The next trip produces dead branches. The one after that produces an entire young sapling. By the fourth trip I finally understand what he's doing. He's building another shelter.
I get up and wander over while he wedges the sapling between two roots.
"You know," I say, "I could just sleep under a tree."
"I’m sure you could."
"That would be less work."
"That’s very likely true."
I wait for the rest. Vyrathion pauses, frowning at the structure taking shape beneath his hands.
"Then why are you carrying half the jungle over here?" I ask.
For a moment he genuinely seems puzzled by the question. Then he looks up at the darkening canopy. "Because it will rain."
I glance at the underside of the canopy of treetops. I suppose it is possible that clouds are gathering above us and decide that he has a point.
As he continues working, I find myself watching him again.
A couple of days ago these same actions felt sweet. Domestic, almost. The dragon built me a hut, gathered food and made certain I was comfortable. Today the actions are identical, yet they feel different somehow. Every movement contains impatience. Every glance toward the jungle reminds me that his thoughts are already on tomorrow.
Tomorrow we continue searching. Tomorrow we might find gold. Tomorrow everything could change.
The thought weighs on me. Maybe it's because things have been so good. Maybe it's because a part of me has started imagining a future that isn't entirely terrible. Or maybe it's because Vyrathion seems to be drifting away from me already, pulled onward by something I can't compete with.
Eventually he steps back from the finished shelter. It's sturdy and dry. Better than anything I could have built, at least in so short a time.
"There," he says.
I look it over. "It looks nice."
"It is now the second hut on his planet built by a dragon. Their value cannot be estimated."
"They’re both incredible.”
He opens his mouth to say something. Then, unexpectedly, the corner of his mouth twitches upward. The smile lasts barely a second, but it's enough. "I'll get food."
"I'll make a fire. I’ll try to light it, too."
He hesitates before turning away. "Don't wander."
The words come out rougher than he probably intends.
I smile despite myself. "I won't."
For a moment he studies me, as though deciding whether that's actually true. Then he gives a single nod and disappears into the jungle.
The clearing feels strangely empty once he's gone. And that bothers me more than the approaching night.
I build a fire and hack the old spearheads against a dry rock to make sparks. I have to keep trying for probably thirty minutes before the kindling catches. I transfer the thin, woolly material into the fire and blow on it until it catches for real.
“Let nobody say that life in a tribe doesn’t give you valuable learning,” I mutter to Clyde, who’s just standing there.
I sit down and enjoy the fire, not absolutely sure why I made it. It’s not like I have any meat to cook on it. But there may be roots.
I get back up and search for the types of edible roots that I know from the tribe, dig up two thin ones and suspend them over the flames the way the Borok tribesmen do.
