For a long while, I watch the tip of the black, dusty chalk glide over the thick parchment page for a long while.
It’s sort of hypnotising. Or meditative.
I zone out.
And when Samick speaks, I blink out of a daze, and time has passed.
“Eat.”
The drawing is mostly done, the camp mostly asleep, and I’m sagged against the boulder, my lashes heavy over my eyes.
A stifled yawn twists my mouth.
I rub the ball of my palm against my eye. “Huh?”
“Eat.” His softly murmured echo comes with a promise of something he doesn’t deliver. He has chalks and a sketchbook in his hands.
No food.
He handed me a full bowl earlier, taken from the man and given straight to me. Instant mashed potatoes, stirred through with chickpeas. Nothing to write about.
My voice is thick with the exhaustion weighing me down, “Eat what?”
The look he gives me is withering.
With a harsh tut, he reaches over my knees for the backpack flat on the dirt and hits it once.
Oh.
I do have food in there.
Snacks.
Not much, but some.
He returns to his book, and I’m forgotten.
The camp is too quiet, too asleep to just tear the zipper open and dig through my things.
I move slowly, carefully, and sway my hand around in the backpack. My gaze swerving to Rust. He’s asleep.
I pull out a handful of items.
A tin of tuna in chilli oil, a small box of trail nuts, and a chocolate bar.
Not a favourite combo of mine.
But I’m just so fucking hungry that I take whatever I’ve grabbed, and I don’t want to risk waking any fae with all my rummaging around.
I start on the tuna.
I hook my finger through the tab, then peel back the lid. My teeth bare against the faint creaking sound.
Arwyn’s attention drifts to me.
There’s nothing to read on his face, no hatred, no curiosity, no nothing. He just watches as I pick out lumps of tuna and stuff them into my mouth.
And he watches still as I set down the empty tin and bring the other two items onto my lap.
