Theea
rise to the occasion
By the time we’ve muscled the last of the beams into place, my arms are trembling like I’ve been sparring all morning. I still flash Marcus a wide grin though, pride written all over me. He'd taken the brunt of the weight without complaint, and I know the task would have been doomed without him. And when I glance toward Damien, that matter-of-fact approval of his warms me more than the Leafchange sun.
When the next tasks are called out, one in particular catches my ear, and I can’t help the spark of triumph that rises in me. “That one’s mine,” I announce. Sealing the joints—finally, something my little arms are actually good for.
I snatch up the little pot of pitch that had been tucked among the tools, the stuff thick and dark as tar. It’ll hold, but not on its own. So I slip down toward the treeline, where bark peels loose beneath my nails and moss pulls free in soft, springy clumps. My fingers are already sticky when I spot it: a patch on a frozen creek bank where the snow runs down from the sunlight, leaving the ground slick and dark. Perfect.
I crouch in the mud. With both hands I dig in, scooping cold, wet clay into the bucket I dragged with me. The chill bites sharp, turning my knuckles red, but I keep going until there’s enough to work with. When I push damp hair back from my face, it smears a streak of brown across my cheek.
Back at the frame, I climb with buckets dangling from my arms. I squirrel up the structure, quick and nimble despite them. The beams groan faintly beneath me, but they’re solid—our work is holding. I balance like I was born to it, following just behind as each new piece is set in place. Wherever the rafters meet, wherever there’s the hint of a gap, I stuff moss in tight, smear pitch over it, and pack clay thick with my frozen fingers. I work fast, moving from seam to seam, high above the clearing with the cold wind in my hair and resin drying dark on my hands.
When I crouch at the peak, clay smeared over my palms, I glance down at all of them below—Marcus, Deimos, Thorn, Damien. "I think I'm done!" I call.
When the next tasks are called out, one in particular catches my ear, and I can’t help the spark of triumph that rises in me. “That one’s mine,” I announce. Sealing the joints—finally, something my little arms are actually good for.
I snatch up the little pot of pitch that had been tucked among the tools, the stuff thick and dark as tar. It’ll hold, but not on its own. So I slip down toward the treeline, where bark peels loose beneath my nails and moss pulls free in soft, springy clumps. My fingers are already sticky when I spot it: a patch on a frozen creek bank where the snow runs down from the sunlight, leaving the ground slick and dark. Perfect.
I crouch in the mud. With both hands I dig in, scooping cold, wet clay into the bucket I dragged with me. The chill bites sharp, turning my knuckles red, but I keep going until there’s enough to work with. When I push damp hair back from my face, it smears a streak of brown across my cheek.
Back at the frame, I climb with buckets dangling from my arms. I squirrel up the structure, quick and nimble despite them. The beams groan faintly beneath me, but they’re solid—our work is holding. I balance like I was born to it, following just behind as each new piece is set in place. Wherever the rafters meet, wherever there’s the hint of a gap, I stuff moss in tight, smear pitch over it, and pack clay thick with my frozen fingers. I work fast, moving from seam to seam, high above the clearing with the cold wind in my hair and resin drying dark on my hands.
When I crouch at the peak, clay smeared over my palms, I glance down at all of them below—Marcus, Deimos, Thorn, Damien. "I think I'm done!" I call.
got fears but I face them
