"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice low and rumbling.
"Nothing," I mumble, turning away from him and trying to go back to sleep. "Just a bad dream. I'll take your watch."
He doesn't move. I can feel his eyes on me, expectant, probing. Damn it. I let out a frustrated sigh and sit up, glaring at him.
"I said it's nothing."
Drasuk doesn't budge, his expression unyielding. "It's obviously not nothing," he says calmly.
I resist the urge to throw something at him. Instead, I slump back against the cave wall, my anger draining away, replaced by a deep, gnawing weariness.
"Fine," I mutter. "You want to know? I was dreaming about my battlegroup."
Drasuk listens silently, his eyes never leaving mine.
"I was supposed to protect them," I continue, my voice trembling. "But I couldn't. I watched as they were torn to pieces. And I couldn't do a damn thing to stop it."
The memories flood back, the horror, the helplessness. I feel the familiar wave of shame and guilt washing over me, choking me. "I wasn't strong enough," I whisper. "I'm not a warrior anymore. Not after that."
Drasuk steps closer, his gaze intense. "You're wrong," he says firmly. "You are a warrior, Kira, even now. We're being hunted on an alien world by some of the most violent species imaginable, and you're still here. You're still fighting. Still looking for civilians to protect."
A bitter smile tugs at my lips. I quickly hide it, looking away.
"I was only protecting one person when they took me," I whisper, "and they were a terrible excuse for a human. I can't sleep well anymore. Every time I close my eyes, I see their faces. I see them dying all over again."
Drasuk's expression softens. "I understand," he says quietly. "I see the faces of fallen Maj'Ras every time I close my eyes, too. It's a burden we both carry."
There's a moment of silence, heavy and loaded with unspoken pain.
I meet his gaze, and I see a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. "Would you stay with me?" I ask, the words surprising evenmyself. "Just... hold me? But it doesn't mean anything," I add hastily.
Drasuk makes a rumble of agreement, understanding. He lies down beside me on the mat of moss, wrapping a rough-skinned arm around me, pulling my chest to him and squeezing gently. It's comforting, though the peace doesn't last long.
My skin itches, and I scratch at it absently, trying to ignore the persistent irritation.
I'm not ready to face what I think it means.
"Thank you," I whisper, more to myself than to him.
His presence is grounding, a small anchor in the chaos of my mind, but sleep remains elusive, and I know this is just one more battle I'll have to fight on my own.
As my mind wanders, so do my hands. They hit a ridge of scars I've seen many times now, but never found the time to ask about.
"Where did these scars on your back come from? They're equidistant."
It almost looks like he was one of those stuffed toys you're supposed to try to get in that claw machine game that rips everyone off. As if he was the easy target nestled next to the sought after expensive gadget and someone used far too much force pulling him up in their rage over having to settle for a stuffy.
Well, if the machine used giant knives and rattled him around until it left two massive wounds and...
Okay, the comparison isn't holding up to scrutiny.
I don't come up with something better before he answers me.
"Those were my proto-wings."
"What?"
"Proto. Wings."
