Predator (DWT x OC)

77

"You remember when you accidentally blew yourself up with that TNT contraption?" I ask Sam, as we walk along the lightly trampled track, cracked sticks and dying grass crushed underfoot.

He scoffs, shaking his head and rubbing the arm that's cascaded in raised scars and spiderwebbed burns. "Yeah whatever, remember when you fell into that blackberry bush and screamed until Dad pulled you out?"

I snort at the memory, I was six, maybe seven, toppling backwards in my too-big boots and hand-me-down trousers that trip me up at the ankles, straight into the prickly whip-stick branches with curved thorns and dark green leaves. I was too afraid to move in case I got pricked again, so I just lay in the bush until my Dad pulled me out of it.

"Shut up, I was like six years old." I roll my eyes, feeling the corners of my lips tug upwards in a smile.

"Six years old and useless." He says. "I definitely was not like that at six."

"Sure you weren't." I scoff. "Fucking mama's boy."

"Says you!" He whirls around in outrage. "You were the one that literally clung onto her every second of the day."

"And? At least that made me useful, you were just annoying!"

"I was annoying? Do you remember cutting up one of my bows to make a leg splint?"

I bite back the laugh that bubbles up my throat. "It's called being resourceful Sam."

"We lived in the forest, its not like sticks weren't literally everywhere."

I ignore him, walking past him and out towards the village, the dense slate of the green forest petering out into sporadic trees with thin trunks and the tell-tale hint of autumn browning leaves, sunlight pouring in in a bright blur, giving way to open plans that stretch for miles of dusty, drying grass.

The old village was closer, but it's been contaminated, Dream's voice and his threats hissing with the wind, the mistrust and the paranoia ground into those floorboards under his feet, the way those cobble stone walls and brick wells are tinged forever sickly green.

I think about his blood dripping on the bright blue flowers planted on straw boxes hinged outside of open windows.

I think about his lips pressed against mine, and the flicker of firelight on my back, strong hands and calloused fingers and that voice curling in that self-assured way. They way I can't hear anything else when he speaks.

"You alright?" Sam asks, clapping his hand heavily on my shoulder, startling me out of my stupor.

"Uh yeah, just thinking." I answer, walking off so his hand falls off my shoulder, and there's enough distance to breathe, and the guilt of still loving that fucking man doesn't threaten to crack my ribs and rip my organs out.

The clay houses are stained the colour of honey, bright warm yellow with orange-pink acacia rooves, villagers in wide-brimmed, straw thatched hats, some with vine leaves braided into their hair, flowing moss green fabric draped around their waist, brilliant, ruby red jackets with gold trim, serious faces with noses that curve downwards, ridges and a hook at the bridge that filled out their features, taut cheekbones that rested high, carving out the cheeks below. Their skin was tanned a deep burnt amber, beautiful, long, ink black hair braided out of their faces, strong shoulders and straight backs and an air of graceful presence.

Sam chats to a few of the people passing by, friendly smiles and that withdrawn bit of distrust of strangers every person has, hidden behind wrinkle lines and smiles and wide hand gestures. I glance around, up at the bright blue sky and the white-hot sun, the grass that crackles underneath my boots, more grey than green, the hard packed dirt paths that wind their way through scorched earth.