Melete woke before the first bird dared break the silence. Scar still slept beside her, his great corded body sprawled across the furs, one arm thrown heavily over her waist. She lay still for several ehns, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, listening to the deep, steady sound of his breathing. Then, carefully, she slipped from beneath his arm. She dressed without a sound, pulling her skimpy skins about herself and fastening her leather belt around her waist and secured her knife and whatever else was necessary before moving toward the mouth of the cave. She paused there for one last glance behind her. He had not stirred. Good. There were things she needed to do, and she had no intention of explaining herself before she had done them.
The forest was hers in those hours before dawn. Melete climbed swiftly, finding the branches almost without thought, her hands and feet carrying her upward until the forest floor disappeared beneath her. From the canopy she moved with the silent grace that had made her a hunter long before she had ever known Scar. Branch followed branch beneath her weight, and she traveled through the darkness toward Etna’s camp while the sky slowly surrendered its blackness to the first gray promise of morning. By the time she reached the trees overlooking the camp, a thin band of pale light had begun to streak across the eastern sky. She waited, watching, listening, making certain no one had risen. Then she descended.
She entered the camp as silently as she had left the cave. For a moment she stood amid the familiar surroundings, and memories came unbidden—nights beneath the Moons, hunts shared with the other Panther Girls, arguments, blood, laughter, and the fierce freedom of a life in which she had answered to no man. Melete did not linger over the memories. She had not come to mourn what had been. She had come to reclaim what was hers. She gathered her personal belongings first, placing each carefully into a bundle. Then came the skins. Every one she had left behind. The lighter hides she used when the weather was warm. The heavier furs reserved for the cold. Extra skins she had cured and stored against the day when they might be needed. Nothing useful would remain behind. A hunter who survived by the forest did not willingly abandon good leather, good fur, or tools that could be put to use.
Soon the bundles were secured, the weight distributed across her shoulders. She looked once more toward the camp. It had been her place. Her life. Yet somehow, standing there beneath the first light of morning, it no longer felt like the place to which she belonged. She turned away without another thought and disappeared into the trees.
The journey back was harder beneath the growing light. The bundles pulled against her shoulders, and the skins made a considerable burden, but Melete welcomed the ache. It was honest work. Familiar work. By the time she reached the cave, the sun had begun to rise above the forest. She stepped beneath the stone overhang and stopped.
The cave was empty.
Scar had gone.
She had expected as much. He was a man of the forest, and there were things he did beyond the cave that required no explanation from him and none from her. Melete lowered her bundles onto the stone and began sorting through them putting her tools away. One by one, she unfolded the skins, checking each for damage before stacking them according to weight and purpose. The heaviest were placed where they would remain dry through the cold season. The lighter skins were folded separately. Her personal belongings were arranged where they could be reached quickly, her hands moving with the efficiency born from years of having only herself to depend upon.
Then she found her sewing things.
Melete sat back on her heels.
Bone needles. Awls. Cordage. Scraps of softened leather. Small pieces of hide she had saved because a hunter learned never to discard something merely because it was small. She spread everything before her and began considering what could be made from what she had.
Her gaze moved toward the empty portion of the cave.
Her mouth tightened.
Scar owned very little.
He wore even less.
A strip of cloth about his loins was apparently sufficient for the Wild Forest Man. It might have been sufficient for him, but Melete had begun to find the sight of him dressed so scantily increasingly unreasonable. The forest was not always kind. Nights could become bitter. Rain could soak through even the thickest fur. Wind could cut through a man’s body when he was far from the protection of the cave.
And Scar, she decided, was going to have clothing.
Not because he had asked.
He had not.
Not because he had complained.
He would never complain.
She simply possessed the materials and the skill, and there was no reason for useful things to remain unused.
That was all.
Melete pulled a hide toward her.
She began with a shirt, measuring carefully before cutting. The leather was tough enough to withstand the forest, yet she chose the softer portion for the inside. She punched the holes with the awl and threaded the cord through them, pulling each stitch tight. Her hands knew the work. They had known it long before Scar had entered her life.
Next came trousers.
Then she considered a heavier outer covering for the colder seasons. Perhaps a hood. Perhaps something that could be wrapped about the shoulders when the wind came hard through the trees. She sorted through the furs, selecting those that would provide warmth without becoming so cumbersome that they would hinder movement.
As she worked, Melete became aware of something she had not expected.
She was no longer merely sewing clothing.
She was preparing for Scar.
For his hunts.
For the changing seasons.
For the days and nights ahead.
The realization made her pause.
Once, she had thought only of herself. What she needed to survive, what she needed to hunt, what she needed to carry, where she needed to sleep. Her belongings had been gathered according to one simple rule: they belonged to Melete.
Now her hands were measuring leather for another; a man.
A man whose word was law within this cave.
A man who had taken her into his life in a manner she still did not completely understand.
A man whose presence had somehow altered the meaning of the word home without asking her permission to do so.
Melete looked down at the garment forming beneath her hands.
A low sound escaped her, somewhere between a growl and a reluctant laugh.
She shook her head and continued sewing.
She had gone back to Etna’s camp to retrieve what belonged to her.
Yet as she sat alone in the cave, surrounded by the skins of her former life, she understood that she had brought something else home as well.
A purpose.
A place.
And, whether she was ready to admit it or not, another person whose needs had begun to matter alongside her own.
Her needle pierced the hide again.
Pull.
Tighten.
Stitch.
Melete lowered her head and worked.
The sun climbed higher beyond the cave mouth, while inside, piece by piece, she began making Scar a wardrobe.
She told herself she was doing it because winter would come.
Because a man living in the forest needed proper protection from the elements.
Because she happened to have the materials.
Because she knew how to make clothing.
Those were all reasonable explanations.
None of them explained why she found herself imagining how the leather would fit across his broad shoulders.
None explained why she carefully chose the softest hide for the inside of the shirt.
And none explained why, when she finished the first seam, her fingers lingered against it for a moment before she quietly smiled.
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