"How?" The question came out sharp, but I was genuinely shocked. We'd been communicating just fine, but I'd assumed that was due to some kind of translation technology. Reading was different. Reading required understanding not just spoken language but also written symbols, grammar, and syntax.
"I learned it," he said simply, turning his attention back to the instructions. He pulled out one of the tent poles and began fitting it together.
"But—how?" I watched him work, my mind racing, curiosity nearly making me giddy. "Did you learn it on your ship? Do you have some kind of... I don't know, download capability or something?" Scenes from the Matrix, where one of the main characters learned to fly a helicopter with the press of a button, flashed in my head.
"The human females aboard theHistoria," he said, not looking up from his task. "They taught many of us. English is the most common language among them, so we learned both the spoken and written forms."
I stood there like an idiot, just staring at him. Of course. He'd mentioned the human females mated to his crewmen.
"That's…." I struggled for words. "That's really impressive. I thought you were speaking through a translation device."
This time he glanced up, and I could swear there was a hint of pride in his expression. It made something warm unfurl in my chest, seeing him pleased by my reaction.
"No, I studied hard to learn your language," he added. "Though my accent is still... imperfect."
"Your accent is fine," I said automatically, then felt my cheeks heat. Actually, he didn't have much of an accent at all, just a hint that might make someone think he wasoriginally from somewhere in eastern Europe. Was I seriously complimenting an alien on his English pronunciation? "I mean, it's good. Really good. I just didn't realize...."
I trailed off, feeling oddly flustered. It shouldn't matter that he could read and write English. Granted, it changed nothing about our situation. But somehow it felt significant. Like another layer of the differences between us had peeled away.
Finished with the tent setup, Rickon straightened, brushing his hands off. "I will gather wood for the stove. You should rest."
"I can help set up inside," I offered, not quite ready to be useless.
He nodded, already moving toward the tree line with that otherworldly grace of his, wings tucked close against his back. I watched him go for a moment longer than necessary before ducking into the tent.
The interior was surprisingly spacious, or it would have been if we weren't sharing it. I eyed the dimensions critically, doing the math in my head. With the wood stove and our sleeping bags laid out, we'd be close. Really close. The kind of close where I'd probably be able to feel the heat radiating off his body all night. A fact that did not upset me nearly as much as it should have.
I swallowed hard and focused on unpacking our gear, arranging things as efficiently as possible. Sleeping bags on opposite sides. Packs near the entrance. The small wood stove in the middle. I emptied the duffel, pulling out MRE's for us to eat and finding the small hatchet I'd packed. A hatchet Rickon would need for gathering firewood.
I stepped out of the tent, the early morning air biting at my exposed skin. Frost clung to every surface, the grass, the bare branches overhead. It glittered in the weak sunlight filtering through the trees, beautiful and unforgiving. There wasno snowfall like back in Washington, but it was cold enough that my breath misted in front of my face.
I found Rickon near a cluster of dead trees. He'd selected a small one, maybe ten feet tall, and as I watched, gripped it near the base and simply... snapped it. The crack echoed through the quiet morning like a gunshot.
My jaw dropped. He broke the tree into sections with the same casual ease I'd use to snap a matchstick, reducing it to firewood in seconds.
"Jesus," I muttered.
He glanced over, arms full of wood. "Is this sufficient?"
"Yeah. That's... yeah, that's plenty." I shook my head, still processing what I'd just witnessed. "Remind me never to arm wrestle you."
The corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile. "Noted."
We got the stove running without much difficulty, and soon blessed heat began to fill the small tent. I dug out the camp kettle and filled it with water from one of our bottles, setting it on the stove to heat.
The MRE breakfast skillet wasn't exactly gourmet. Scrambled eggs with bacon and peppers that had the texture of something that had been freeze-dried and reconstituted, because that's exactly what it was. But I was hungry enough to ignore the taste, and the hot food helped chase away the lingering chill.
Rickon ate his portion methodically, then looked at my half-finished meal with obvious interest.
"You want the rest?" I asked, amused.
"If you are finished."
I handed it over and watched him polish it off. "It's good," he said, sounding genuinely pleased.
"It's really not," I laughed. "But I'm glad you like it."
He set the empty container aside and leaned back on his sleeping bag, looking more relaxed than I'd seen him since this whole mess started. The warmth of the stove, the food, the safety of our hidden camp, all combined to create a strange pocket of near-normalcy.
