Cavebound part two

As the day wore on, Ember eventually decided she had better things to do than keep me company. This time, she did not even wait for my signal. She rose to her feet, stretched languidly, then came over to rub her head against me before turning toward the cave entrance. She slipped beneath the covering without a sound and disappeared into the forest, leaving me once more alone with my thoughts.

Not long after, I heard the unmistakable sound of rain beginning to fall outside. I listened as the drops struck the leaves and the forest floor, and suddenly I found myself rather grateful to be sitting safely inside the cave.

The rains of the northern forest seemed to mark the turning of the two long seasons. The first were the warm rains of spring, soaking the earth and waking everything from its sleep as the forest prepared to blossom and bloom beneath the coming warmth of summer. The rains that came with autumn were different. They carried a chill that seemed to settle into the bones, warning of the long, cold months of winter that would soon follow.

Listening to it now, I found myself thinking of the preparations I still needed to finish before those colder rains became a regular part of life.

That was when I remembered the down and feathers I had been collecting for bedding. I had saved them long before Scar had ever come into my life, tucking away every useful feather and bit of down rather than allowing something that could serve a purpose to be wasted. I had never actually taken the time to see how much I had accumulated, and now seemed as good a time as any.

I pulled the bundles from where I had stored them and began sorting through them, separating the softer down from the larger feathers and bits that would be better suited for stuffing. There was far more than I had expected. If I stitched the two bottom pieces together, I believed I might have enough to make a proper mattress, perhaps even one thick enough to keep the cold stone from stealing the warmth from my body during winter.

It gave me something useful to do, and before long I was settled comfortably beside the fire, working with needle, thread, and handful after handful of feathers while the rain continued falling beyond the cave.

For a while, the steady rhythm of the work quieted my mind.

About an ahn later, Ember returned.

She came through the entrance looking entirely pleased with herself, her dark pelt glistening with rain. She gave herself a vigorous shake the moment she cleared the cave covering, sending droplets flying in every direction.

I stared at her.

She stared back.

“Must you make a mess every time you come inside?” I grumbled.

Ember blinked at me before casually beginning to groom herself, apparently unconcerned with either my question or the water now scattered across the stone.

I shook my head and returned to my work.

The afternoon passed quietly after that. I stitched, stuffed, adjusted, and stitched again, occasionally pausing to stretch my sore shoulders before continuing. The rain came down steadily, drumming against the forest canopy until it became almost soothing, and the longer I worked, the more pleased I became with what I was making. There was something satisfying about taking things I had gathered over time and turning them into something useful for the coming winter.

I stopped only long enough to eat when my stomach reminded me that I had neglected it, then made myself another pot of tea.

I had discovered that I had developed quite a fondness for the herbal drink. There was something comforting about wrapping my hands around the warm vessel and letting the steam rise against my face while the forest outside remained cool and wet. I found myself wondering how long my supply would last, and whether I would have enough left when I could safely return to the exchange point to trade for more.

I hoped I would.

I would be rather unhappy if my tea ran out before then.

By late afternoon, the light filtering through the cave entrance had begun to fade, and the rain had softened to a quieter, steadier fall. I finished the last few stitches I intended to make that day and set my work aside, rubbing the stiffness from my fingers.

Ember had curled herself into a comfortable ball near the fire, apparently exhausted from whatever adventures she had found outside. I envied her again, though this time the feeling was softened by amusement. She had gone where I could not, and she had returned safely. For that, I was grateful.

As evening settled over the forest, I fed another piece of wood to the fire and watched the flames climb. Then I reached for the three tallow candles set into their little pots within the stone niches.

One by one, I lit them.

Their small flames flickered to life, casting a soft golden glow across the cave. The fire crackled quietly, the rain whispered beyond the entrance, and the familiar shelter around me suddenly seemed both comforting and strangely empty.

My eyes drifted toward the things I had stored along the wall until they came to rest on the picture book Scar had made for me.

I reached for it slowly, almost as though I were afraid of what touching it might awaken, then settled it across my lap. My thumb traced the edge of the cover before I opened it to the first page.

There he was.

Not Scar himself, of course. Only the pieces of him he had left behind in ink and careful lines, captured in a book he had made because he had known I would treasure it. I turned the pages slowly, remembering the sound of his voice, the look in those icy blue-green eyes, the feel of his hand against mine. I could almost hear him in the quiet of the cave, and for one foolish moment I found myself expecting to look up and see him sitting across from me.

The ache that followed was deep enough to make me close my eyes.

I missed him.

Not simply his presence beside the fire or the warmth of his body when the nights were cold. I missed the man himself—the way he watched me without trying to possess me, the way he could sit in silence and somehow make the silence feel like company. I missed his scent, his voice, his infuriating certainty, and even the arguments that had left me wanting to strike him and kiss him in equal measure.

My fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the book.

“Damn you, Scar,” I whispered, though there was no anger left in the words.

Only love.

I lowered my gaze to the page again, blinking away the sudden sting in my eyes. I was still angry with him. Still hurt. Still determined that when he returned, I would have words for him that he would not enjoy hearing.

But none of that changed the simple truth sitting heavily inside my chest.

I wanted him home.

The three tallow candles burned quietly beside me, their little flames trembling whenever a draft slipped through the cave entrance. Ember slept near the fire, the rain continued its steady fall outside, and I remained curled around the picture book Scar had made for me, holding it as though somehow it could bridge the distance between us.

For tonight, it would have to be enough.

So I turned another page, leaned back against the furs, and let myself remember him.