Theea
sometimes we gotta risk
it all to chase a dream
it all to chase a dream
I trudge beside Damien through the snow, seriously considering dual citizenship for how often I’m in Halo these days. The wind nips, but I’m warmer than Dad’s old jacket ever managed—Damien saw to that. The cloak he pressed on me is heavy and sensible, fur lining tickling my chin whenever the breeze lifts. I didn’t think to ask if it was his or someone else’s; it feels borrowed from the mountain itself.
My old backpack rides my shoulders with the weight of an old friend. There was a time I’d walk a full day with it slung on, everything I owned packed nice and almost neat inside. Now I actually have more than one bag can hold—a novelty that still startles me. I’m used to traveling light: a blanket, a small pot, nuts and jerky, water, four arrows, a couple of other things—and extra socks. Always bring extra socks into a tundra.
Damien slows and so do I. His voice folds low beneath the wind, and I nod. I don’t know much about snow leopards, but he does—he knows this place the way rivers know their banks. I know enough to hear the truth in him. I wouldn’t think he was bullshitting anyway.
Apprehension stirs when we move on, a ghost-ache through the scars at my ribs, memory of claws writing lines I didn’t ask for. But when he glances over with that hint of a smile, my breath steadies. I remember I’m walking beside someone who can take one down if it comes to it.
He talks as we climb, not lecturing, just... sharing, and I let it soak in. The last light drains off the tundra until the snow begins to glow with its own cold fire; the ridges wear a skim of moon like brushed steel. I follow his gaze across the lay of the slope, learning to read the story the land tells before the animal ever writes its next line.
I think of my father, of tracking luxere when we lived out here. The way he worked—start with the ground, not the hoof—mirrors Damien’s. I’ve never tracked a predator before; we never needed to. But shifting focus comes easy enough: scan without scouring, soften the eyes, step light. I’m finally getting used to this older body, the new tilt of my balance—how to move without… well. Those being a problem. I learned fast how to bind my chest tight and keep moving.
Thumbs hooked under my straps, I keep on—and there it is: the cave where we spent the night. Warmth unravels through me with a tug of longing. The steady drum of his heartbeat, his hand in my hair, the shelter of his arm. The horror had been outside; inside he stitched us, fed the fire, kept the cold at the door. Part of me half expects to see old blood shadowing the snow, but the drift is clean, the past pressed flat and pale under starlight.
Stars sweep across a jagged horizon like spilled salt on torn slate. The wind combs the drifts crosswise, and the leys of the snow sketch their quiet arrows. I lift a hand, pointing to a carved dip along the ridge. "The wind’s crossways now, but the ley of that drift says it was blowing this way earlier," I murmur, tracing the curve with a finger. "Maybe something cut through there?"
I look to Damien, hopeful heat brightening my chest. Tracking a whole herd of luxere is easier than this—but I’m learning. And tonight, patience feels like its own kind of hunt.
My old backpack rides my shoulders with the weight of an old friend. There was a time I’d walk a full day with it slung on, everything I owned packed nice and almost neat inside. Now I actually have more than one bag can hold—a novelty that still startles me. I’m used to traveling light: a blanket, a small pot, nuts and jerky, water, four arrows, a couple of other things—and extra socks. Always bring extra socks into a tundra.
Damien slows and so do I. His voice folds low beneath the wind, and I nod. I don’t know much about snow leopards, but he does—he knows this place the way rivers know their banks. I know enough to hear the truth in him. I wouldn’t think he was bullshitting anyway.
Apprehension stirs when we move on, a ghost-ache through the scars at my ribs, memory of claws writing lines I didn’t ask for. But when he glances over with that hint of a smile, my breath steadies. I remember I’m walking beside someone who can take one down if it comes to it.
He talks as we climb, not lecturing, just... sharing, and I let it soak in. The last light drains off the tundra until the snow begins to glow with its own cold fire; the ridges wear a skim of moon like brushed steel. I follow his gaze across the lay of the slope, learning to read the story the land tells before the animal ever writes its next line.
I think of my father, of tracking luxere when we lived out here. The way he worked—start with the ground, not the hoof—mirrors Damien’s. I’ve never tracked a predator before; we never needed to. But shifting focus comes easy enough: scan without scouring, soften the eyes, step light. I’m finally getting used to this older body, the new tilt of my balance—how to move without… well. Those being a problem. I learned fast how to bind my chest tight and keep moving.
Thumbs hooked under my straps, I keep on—and there it is: the cave where we spent the night. Warmth unravels through me with a tug of longing. The steady drum of his heartbeat, his hand in my hair, the shelter of his arm. The horror had been outside; inside he stitched us, fed the fire, kept the cold at the door. Part of me half expects to see old blood shadowing the snow, but the drift is clean, the past pressed flat and pale under starlight.
Stars sweep across a jagged horizon like spilled salt on torn slate. The wind combs the drifts crosswise, and the leys of the snow sketch their quiet arrows. I lift a hand, pointing to a carved dip along the ridge. "The wind’s crossways now, but the ley of that drift says it was blowing this way earlier," I murmur, tracing the curve with a finger. "Maybe something cut through there?"
I look to Damien, hopeful heat brightening my chest. Tracking a whole herd of luxere is easier than this—but I’m learning. And tonight, patience feels like its own kind of hunt.
if we dive in headfirst,
all or nothing kinda thing
all or nothing kinda thing
