Predator (DWT x OC)

31

I hated taking the Prime Path. Everything is so open, so exposed, no cover or protection. I suppose it doesn't really matter now, the war long over, that hatred gone and buried underneath the mounds of piled in dirt and rebuilt homes, but it never does really leave you. Not truly, not completely. War scars each and every one of us, and only the brave wear it on their sleeve. 

The old lessons of the early days of L'manburg used to keep me together, they were there to keep me safe, and protected, but then everything blew fifty feet sky high, mounds of Dream's TNT and Eret's betrayal, and Fundy's insanity, and now the old ways are wrong. I just can't seem to get them out of my head, like they're fused with my muscles and the only thing my body obeys. 

Never take the Prime Path was number one. Tommy told me about the time he lived in the Greater SMP, before they found me in the forest, that he built that path, the one we walked on every single day. Then Dream and his friends declared war and leaving the walls was just about a death sentence. And walking on the Prime Path? You'd probably be better off just shooting yourself in the head with a bow. 

And yet here I am, leather boots pounding on the weathered oak wood, greying on the edges as time and nature lashed their patient power against it. It'll crumble eventually, but everything will, even stone, and iron and diamond. Nature wins. Again, and again, and again. 

I squint against the morning sun, shaking my head at the flag pole at the bottom of the hill. I know Dream would despise it, the blatant show of arrogance right in his face. I had thought Wilbur and Tommy knew better. 

Well, ok, maybe not Tommy. But definitely Wilbur.

Yet, they just listen to Schlatt like little puppies, as if some random man who appeared out of the fucking forest (god knows how they found him) is going to have any idea how to navigate this shit show of a political climate. I mean, we just got out of a war, for gods sake, do we really have to do this now?

There's not even a hint of suspicion, or doubt, or uncertainty. I know I might be just a tad paranoid at times, but are Niki and I the only ones who think something's wrong? Even Jack seems fine to go along with it, as though this doesn't have the potential to blow up a thousand times bigger, right in our faces. 

I adjust the bag on my shoulder, packed tightly with bundles of wheat for Niki's bakery. It digs uncomfortably in the groove of my armour, solid blue diamond that's always awkward to sit down in. The plates strapped to my legs always fall down, because it's Tommy's old set. I don't even bother wearing the helmet or boots because they always fall off, and I can barely see or walk. 

Scars. Not the like ones on my arms, or my cheek. But they're always there, the reason I wear armour just to go farming, or have a knife strapped to my thigh. The reasons I can't go into stone rooms, or mine underground, or sleep with my back against a wall. They run deeper than you can see, but they're always there. 

"Rosie!" A deep voice calls out, tinged with uncertainty and the tiniest glimpse of hopefulness. 

"Eret?" I call back, turning around to see him walking out onto the path. Unconsciously, my hand flies to my thigh, but I let out a deep breath. It's over, I remind myself. He's your friend. He just wants to say hello. He's not going to hurt you. 

As I get closer I can see his hands clutching shiny silvery buckets, dark glasses just perching on the edge of his nose, wild brown hair pushed haphazardly sideways, piled messily on the left side of his head. 

"What are you doing here?" He asks, bright smile on his face. 

"Niki needed some wheat." I shrug, raising my eyebrows at his soaked grey pant legs. "What have you been doing?"