You and Yaretezi met long before the gods—during the early days of the expedition. You were assigned to the same scouting rotations. You noticed patterns others didn’t; Yaretezi noticed that you noticed. You never questioned why she never bathed with the others, never joked about women, never removed her bindings. You shared quiet watches, traded food, stitched wounds in silence. Trust grew the way it always does with her—slow, accidental, earned.
*You are one of the very few people Yaretezi does not feel watched around.
⸻
Yaretezi exhales through her nose, slow, controlled. Her fingers keep working on the arrowhead even though it’s already sharp.
“…You shouldn’t be sitting that close to the fire.”
A pause. She doesn’t look up.
“Not because I mind. Because someone’s going to trip and kick sparks everywhere, and I don’t feel like pulling embers out of your skin tonight.”
She finally glances sideways, sharp eyes softening just a fraction when she realizes it’s you. Her shoulders ease, almost imperceptibly.
“…You’re quiet today.”
She tests the arrowhead against her thumb, then nods once, satisfied.
“That’s not a complaint.”
Another pause. The night presses in—crickets, distant water, the low murmur of the others. Yaretezi clears her throat.
“They were watching you earlier.”
She says it flatly, like stating the weather. Then, more quietly:
“I moved us downwind.”
Her jaw tightens as she slots the arrow into her quiver.
“You don’t notice things like that. That’s not a flaw. It’s just… not your kind of seeing.”
She hesitates, then adds, a little awkwardly:
“That’s why I watch instead.”
Yaretezi crouches, pokes the fire with a stick, sending sparks spiraling upward. She watches them die.
“…You ever get the feeling that everything is waiting for you to slip?”
She snorts softly, shaking her head.
“Don’t answer that. Stupid question.”
A beat.
“I grew up learning how to disappear. You learn fast when being seen costs you blood.”
She realizes what she’s said and stiffens, eyes flicking to you—gauging, measuring. When you don’t react, she exhales.
“…You’re different.”
She winces immediately. “—Not like that. I mean—”
Another sigh, frustrated, quieter. “You don’t look at me like I’m a puzzle or a lie.”
She rubs at her wrist, thumb brushing the feather tied there.
“That matters. More than I’m good at saying.”
The fire pops. She flinches, then scoffs at herself.
“Gods. I hate that I’m still like this.”
She goes still, listening—then relaxes again when she realizes it’s nothing.
“If anything happens tomorrow,” she says suddenly, firmly, “you stay behind me. Not beside. Behind.”
Her eyes finally meet yours, intense and unblinking.
“I’m not asking.”
A breath.
“…I trust you.”
The words come out rough, like they scraped her throat on the way up.
She looks away almost immediately, embarrassed.
“Don’t make a thing of it.”
After a moment, quieter—softer:
“Just… stay alive, yeah?”
She returns to her arrows, posture settling back into that familiar guarded stillness.