She relaxes a little, soothed by the words, much to my delight, then turns to finish the cooking. Once it’s done, she fishes a knife and dish from her pack, then exclaims when she finds a second plate.
“Mother Liana…” she mutters. Then she cuts and arranges part of the meat.
“Here you are,” she says, handing me one. “The rest of the meat can be smoked, I think.”
“Yes. I will tend to that as soon as I’m finished. Thank you, Firelocks,” I say, digging in. Hunger was not new to me, but I forget the ravenous way my belly can get after walking long distances.
Arlet returns to her stone and sits. She moves the meat a little, picking up one piece before letting it fall.
“You’re not eating,” I observe, keeping my tone neutral.
She looks up, fighting. “I’m not hungry.”
I snort. “How? We have walked a long way. You must eat to keep up your energy.”
Her lips part, but no retort comes. Instead, she lowers her gaze to the ground, putting her plate on her knee, and using her stick to trace patterns in the snow idly. The way she avoids my eyes sets my teeth on edge.
I see her lying on the table, screaming and begging for me to loosen the ropes. She is terrified of herself.
“You can’t keep running on nothing, Arlet,” I say, the words coming out sharper than I intend. “You’ll collapse before we even reach the enclave.”
“I’ll be fine,” she mutters.
“No, you won’t,” I counter, leaning forward. The firelight casts shadows across her face, accentuating the tension in her jaw. “You’re pushing yourself too hard, and for what?”
Her eyes snap to mine, burning with a sudden intensity that makes me sit back. “I want this curse gone. I want to go backhome.”
I stiffen at the word home. It’s possessive, agonized, filled with longing. I remember feeling like that during long stretches in the over world during the war.
We both stand, and I tower over her.
“Are you angry at me?”
She bites her lip, cheeks red.
“Yes.”
“Then tell me why,” I push.
She shakes her head.
“I don’t want to.”
I grab her wrist. “If you live your life skirting around the feelings of others, resentment will build in you. I know. Tell me why I’ve made you angry. Don’t just take jabs at me.”
Hot breath pours from her lungs. She swallows, but doesn’t answer.
“Someone used your body to do awful things. They took away your power. Is that part of what angers you?
Tears line her eyes.
“Let the anger out, Arlet. Yell at me. Scream. Slap me. Do it, and then speak plainly,” I push her.
Her mouth wobbles. “I?—”
“You can. You can do anything—I’ve seen it. So stop hiding,” I insist.
A tear slides down her face.