He shifted back. Carried me home. Put me to bed. And left.
Nope.
Nugget opens one eye. Tilts her head at me.
"Don't," I tell her.
She clucks. Sharp. Her version of a raised eyebrow.
"I said don't."
I pull the shirt tighter around my shoulders because the morning is cold and the fire's banked low and it's a practicaldecision.
I'll return it later.
I get up. Scoop Nugget out of her basket, tuck her under my arm, and push through the door into the morning.
Everything isbrown.
Breakfast is done—Liara handled it, stirred the grain without burning it, served bowls without looking at me for permission, and I should feel good about that. Days of this and her hands finally know what to do without mine.
My hands are empty.
Nothing needs me for the next hour and my hands need to be doing something or I'm going to think about last night. And the night before that. Both nights. Both problems.
Don't think about any of them.
Think about brown.
Gray stone. Brown wood and beige fabric. Mud. The structures blend into the trees that blend into the dirt which blend into the people all wearing the same drab colors as the ground.
Even the smoke from the fire pits is gray. A wolf pup tumbles past my feet—brown fur, obviously—crashes into another pup. Also brown.
The only color in this entire territory is me—pink streaks in white hair, pink stains on my collar from the dye disaster—and Nugget, aggressively pink near my feet, pecking at the dirt.
"This is depressing." Nugget clucks at my feet.
How did I not see this before? Too busy. But now that I've run out of emergencies to throw myself at, all I can see is beige.
The whole pack ground. Drained of everything bright, and nobody's done anything about it because apparently aesthetics aren't a survival priority, which is wrong.
Beauty is a survival priority.
You cannot live in a place this colorless and expect people to thrive.
They're existing.
Eating better now,fine. Wounds cleaned properly,great. But existing in a world the color of nothing, and nobody seems to think that's a problem worth solving.
I fixed the food.
I can fix this too.
Dye. I know how to make dye—I've been doing it for years. Crushed flower petals, water, patience. The cottage had pink things. Pale blue things. My spare shirt was almost purple before it faded. I saw wildflowers on the walk in—near the stream, that clearing before the last ridge.
If I leave now I can be back before anyone needs the healing area. Dara can handle things. She's been handling Tarek's follow-up on her own for days now.
Oh—Hella.
