Platonic Konig & Reader (COD) -> au, reader is a child (about 8-9) and about 3’9
this is my first time posting - hopefully you guys like it!!
more than happy to write a part two if people are interested and I definitely have a few story ideas! I’ll create a post soon for asks and what I’m happy to write for :-]
reader is described as a girl but you can switch your pronouns in and read it however you like!
Freezing. Your hands were numb. Your mother had been ill and you had gone hunting with your father in the woods by the village, hoping to help out; the winter had been relentless and nobody in the village was faring particularly well. Bitterly, you would like to currently say you feel like you have fared the worst - you had lost your father in the woods; he had caught sight of some dappled pelt and was off with his bow like a hare gone mad, promising you that he’d return.
And so you had wandered, clutching onto the little bow your father had given you - you were the eldest child, even despite being very young, and so you were expected to help out. The snow swallowed your legs as you continued to wade sluggishly through it. It was so cold. Evening had long arrived, bringing with it an even more biting chill. Still no sign of your father. It was safe to say you were lost. You shuddered miserably, cheeks flushed, eyes hazy and trembling under clothing that was inadequate in this frigid weather.
But you couldn’t stop. You weren’t an idiot. Stopping in the snow and falling asleep? Certain death. If the cold wouldn’t kill you, a predator certainly would. With a small frown, you sullenly think that at least they wouldnt get much meat from you. You were trudging up a steep gradient, head foggy and steps swaying but determined as ever. Even after several hours had passed.
Except with dwindling energy reserves and shaky steps, it was clear it wasnt long until your body gave out. As you inevitably stagger and collapse in a snow drift under a towering pine tree, you distantly note how beautiful the stars are at least. Perhaps you will die after all. After surviving all of those failed harvests in previous years, surviving every furious winter before. Everything just feels fuzzy. Lost. It’s pretty out here at least - not the worst place to die.
Your ears were ringing, and your mind drifted to the pretty chimes of the church bells from the village. Not that kind of ringing, but it still reminded you of them. You had never liked church much, and you doubted your parents did either, but you all used to trudge up to the chapel every Sunday and you all prayed for a good harvest and good weather and whatnot. You thought it was a bit silly, especially with how tired and dull your mothers and fathers eyes were. The praying never seemed to help anyway.
Just as your head began swimming, there was a bemused grunt. A..? Your eyelids flutter and a weak, pitiful sound escapes your throat when a steel-toed boot nudges your ribs roughly. A sigh follows.
“Stupid villagers…” A thick accent mumbles quietly but you can’t make out whoever it is.
Perhaps the grim reaper? The man (or at least the shape of him in the darkness) is massive. Fitting for an immortal harbinger of death. He is just a thick mass in the darkness of the woods, looming and unforgiving. Maybe your mother was right about the monsters of the woods?
Your musing is interrupted by a large arm tugging you out of the snow. The man seems to be muttering with displeasure still, a mix of words - some must be foreign, but the ringing in your ears may just muffle them. Your lips are too frozen to mumble out an apology and you curl into yourself when you’re tossed over an impossibly large shoulder. Your head spins violently at this and you whimper.
You register swaying as the man (beast?) moves. But not much else, as a much gentler darkness soon engulfs you.
A soft crackling awakes you as you float in and out of consciousness. Theres a quiet, low humming as a warm hand brushes sweaty hair out of your face, “Still a high temperature, mm?” The voice is much less intimidating like this. You drift for a while and you aren’t sure how many days pass, woken up intermittently only by large hands guiding food to your mouth, cleaning your hair or bathing you.
Eventually, you regain full consciousness. Crusty eyelids achingly open, eyes all bleary and confused. You’re swaddled in blankets and propped up by cushions near a fire. You appear to be in a large cabin. But you’re alone. Your mouth is dry, your head is pounding and your limbs aren’t cooperating. Your heart hammers but both your stuffy head and your fabric prison confines you to just sitting there. Closer inspection reveals beautifully carved wooden bookshelves and furniture - there are battered paperbacks and little trinkets decorating the shelves. The house is oddly pretty. You don’t feel dead. No. Death would surely be more merciful than this awful headache and pain, you think irritably. Still, you are sluggish and drowsy and, admittedly, frightened.
