soon afterwards.

Devorah did not rest that night.

Hugo was not far, leaning against a tree, head tilted back and eyes closed. She squinted at his barely recognizable figure, but there is only the blurry outline of his form to see.

His presence soothed her. Why? She did not know. He was a complete stranger, one who, to assume the best was a part of this army, and the worst, one who would slay her did he know of her former religion. A weary sigh escaped Devorah’s lips.

Sleep was a dream she was too tired to chase - her whole body and mind ebbed with such exhaustion and pain. Everytime she closed her eyes, she was scared to see a strange man standing before her as soon as she reopened them. There was a thrum underneath her skin and in her veins, that she presumed was too much for her body to comprehend the thought of rest.

Her fingers ran along the cape she lay on; the texture was smooth and valuable - a piece of clothing no ordinary man would ever dream of having. Was Hugo a noble? Or perhaps a rich man who had proven himself resourceful and made his own fortune?

Eventually Devorah did fall asleep, but not for long she found as she woke up to the same cold and darkness she had seen when she had last been conscious. A gasp rang from her lips and her fingers dug tightly into the cape; traitorous tears filled her eyes and she felt her heart ache again. Goodness, how she was afraid. And alone. So utterly alone.

“Devorah?” a voice called out to her.

Calm yourself. The man is gone. This person is Hugo and he means you no harm.

“Y- yes,” she answered shakily, her pulse so overwhelmingly loud, she did not actually hear the word leave her mouth.

Her eyes flitted unsurely towards his still, ever guarding figure as he moved to stand and then plop himself down beside her. She felt her cheeks burn at this strangely affectionate gesture and was tempted to turn away to hide her face, when she realized he most likely could not see it amongst all the darkness anyways.

“Will you be alright sleeping again?” he asked in a low voice.

She did not know what to make of this question and how to answer it, so she sat up and leaned against the same tree he was at, careful not to come into any contact.

“Why are you being so very kind to me, good man? Surely, someone like you could not care about a stranger such as I in this time of violence?”

A chuckle escaped his mouth, “I was raised to treat women righteously. To me that entices also making sure to direct other men to doing so as well.”

He was silent for a while.

He cleared his throat, “My mother - God rest her immortal soul - was treated unjustly. I suppose had she not, she would have lived a life of love instead of fear. I remember speaking to her and at smallest of movements, she would flinch or be brought to another time and place. Gone from this world, and taken to another in an instant, living a different life, where she cried and whimpered and begged for help - but it never came.”

Tears silently dropped down Devorah’s face.

Rough hands, a stinking breath, long nails-

I cannot breathe. I cannot breathe.

“I only have heard of what you might be feeling. You have gone through a terrible ordeal. I apologize for it. It pains me to see a human treated as such.”

Her shoulders were now slightly shaking. It took all her might not to sob.

I cannot breathe!

“I may not know you and you may not take any comfort in my words, but do know: one can move on. And even be stronger for it.”

They sat side by side, words having now served their purpose, only silence in its stead. He did not try to hold her or offer anymore comfort; she thanked him silently for it.

When she woke the next morning, he shared with her a smile and guided her to the safety of the group, warning her not to wander off alone.