The sleepiness slows me down as I reach my hand out from under the blanket, back into the chilly air of the cell.
My fingertips touch a waxy paper.
I drag it onto the pillow.
I squint in the faint firelight that reaches us in the cell, wisps of flames on torches in the main corridor.
But I see it, and my mouth floods.
Food.
Well, weird alien fae food, but whatever.
It’s that preserved meat-stick thing that reminds me of salami sticks, only this tastes more like fire smoke.
I rip at the waxy wrapper before I bite a chunk right out of it. The smoky flavour erupts in my mouth.
He gives these meat-sticks to me sometimes. Three times, to be exact. And all while on my period. First time he gave one to me, he just said, “Energy.”
He says nothing now.
Samick unearths a jar from the satchel. Then, elbows on his thighs, he flicks his thumb and unscrews the lid.
He tends to his bruised, bleeding hand.
Battered by the hail.
I watch him.
Chewing on the rough meat, just two bites in and already feeling full, but not energised, I speak through a mouthful, “You knew it was coming.”
The chatter out in the corridor is muffled, like the warriors who do speak only murmur and whisper. The moans and grunts of the injured come from a few cells down.
So Samick hears my tired, low voice just fine.
His gaze lifts.
Green, as faint as iceberg lettuce. Inhumanly pale. But there’s nothing sharp in his stare. Green means he’s not feeling particularly bloodthirsty.
White is when I should worry.
He rolls the balm over his knuckles, but his eyes are on me.
I fold the remaining wax-paper over the last few bites of the meat-stick. I’ve had enough. I might be a meat eater in the apocalypse, but overindulging in it just feels icky sometimes.
“How did you know?” I ask.
Samick just stares at me from beneath his lashes, a look that I would’ve thought moody back at the start of all this, a stare that would’ve chilled me.
Now, I see it as just… him.
“I felt it advancing,” he says, then smears another blob of balm over his hand.
The bruises are fading, but the gashes and torn flesh aren’t knitting together.
“You felt it.” My echo is faint. Confused, but tired. “What does it feel like?”
He watches his thumb move back and forth over his knuckles. I almost think he won’t answer, but he does.
