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“It is,” Mohlad says.
No argument, not really even a disagreement. He’s making a statement, pure and simple and he never once takes his eyes off of me. He has what I would call an easy grin. It’s not wry or untrue, it’s natural and confident. He stands in this slightly odd way where he’s slightly leaning back at his waist. It makes his washboard abs really stand out and oh my gods above that v… but nope eyes on his. Keep them there.
Nyanna’s Zmaj says something in their tongue. I’ve not bothered to learn any of it. Well, not bothered, like I’ve had time. Running the kitchen, keeping it clean, making sure there is food for all the survivors is more than a bit time consuming.
“No matter who goes,” Julia says, “we need to move. How long will the food supplies last without refrigeration?”
“Four, maybe five days,” I say. “All the meat that has been gathered will spoil by then.”
“It would be smarter for Jean to go,” Shana says. “She’s already been there and knows the way.”
“I know the way,” Mohlad says.
My stomach is doing odd flips all while butterflies flutter inside of it. My eyes are so dry they are burning but I can’t force myself to blink. I don’t want to. I want to keep looking at him. He’s beautiful. Like a statue. When I was young I studied for a while an artist track. I had been enthralled with sculptures that we had studied and there was one by an ancient Earth artist named Michelangelo called David.
The statue was carved from marble and it reminds me of Mohlad. The way he stands. The hard lines of his muscles, his jaw, and even his horns. Yeah, horns. What am I thinking? He can’t be interested in me.
But those eyes… the way he looks at me. I know that look. I’ve seen it before, but knowing and certainty are not the same thing. Besides, I’m way too old for him. He’s young, probably in his twenties, or whatever the Zmaj equivalent of that is. Better to set aside silly notions.
“He go,” Nyanna’s Zmaj says.
Why can’t I remember his name? I know it, I’m too distracted by Mohlad’s swirling purple eyes. I swear it’s as if he’s mesmerizing me.
Nyanna looks at her mate with a quizzical glance. Everyone else is watching and the entire situation is becoming entirely too uncomfortable, for me and for them. I need to bring this to an end because I can’t deal with two uncomfortable things at once.
“Nyanna,’ I say, forcing myself to quit staring into his eyes and turning all my attention on to her. “It’s okay.” I move in close and speak low so only she can hear the rest of my words. “I understand your concerns. I do, but listen. I’m old. I’ve lived a very good life and I’m very happy with where I am. If I can do this, please let me. I’d rather put myself at risk for all of you, than have someone else do it.”
Her eyes glisten with unshed tears as her emotions storm across her face like soldiers going over the ramparts. Her mouth twists unsure if she’s trying to frown, smile, or laugh, or burst out in hard tears.
“But Marge…” she says, choking on my name.
I squeeze her arm and smile.
“I know,” I say.
There are no more words needed. We both understand. I’m the one person Nyanna was ever able to be herself with after the crash. She had spent many nights in my quarters and we’d shed a lot of tears together. She loved me and I loved her as if she was one of my own. Which, in a way, she is. Throwing all propriety and caution to the wind she throws her arms around my neck and pulls me into a tight hug.
“You come back,” she says in my ear. “You hear me. Come back.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say, my own voice as tight as hers.
“We will,” Mohlad says.
He’s behind me and I’m acutely aware of his gaze. It warms my skin, makes my heart speed up, and a flush creep across, while warming all the parts of me that I’d long thought dormant.
2
MARGARET
Iput another shirt into the small pack that I would be taking on the journey then took a moment to sit on the bed. I cast my gaze around my small quarters. The walls are covered with pieces of art from my grandchildren. As I look at each in turn, the memory of each and every one of them comes to mind. Exactly which child, how old they were, and when they gave it to me. Each piece is a treasure, to me. They would be meaningless to anyone else, but this is what a life is built on. Memories.
Memories of experiences had and shared. As I’ve gotten older the experiences I’ve had have become tamer. Oh be honest Marge, they’ve become downright boring. Ever since I lost Henry, so many years ago, I settled into a role of being a matriarch, but not much else. No new adventures and I’d always been fine with that, so what am I doing now?
I’m protecting them. That’s what a matriarch does.
True, for as far as it goes. But if the wisdom of age has taught me anything it’s that just because something answers a question, it doesn’t mean that’s all there is to it. And I know myself well enough to know that’s true in this moment.
When I first volunteered that was the reason I was doing it. To protect not only my own kin, but my adopted kin as well, which is all the survivors. But then Mohlad stepped up and I can’t deny that the appeal of this journey took on an entirely new dimension.
