his handsome features, Eamon wrenches the lance from the fallen doe’s chest. “It suffered.”
My smile fades at the sight of his remorse. I reach out and pull his face away from the cooling carcass. It feels weird to touch him, even as innocently as this, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “You can’t always be perfect.”
“If I’m not, we don’t eat,” he grinds out. The struggles of the past year have drawn away the mischievous glint that used to reside in his eyes. His smile is a rarity now, like far too many of us. With each day that passes, I watch the weight of Eamon’s burdens press upon his shoulders, and I know if I were able, I would still try to take it from him.
He pulls away from me as I hand him my knife and stoops low to remove the organs so the meat doesn’t spoil. Blood clings to his hands as he tosses them aside, shiny in the moonlight. Maybe that will keep the wolves off our trail for a while. Already I can hear their howls in the distance. It won’t take long before they catch our scent.
Eamon hoists the young deer onto his shoulders, indifferent to the blood that streaks his jacket. Without another word, he stomps away.
Guess we are back to the not speaking to each other phase. Snatching up the forgotten spear and wiping the blood clean from my knife, I fall into step behind him, weaving through the trees. Our path is marked by nature, carved from the earth long before the Caldonians arrived.
One of the first things I learned while living in the wilderness was to use landmarks to plot my way. Today we used a frozen stream we discovered running through a deep crevice. I try not to think of the one we found Arlo lying in the bottom of, neck snapped and legs twisted so far around they were touching his head.
Eamon had tried to shield me from it, but I stared down at his lifeless body and felt numb. His death was senseless and careless. He wasn’t meant to be in the woods any more than I belong in a city.
I am a hunter. It runs in my veins. This is my domain, not streets of concrete and glass. “Wait up,” I call as Eamon attacks a snowy ridge, leaving me to flounder on my own. It’s not like him to be so callous. Distant, yes, but not like this. Something is bothering him. Something more than me.
The soles of his boots punch through a thin layer of ice. The muscles of his back contract as he shifts the weight of his kill. Eamon has always been lean and strong, his body adapted to a rugged life, but now there is a confidence about him that he lacked before. Toren has evolved much like Eamon.
Although I have never been overweight, lack of food making that a near impossibility, I can feel that I’ve lost some of my muscle mass and added a few extra pounds since moving from the caves. Aminah and Zahra have fared similarly, although they don’t keep to rigid training schedules, so it won’t be long before the ample amounts of food will start to take its toll.
Sometimes I struggle to recognize us anymore. I can walk right past a friend on the street and not even realize they were there, looking so out of place on city streets. Homesickness strikes me most when I’m out here. That’s probably the biggest reason Kyan has kept me from being alone in the woods for long.
Eamon halts at the top of the hill to wait for me. His chest rises and falls with exertion. The grim set of his features betrays the anger simmering just under the surface. I can see it in his eyes, the way his pupils dilate in the moonlight and his lips press into flat lines.
“Are you going to do this the whole way back?” I hold the stitch in my side.
“Do what?” he grunts. His shoulder dips, neck rolling to adjust the weight.
“This pouting thing. I’m used to your cold shoulders, but this is different. What’s eating at you?”
Eamon opens his mouth to speak, but a howl cuts him off. My head whips around in the direction of the call. It is close, much too close. “They’re tracking us.”
He nods and
My smile fades at the sight of his remorse. I reach out and pull his face away from the cooling carcass. It feels weird to touch him, even as innocently as this, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “You can’t always be perfect.”
“If I’m not, we don’t eat,” he grinds out. The struggles of the past year have drawn away the mischievous glint that used to reside in his eyes. His smile is a rarity now, like far too many of us. With each day that passes, I watch the weight of Eamon’s burdens press upon his shoulders, and I know if I were able, I would still try to take it from him.
He pulls away from me as I hand him my knife and stoops low to remove the organs so the meat doesn’t spoil. Blood clings to his hands as he tosses them aside, shiny in the moonlight. Maybe that will keep the wolves off our trail for a while. Already I can hear their howls in the distance. It won’t take long before they catch our scent.
Eamon hoists the young deer onto his shoulders, indifferent to the blood that streaks his jacket. Without another word, he stomps away.
Guess we are back to the not speaking to each other phase. Snatching up the forgotten spear and wiping the blood clean from my knife, I fall into step behind him, weaving through the trees. Our path is marked by nature, carved from the earth long before the Caldonians arrived.
One of the first things I learned while living in the wilderness was to use landmarks to plot my way. Today we used a frozen stream we discovered running through a deep crevice. I try not to think of the one we found Arlo lying in the bottom of, neck snapped and legs twisted so far around they were touching his head.
Eamon had tried to shield me from it, but I stared down at his lifeless body and felt numb. His death was senseless and careless. He wasn’t meant to be in the woods any more than I belong in a city.
I am a hunter. It runs in my veins. This is my domain, not streets of concrete and glass. “Wait up,” I call as Eamon attacks a snowy ridge, leaving me to flounder on my own. It’s not like him to be so callous. Distant, yes, but not like this. Something is bothering him. Something more than me.
The soles of his boots punch through a thin layer of ice. The muscles of his back contract as he shifts the weight of his kill. Eamon has always been lean and strong, his body adapted to a rugged life, but now there is a confidence about him that he lacked before. Toren has evolved much like Eamon.
Although I have never been overweight, lack of food making that a near impossibility, I can feel that I’ve lost some of my muscle mass and added a few extra pounds since moving from the caves. Aminah and Zahra have fared similarly, although they don’t keep to rigid training schedules, so it won’t be long before the ample amounts of food will start to take its toll.
Sometimes I struggle to recognize us anymore. I can walk right past a friend on the street and not even realize they were there, looking so out of place on city streets. Homesickness strikes me most when I’m out here. That’s probably the biggest reason Kyan has kept me from being alone in the woods for long.
Eamon halts at the top of the hill to wait for me. His chest rises and falls with exertion. The grim set of his features betrays the anger simmering just under the surface. I can see it in his eyes, the way his pupils dilate in the moonlight and his lips press into flat lines.
“Are you going to do this the whole way back?” I hold the stitch in my side.
“Do what?” he grunts. His shoulder dips, neck rolling to adjust the weight.
“This pouting thing. I’m used to your cold shoulders, but this is different. What’s eating at you?”
Eamon opens his mouth to speak, but a howl cuts him off. My head whips around in the direction of the call. It is close, much too close. “They’re tracking us.”
He nods and
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