Chapter 5 #2
And still her father had worried.
“I know you’re better, little spark. But why take risks? Why strain yourself when there’s no need?”
She’d gone along with it because she loved him.
Because he’d lost her mother in childbirth and had nearly lost her too.
She understood that his worry came from a place of deep and abiding love and fear.
Arguing with him and insisting on her own capabilities, had seemed cruel when it was so easy to simply… let others handle things.
But now those others weren’t here.
Now she was alone on a mountain with a Vultor who looked at her like she was a particularly troublesome insect, and she couldn’t lift a bucket of snow or cook a simple stew. She couldn’t do anything except take up space and consume resources.
I refuse to be helpless, she thought, the words hard and bright in her mind.
She’d survived so far. She wasn’t delicate—or if she was, it was only because no one had ever demanded otherwise.
But things are different now.
“I want to learn,” she said after Rykan finished refilling the water barrel and starting slicing thin strips of meat from the kill he’d made earlier that day. His golden eyes found hers across the cabin, his expression unreadable.
“Learn what?”
“Everything.” She pushed herself up from the bench, ignoring the protest of her aching muscles.
“How to cook properly. How to carry water without dropping it. How to…” She gestured vaguely at the cabin, at the fire, at the whole of mountain survival she knew nothing about.
“Everything I need to do to pull my weight.”
“You can barely stand.”
“I’m standing now.”
“For how long?”
It was a fair question. Her legs were trembling, her burned hand throbbing again, and her body screaming for rest. But she locked her knees and lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with what she hoped was determination rather than desperation.
“Long enough to learn.”
He set down the knife. He didn’t speak for a long moment, just studied her with those predator’s eyes, and she had the uncomfortable feeling that he was seeing more than she wanted to show.
“Why?” he asked finally.
“Because I don’t want to be a burden.”
He started to say something, then clearly changed his mind.
“You are a burden,” he said when he finally spoke.
The words should have stung. They did sting, if she were honest. But there was no cruelty in his voice—just a simple statement of fact. She was consuming his food, taking up space in his cabin, and requiring care and attention that he hadn’t planned to offer.
“Then let me become less of one,” she said.
“I’m not asking you to coddle me or pretend I’m capable when I’m not.
I’m asking you to teach me so that I can be capable.
I’m a fast learner. I work hard, and I—” Her voice caught, but she forced herself to continue.
“I need this. I need to know that I can do more than sit by a fire and wait for someone else to save me.”
Something shifted in his expression. Not softening, exactly, but… contemplation. Like she’d said something that surprised him.
“It won’t be easy,” he said.
“I don’t expect it to be.”
“You’ll fail. Repeatedly. I won’t pretend otherwise to spare your feelings.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
Another long pause. Then he picked up the knife again and gestured to the space beside him.
“Come here. Watch what I’m doing. The meat needs to be sliced thin enough to dry properly, or it’ll spoil.”
Her heart lifted, and she crossed the cabin on unsteady legs to learn.
The next two hours were an education in humiliation.
She couldn’t hold the knife properly—her grip was too loose, her angle wrong, and the blade slipped dangerously close to her fingers. He corrected her three times before she managed a single acceptable slice, and even then it was uneven, thicker on one side than the other.
“Again,” he said.
She tried again. And again. And again.
Her hand cramped. Her shoulder ached from the unfamiliar motion. Her burned palm sent spikes of pain up her arm every time she gripped the handle too tightly. But she kept going, slice after slice, until she’d worked through half the meat and her cuts had improved from disastrous to merely poor.
“Adequate,” he said finally as he arranged the slices on a drying rack, and it felt like high praise.
Next came fire maintenance—how to add wood without smothering the flames, how to adjust the airflow, how to read the coals and know when more fuel was needed. This she managed better because it required observation and attention rather than strength.
Then water again.
“Don’t try to lift the full bucket,” he said, watching her eye the container with undisguised wariness. “Fill it halfway. Make two trips instead of one.”
“You said that was inefficient.”
“Refilling it three times because you overestimated your strength is more inefficient.”
He had a point.
She filled the bucket halfway and found she could lift it—barely, with effort, her arms shaking by the time she reached the door—but she could lift it, which was more than she’d managed before.
Small victories.
By the time they’d finished the evening meal—a simple preparation of dried fruit and grain that she had assisted with under his watchful eye—she was exhausted in a way she’d never experienced.
Every muscle in her body ached. Her hands were raw, her burned palm screaming despite the salve he’d applied. She could barely keep her eyes open.
But she’d helped. Actually helped, instead of just making more work.
Progress, she thought, settling onto the sleeping platform with a groan. Slow progress, but progress.