Page 25 of The Hunter

Chittering, Telok shook his head. “I am not powtee, Rekosh.”

Not anymore.

Instead, he was…what?

His eyes again found their way back to the spear. Though it had its imperfections—a touch unbalanced, crooked by a thread’s width—the care that had been put into making it was undeniable. The wood grain of the shaft was just intact enough to allow for a sure grip. The threads securing the head to the haft were wound tight and even. The spearhead was well-shaped, thin enough to bear an edge but not enough so to make it overly brittle.

It was in the style he preferred, the length he preferred, adorned in the manner he preferred.

Lacey had not merely gifted him a spear, she’d shaped it just for him, using her own two hands.

Hands that had been left red and sore due to her efforts.

Telok had received gifts before, but none had been so thoughtful, so meaningful. She’d endured suffering to make this for him, and she had given particular attention to the details. Lacey had made this spear with her whole heart and given it to Telok.

How could this ever be considered an ordinary gift?

Rekosh hummed thoughtfully.

Telok felt the weaver’s eyes upon him, but he didn’t look away from the spear as he carried it to the entryway. He stood it on the rack beside the opening and stepped back.

It looked like it belonged there. And for a fleeting moment, no longer than the silence between heartbeats, he envisioned a shorter, lighter spear beside it, one with a tiny braid of black, white, and green adorning it, fitting the den just as naturally. A spear for Lacey.

“Have you ever considered that simply speaking to her honestly could end this strife?” Rekosh asked.

“Have you ever considered that speaking less would grant peace to everyone around you?”

But the truth of Rekosh’s words reverberated through Telok, hollowing a cold, dreadful space in his chest.

“I have spoken with Lacey many times,” Telok found himself saying, “and I have never given her untruth.”

Rekosh just hummed again, a hint of disbelief in his tone.

When Telok turned to face him, Rekosh once more had his lower arms crossed, and one of his upper hands was toying with the end of his braided hair, which hung in front of his shoulder. His attention was fixed on Telok.

There was something unsettling about that stare. It bore no ill will, but Rekosh’s eyes were sharp and penetrating, and Telok had often had the sense that Rekosh could see things others couldn’t. That he could see things others thought they’d hidden away.

It made Telok feel…exposed.

Is this how the humans feel without their clothing?

“Do not look at me that way,” Telok said with a huff.

Though Rekosh did not avert his gaze, the piercing glint in his eyes dulled, becoming almost sorrowful. “Truly, Telok, you need not hide.”

“I am a hunter. I must often hide.”

Shaking his head, Rekosh sighed. “I know you understand my meaning. Not everything is a hunt.”

Telok spread his arms, displaying his scarred hide. “The hunt is all I know.”

Rekosh’s posture sagged. “I do not believe that is true. And if it is…it need not be.”

Telok strode to his friend and bumped forelegs. “Do not worry over me. I am well enough.”

Liar.

He was lost, restless, confused, at war with himself. Kaldarak felt as much like a cage as it did a home. So much emotion swirled inside him, so much turmoil, and he could not let it out. Could not succumb to it.