Tahl had been under the impression that there was nothing more awkward than waking up on the island every day, wondering who would be running naked through the camp, who would still be drunk, who would be addled by river-water. But he’d been wrong about that. It turned out, waking up at the other camp, the camp where you belonged, was much worse.
The first morning, he’d stumbled out into the cool air – pine-scented and familiar – and blinked stupidly as he turned a full 360 degrees, taking everything in. It looked exactly like it had, when they left. The doeskin he’d hung to tan was still there, looking about 12 hours drier. He was wearing the ragged khakis he’d slept in ever since they’d grown too threadbare to provide protection in the woods; they felt like armor now, compared to that dick-scarf he’d run around in for weeks…or one night, that felt like weeks. He laughed breathlessly, running a hand through his mop of unruly, unsalted hair, and lifted his eyes to find someone watching him. Mace. His mouth clacked shut.
“You okay, kid?” the commander inquired gruffly, a dented metal cup of weak coffee in his hand and a trace of amusement creasing the corners of his eyes.
Tahl mumbled something noncommittal, ducked back inside to dress. The worst was yet to come.
Because, like him, the others were back. Not everyone in Tristan’s camp had found themselves on the island (Tristan himself, of all people, had been spared), but it seemed the ones that had, remembered. They did not speak of it, but Tahl knew. It was in the way they stole strained, sideways glances at each other as they fell back into their routines. It was in the tense laughter between people who had…gotten to know each other a lot better in that bizarre, parallel world, and didn’t know how to translate it into this one. It was in the knowing smirks of anyone who’d seen him in his miniskirt.
He practically threw himself into the trees, that first day. It was either that, or over a cliff, and Tahl figured these smug assholes still needed him to keep the meat coming. Not that meat; the meat for eating. Oh for gods’ sake, nevermind.
It was a matter of survival, okay?
So when he didn’t catch anything that day, which naturally forced him to stay out overnight, he didn’t feel too badly about it. He was clothed neck to ankle, and shod, and he had his pack and his bow. It was a real quiver-half-full situation. He bathed in the stream, grateful for the cold, unenchanted water, and made himself a bed of moss and leaves beneath the exposed roots of a familiar tree, and spent the last light of evening fletching enough arrows to make it a full quiver. The stars – his stars – wheeled brightly overhead, and Ihintza chirped against his neck, unusually affectionate for someone who claimed to have not noticed his absence.
The woods, as always, were a relief – falling into muscle memory was a relief. He tracked a herd of deer, and set snares for rabbits, and shot a pheasant. He didn’t return for two nights. Things had settled by then, and everyone’s behavior was practically back to normal, but Tahl still felt the weight of what they’d all seen – what they’d all done – smothering him. Like a salty, sticky, sweaty blanket.
He went back out the next morning. And the next.
The herd continued to be elusive, but the snares reliably snared. He had a few rabbits tied to his pack as he moved quietly through the thickets, expecting to find a third success and discovering a mangled trap, instead. It fell to ribbons in his hands as he bent to examine it, but there was blood there, too…and it was warm.
Shit, he mouthed, drawing quickly as he crouched, bright eyes darting over the surrounding bushes. With his senses straining, he could just make out a rhythmic crunch, crunch, crunch, oddly familiar for a sound that should have sent him running. He picked a pebble off the ground and sent it sailing in the direction of the munching, and a recognizable, skeletal head popped up, a long fluffy tail dangling from its thief mouth.
“Oh for fuck’s sake, you again?” he grumbled, standing with a frown. That was his squirrel. The death-horse blinked at him, looking for all the world like this was not the second time she’d stolen his kill. Tahl narrowed his eyes. “Your owner’s gunna owe me another dinner. Maybe he should start a tab.” But that statement brought a flood of recent, not-easily-suppressed memories lurching to the front of his mind, and color caught on his cheeks. He swiped the hair out of his face impatiently, smearing a bit of blood and dirt across his forehead and face. “Well, where is he then?” he demanded, stepping out into the clearer area the Thestral occupied. If he was going to have to confront Anapa, and…apologize, he guessed, for…well, he’d rather get it over with.
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