You appear to be in the living room of the cabin. It is relatively dark outside and lamps are turned on, also bathing the small kitchen area in warmth too. This entire room is bigger than 3/4 of your house - the one you share with your large family. That prompts you to wake up more. Your family- how long had you been here? Your father could be consumed with guilt. And your mother-
You try to escape the blankets with clumsy vigour, but you only fall onto your front, sprawled out with a complete lack of grace and still suffocated under the blankets. They feel impossibly heavy; you must still be weak. You breathe quickly, a little panicked as you cant free yourself. The cabin is oddly quiet and you don’t want to acquaint yourself with whoever (or whatever) lives here. As you manage to free an arm - a Herculean task - you also realise, with sinking dread, that you are in different clothes: a long-sleeved shirt that falls to your knees or so under the blankets.
That dread is quickly overshadowed by a much more concerning fear. There is a creaking on the porch outside, and then the turning of the knob. You are frozen, uncomfortably tangled up in blankets, and absolutely petrified as the wooden door unlocks and opens. There are several locks and bolts that are released before it swings open smoothly and an actual giant enters the room. A squeak of fear exits your mouth involuntarily and the man’s head shifts to you curiously.
“You’re awake.” The man rumbles slowly, blue eyes fixing upon you. He has short, cropped hair, blue eyes, scars dotted across his neck and about his jaw and face and a concerning amount of muscle. He is bigger even than Thomas back in the village. Much bigger.
When you don’t reply, still stuck in a stupor, the man enters the cabin quietly, hauling a white sack in. He locks every single deadbolt and chain leisurely before glancing over at you again. He doesn’t say anything, doesnt even react really, before hanging his weapons and thick fur coat up. He takes off his boots and you fall out of your terrified and frozen state. Your heart is still pounding and you’re young and naive enough to wonder if maybe you could hide under the blankets. You doubt it would solve anything though. Your father had always called you childish anyway.
If you were less panicked, you might have noticed how awkward and uncertain the man himself looked.
You attempt to speak but your throat is packed with thorns. A cough does little to clear the prickle but you croak anyway: “Where am I?”
The man doesnt even turn his head to you as he brandishes a glinting knife in the kitchen. The sack is left by the door. He chops vegetables smoothly, the knife gliding through their skins before slicing their bodies into neat shapes. Theyre added to a pot as he thinks for a minute.
“My cabin.” He finally answers lowly. You frown at the vague answer, lower lip wobbling despite your attempt to be brave.
“Who are you?” You manage to rasp out as well, still sat uneasily in your blankets. The man looks mildly annoyed by all the questions but he answers nonetheless.
“You can call me Konig.” He mutters. He shoots you a look that shuts up your next question. The words die on your tongue as you feebly curl back up in the blankets.
You assume the man rescued you. But equally he might try to murder you or eat you or- perhaps this train of thought wasnt helping. Maybe he was a monster from the woods. You swallowed, trembling a little. Mother wouldnt be happy you were talking to strangers but mother wasnt here. Or father.
The man - Konig - leaves the stew simmering on his hob before moving closer. He has a cup of water - made from clay and shaped beautifully - but youre frozen again and on the verge of tears. He kneels in the blankets and sighs as he stares down at you, almost softening. He says nothing but attempts to hand you the cup full of water. Your hands quiver and are already refusing to listen to you (the aftermath of being in the cold so long, you assume) and you spill half of the cup.
