Page 116 of Tharn's Hunt
The answer starts to come together a few days later, when I notice something strange during one of Justine's language lessons.
Tharn's fingers are covered in tiny puncture marks, like he's been repeatedly stabbed with something small and sharp. When I reach for his hand, concerned, he pulls away with uncharacteristic shyness.
"I am fine, my dear Jah-kee," he projects, his mental voice dismissive. "Just... hunting."
Yeah, right. Last I checked, hunting didn't involve getting stabbed in the fingers repeatedly. Unless the local wildlife has developed a taste for Drakav digits.
That night, when Tharn slips away again, I decide to follow him. It's not that I don't trust him—I do, implicitly. But the mystery is killing me, and if he won't tell me what he's up to, I'll just have to find out for myself.
I wait until he's disappeared down one of the lesser-used tunnels, then slip after him, keeping to the shadows. The tunnels are dark but somehow, my eyes adjust much easier than they would have months ago. I can see better.
The tunnel winds deeper into the cliff, branching off in several directions. I pause at a junction, unsure which way Tharn went, when I hear a soft annoyed click echo from the left passage.
I follow the sound, creeping along the wall until I reach a small chamber lit by a soft golden glow.
Tharn’s glow.
And there, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back to me, is Tharn.
But it's what he's doing that stops me in my tracks.
He's hunched over something on the floor. One of the smaller underscales from the dust serpent, its surface gleaming in the dim light. A bone needle is clutched awkwardly in his massive hand as he painstakingly pushes it through a tough, cord-like strap.
He's sewing the straps onto the scale, threading them through holes he must have painstakingly drilled near the edges. The straps themselves are woven from the same fibrous vines the women use for their sleeping mats. The "thread" he’s using looks suspiciously like a thin, dried piece of serpent gut.
My brain struggles to process the image. The fearsome alien hunter is sitting in a cave, trying to attach woven vine straps to a piece of monster armor using a needle made of bone and thread made of guts. And by the looks of it, he's not very good at it.
The stitching is thick and uneven. Beside him on the floor are several frayed, discarded straps, clear evidence of his repeated, frustrated attempts. What he's making is... well, I have no idea. Some kind of bizarre shield with handles?
Then it clicks.
Tharn isn’t making a weird shield. He’s trying to fashion a dress for me. One set of scales for the front and one for the back, held together by the woven straps he's fighting with. A crude, alien-style dress. Impractical, probably uncomfortable, but unmistakably made for me.
My heart melts at the sight. He's makingclothes. His version of clothes, from the only materials he knows. For me.
I must make some small sound, because Tharn's head snaps up, his amber eyes finding mine in the dim light. For a moment, he looks startled, almost embarrassed, before his expression shifts to one of resignation.
"Jah-kee," he projects, setting the half-finished garment aside. "You followed me."
"You were being mysterious," I counter, stepping into the chamber. "You've been sneaking off to... sew?"
For the first time, I see Tharn’s ears flatten to the sides of his head.
I step closer, kneeling beside him, my fingers reaching out to trace the stitching. A dark smudge on one scale matches the pigment staining his fingertips.
"You bled making this." I catch his hand, turning his palm up to reveal the needle-pricked pads.
He rumbles, defensive. "Bone needle was... small."
"You hate clothes," my thought whispers.
"Females need coverings." He says it like a simple fact, but the mindspace betrays him. It floods with memories of me adjusting the hide over myself and even his memory of that night out in the desert. The one when I’d peed and he watched. How I’d tried to hide myself.
He gestures to the pile of scales, his mental voice grumpy but endearingly so. "It is... difficult," he admits, holding up the lopsided garment. "Your people cover. So... I cover you."
The simple statement, delivered with such matter-of-fact sincerity, hits me right in the heart.
I throw my arms around his neck, kissing him with all the emotion welling up inside me. He responds immediately, his arms wrapping around my waist as he pulls me onto his lap.
