Daisy's Decision (Icehome)

But D’see has held my heart in her small fist from the moment she arrived on this world, all confidence.

She does not know this, of course. I would never admit such a thing. D’see is special. She will likely be the mate of a leader, for I’rec or for even R’jaal, or she will wait for the next leader to grow of age. I am not special amongst my people. I am a hunter, but I am not as clever as I’rec or as good at scents as A’tam. I am not as skilled with nets as U’dron. D’see’s khui waits for someone special, I know it.

And mine, well…I suspect mine is silent because I am not worthy of a mate, that there is nothing exciting about me to pass on to the next generation. Part of me is glad, though. Every day it is silent is another day I can dream that D’see will be mine.

I rinse my bowl once I am done eating and bring it back to S’teph. “Fill again?” I ask. “I will make sure D’see eats.”

She nods absently, but her focus is elsewhere.

I follow her gaze, confused. Everyone around the fire has gotten quiet, and they all stare at P’nee and S’bren. Their kit, B’renna, sits in her mother’s lap but her parents are oblivious. S’bren mouth-mates his female as if he has never seen her before, his hand on her cheek. He makes a pained sound, his tail thumping on the sands—

And then I hear it.

The thrumming, droning song of resonance.

From across the fire, Bek clears his throat, leaning forward. “Is it—”

“Resonance,” V’za declares with pride, as if it is his own khui that sings so painfully loud. “A second kit for you, Pen-ee, and for your mate.”

P’nee breaks away from her mate’s kiss, dazed. She blinks at the rest of us, and then leans in toward her mate once more, her face upturned as she quietly asks for more mouth-matings.

“Someone’s gonna be babysitting tonight,” S’teph says, a smile on her face as she ladles the stew into my bowl. “Maybe Daisy—”

“Not D’see,” I say quickly. All others will be thrilled for P’nee and S’bren, but not D’see. It will need to be told to her gently, and she will need a shoulder to cry on when she realizes what has occurred.

S’teph gazes at me, her round face thoughtful. “No, not Daisy. I’m sure Juth and I can take Brenna for a few nights.” She smiles and holds the full bowl out to me. “You’ll talk to Daisy?”

The words are unspoken between us. Of all the tribe, S’teph knows how much D’see struggles lately, and how much I am there for her. I nod. “I will be kind.”

“I know,” S’teph says quietly. She glances back over at P’nee and S’bren, who are lost in their own little world, their mouths hungry upon each other. “Probably a good thing she didn’t come to dinner tonight.”

I grunt at that, taking the bowl and heading down to the beach.

Behind me, I hear Leezh call out, “Okay you two, get a room! Keee-rist!”

The ripple of laughter from the tribe fades as I head away, toward D’see’s perch near the edge of the water. There is a cluster of boulders near the huts that make a good resting place, and she sits atop one now, her legs bent and her arms hugging them as she gazes out at the furious waves. I am certain she is cold—D’see has thin human skin and not the hardiness of the People. She is not dressed for the cold, and I worry she is being deliberately cruel to herself.

I climb up the rocks, careful to not spill the dinner, and move to sit at D’see’s side.

“You didn’t have to come,” she says, still gazing out at the water. “This isn’t a cry for help or attention or anything. I’m just not hungry.”

“Food is plentiful,” I tell her, sitting down next to D’see. I hold the bowl out. “You do not know what it is like to wish for food and to have nothing to eat. Declaring you are not eating when there is food to be had is foolish. Food is strength.”

She takes the bowl from me with a sheepish glance, chastised by my words. Picking a chunk of fish up with her fingers, she delicately nibbles on it. “Maybe I don’t feel particularly strong right now, O’jek.”

D’see says my name right and it sends a thrill through my gut. Unlike the other humans, D’see is good at making the throaty, deep sounds of the language of the People. She says it is because her praxiian husband had a similar language, but it is just another thing that makes her perfect in my eyes. “You are strong. Never think you are not.”

There is no response to that. I watch out of the corner of my eye as she takes a few more half-hearted bites and then sets the bowl down. I do not need to ask if she is having a bad day. It is evident in every line of her body, in the sadness that slumps her shoulders. I see it in the too-severe jut of her cheekbones and the way she picks at the edge of her tunic with delicate fingers.