Big, fat tears pool in your eyes - you are overwhelmed and terrified and young. And you miss your mother and your father and- the man is so scary and big- and you can’t be brave like this all on your own, and you don’t want to have to be brave anymore-
Instead of getting angry, the man offers a bemused sigh at the situation. Konig has always been awful at socialising and now theres a tiny child in his cabin sobbing. To be frank, he has absolutely no idea how to calm the skinny, little thing. Hes surprised it even survived in the snow - it seems to be rather resilient, but he cannot help but wonder how on Earth it found its way up to his isolated cabin in the mountains. In such rags no less, not fit for winter. Its parents were very irresponsible clearly; back where Konig grew up, parents kept their children very close at all times. Konigs quiet criticism of the child’s parents has to end as he realises he probably should try to calm the little girl. Not an ‘it’, he reminds himself, a child.
Large hands easily manoeuvre you and your blanket pile into a warm lap. The man softly murmurs in an unfamiliar language to himself and you cry harder. One of the hands moves to rock you and you find your tears cant last forever. You tire yourself out eventually and settle, head lolling against a thick arm with a sniffle. The cup is brought back to your lips and you sip the remaining water desperately; your throat still aches.
“Much better.” The low voice hums, tentatively stroking your hair. You cannot help but drift off again as youre set down. You can hear movement in the kitchen and faint noises. Another clay bowl with wooden utensils is brought to you beside a much bigger bowl. Both have chunks of bread but again, one of the portions is a lot bigger. The smaller portion is set down by you and the man untucks your hands. Even the smaller portion would be enough to feed you for a day. Times were hard back in the village, but this man - with his bands of muscle and massive frame - clearly didn’t resonate with your villages hardships of famine.
Youre too dazed to care that the man is just staring at you curiously. His eyes don’t leave you for a second and you blink heavily at him. Your eyelids feel weighted. He expects this; you nearly died from hypothermia - you will be weak for a few days.
“Where are your parents, Spatzi?” He asks, voice deceptively smooth and soothing.
You blink once more at him, speech a little slurred. “Mmm. In the village.” He frowns at this and mutters something under his breath. He then tears into his meal, still watching you for the most part. You don’t say much - your mind is all thick and trying to find a thought or speak is impossible; you sink in the vast haze.
He eventually comes to help you out with your meal, realising you aren’t fully with it. Despite his menacing frame and sharp, strong features, his callused hands are still patient as they tilt your head and brush your hair out of your face. You’re back in his lap again, pressed against his massive chest. You are fragile like a bird to him - all brittle bones and big, pitiful features. He was tempted to leave you in the snow to die until he realised how young you were. And little. The wooden spoon brings the stew to your lips and deposits it into your mouth. A sleepy sound of appreciation leaves you, even half-conscious. The stew is nice. Hell, even eating is nice. The stew is warm, thick, with chunks of beef and potato - the bread smells buttery and looks fluffy, homemade.
“Good?” The man murmurs, a faint smile gracing his lips above your head as you let him feed you. You can feel the vibrations as he speaks and your hand subconsciously tangles itself around his sleeve as you idly feel the fabric. You try your best to nod. Maybe the scary man isnt so awful if he feeds you. Maybe. Or maybe you’re a fool. But you’re a tired fool and a weak fool so you let yourself have this illusion. It’s nice to be cared for, for once.
You finish most of the soup and a chunk of bread and he seems appeased by this - he’d rather you ate more, but it’s a start. You then fall asleep again, rather easily. Your fear is muted by your fatigue.
As you sleep, Konig pensively considers the little child now in his lap. He shifts a little to adjust the little girl, cradling her against him. He can tidy the kitchen and sort the sack of firewood later. A wry smile finds its way onto his face. She is sweet. A scrappy thing. And in his eyes, her parents are insufficient. It only follows, naturally, that he ought to take on that caretaking role, he decides. Hes always wanted to take care of a child and it’s their fault they let such a small thing out of their sight. A foolish error, and one they can’t take back, he decides. Not that he minds, he thinks, gently stroking the little girls hair.
