Page 58 of Rok's Captive
My gaze drifts back to her sleeping form. So small. So fragile. Her hide-coverings are torn and stained with my blood, yet even in sleep, there is something fierce about her. Something unyielding.
I reach out, carefully brushing a strand of her strange head-fur from her face. It is softer than anything I have ever touched, softer even than the belly fur of a newborn sand pup. The color of it reminds me of fire blooms in their fullest glory, when they burst open under the light of all three moons.
She stirs slightly at my touch, but does not wake. Her skin is cool now. The dangerous fire that had threatened to consume her has not returned. Perhaps the poison in her was only temporary.
Speaking of poison.
My gaze falls to the strange waterskin lying empty on the stone nearby. Not a waterskin. The shape is all wrong. It is more like a pouch. Her water pouch. Filled with poison water. She had tried to give me her poison—her water. I stare at the pouch, turning the fact over in my head.
In the dust, there is no greater gift, no deeper sign of care, than to offer one’s water to another. It is life itself, precious beyond measure, never to be wasted or given lightly. Even among kin, among clan, water is shared only in the direst need, only to save a life that would otherwise be lost.
She gave me hers freely, desperately, despite her own need. Despite knowing, surely, that she had no way to replace it.
Her poison burned in my throat, seared my lungs, but her intent was clear: this female did not want me to perish. Just as I had told her—or tried to tell her, through the barrier between our minds—that I would not let her perish when she fell into the sand serpent’s tunnel.
The memory of that moment—of seeing her disappear beneath the sand, swallowed by the dust as if she had never been—strikes me anew with a fear so profound it feels like physical pain. It was more than fear for her safety, more than concern for a creature under my protection. It was as if I was about to lose an essential part of myself I hadn’t known existed until that moment.
As if, should she die, some part of me would perish with her.
The feeling is unfamiliar, unsettling. I am a hunter, a protector. I have guarded my tribe, my brothers, my territory. I have fought for them, bled for them, would die for them if needed. But this…this is different. Deeper.
Somehow, so much deeper. I can feel it. Feel it in my very bones. But explain it, I cannot.
It reminds me of the ancient stories, the legends told around the warming stones when the cold season comes and the dust storms are too fierce to hunt. Tales of how the first Drakav came to Xiraxis, of how Ain chose our people to guard her daughters, to protect them from the dangers of the dust.
I need to return to the clan. By now, Kol will have noticed my absence. As clan leader, my older brother is not one to let even a minor deviation from routine go unquestioned. They will likely send a hunting party to search for me soon, if they have not already.
I should go back. Kol and the other older brothers would know more about the ancient legends of the daughters of Ain. They would better understand what is happening here, where Jus-teen has come from, why I feel this way toward her. This strange, overwhelming sense of…possession. Of connection I cannot explain.
A connection that grows stronger with each passing moment, like now, as I find myself reluctant to untangle from her grasp despite knowing I should rise, should gather the fire bloom plants to speed my healing and to refresh her when she wakes.
These are not sensations I have known before. Not urges I have felt. Even in the hunting season, when the call of blood grows strong, I have never felt this…fixation. This need to keep one specific being safe above all others.
I need to understand. Need to know why my people worshipped the daughters of Ain. Need to know why I feel this urgent, overwhelming drive to worship her. Not with words or offerings, as we worship Ain herself, but with protection, with care, with my very life, if needed.
What I did in the dust—facing a pack of shadowmaws alone—is not something even the most foolhardy hunter would attempt. I knew they would follow wherever I fled, knew they would hunt her down, and the thought of her in one of their jaws…
I couldn’t allow it. Had to face them. Had to end them.
She shifts against me again, a small sound escaping her throat, and I know she is close to waking. As carefully as I can, I disentangle myself from her and rise to my feet.
The movement sends fresh pain through my wounds, but I grit my teeth against it. I do not want to rouse her. She needs rest. Despite being a daughter of Ain, she is clearly not adapted to the harsh conditions of the dust. While carrying her, I noticed how she tucked her face against my chest, how she tried to shield her eyes from Ain’s glare.
I understand now that the hides she wears—the strange coverings I initially thought might be trophies from her kills—are not decorative. They are protective, meant to shield her delicate skin from Ain’s light and heat. And I made her lose one of them. The one that shone in the light. The one she seems to need the most.
So I will protect her now. Will find a way to keep her safe from Ain’s heat until we can return to the clan, where the deep caverns offer cool respite even in the hottest part of the sol cycle.
“Rok?”
Her voice, still thick with sleep, draws my attention back to her. She’s sitting up, rubbing at her eyes, her gaze darting around the cave before settling on me.
“You’re awake,” she says, the relief in her voice unmistakable even if her words are beyond my understanding.
Then her eyes widen. I almost reach for her, fearing they will pop out of her skull. She scrambles to her feet so quickly she nearly stumbles, rushing toward me with such urgent concern that something warm unfurls in my chest. Her hands hover over my wounds, not quite touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat of her skin.
“What are you doing standing? You shouldn’t be up!” Her voice rises with worry, her hands gesturing for me to sit. “You were practically dead a few hours ago. Please, sit down. Rest. Tell me what you need, and I’ll—” She stops abruptly, pressing her lips together and shaking her head. “God, I’m an idiot. You can’t tell me anything, can you?”
Her meaning is clear in every line of her body—the creased brow, the gentle hands that want to help but don’t know how, the frustrated care in her eyes. She’s concerned. For me.
