Chapter 11 #2
I forced myself to breathe. To think logically instead of letting panic take over.
We'd landed here deliberately. Binwee had set the autopilot.
She'd chosen this spot. She wouldn't have put us down somewhere dangerous, somewhere those things regularly hunted.
The clearing was open, visible. If those creatures came here often, there'd be signs—trampled vegetation, massive tracks, stripped trees.
But the clearing was pristine. Untouched except for the flowers and grass.
Maybe they stayed deeper in the forest. Maybe they avoided open spaces like this. Maybe they had their own territories, their own hunting grounds, and this wasn't one of them.
The roar came again, but fainter now. Moving away. Fading into the distance.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
"This is Avalon," I said, not sure if I was talking to Enslak or myself. "This is where we're staying. Where you're going to heal."
Enslak moved past me down the ramp, his steps cautious but steady. He stood in the clearing, head tilted back, breathing in the scent of this alien world. His entire body was tense, alert, assessing every detail.
Then he turned to look at me, and I saw it happen.
The shift from confusion to purpose. From disorientation to focus.
He moved to stand between me and the forest. Between me and whatever had made that sound. His posture changed—protective, defensive. His eyes scanned the tree line, cataloging threats, calculating distances.
Keeping me safe.
"It's okay," I said softly. "We're okay."
He looked at me, and something in his expression made my chest tight. He didn't have the words to tell me what he was thinking, what he was feeling. But I could see it in his eyes.
I'll protect you. Whatever comes. I'll keep you safe.
He held out his hand.
I took it without hesitation.
His pelt was warm, rough in places, but his grip was gentle. Careful. Like he was afraid of breaking me.
We stood there for a moment, hand in hand, looking out at this impossible world. Then Enslak tugged gently, leading me away from the ship toward the tree line.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
Enslak glanced toward the distant dinosaur roar. He didn't answer—couldn't answer—but his intent was clear. We were moving away from it.
"Wait." I pulled back slightly, my hand still in his. "Maybe we should stay with the ship. It's shelter, it has supplies, and—"
Another roar echoed across the landscape. Faint, but still terrifying.
I turned to look at the ship behind us. The hull was reinforced, sure, but it was built for space travel, not for whatever was out there.
The image of that massive creature I'd glimpsed through the viewport flashed through my mind. The sheer size of it. The way the ground had trembled when it moved.
One good stomp. That's all it would take. One curious investigation, one territorial display, and our ship would be crushed like an aluminum can.
"Okay," I said quietly, turning back to Enslak. "You're right. We need to move."
His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes softened. Relief, maybe. Or approval.
He tugged my hand again, more insistent this time, and I followed.
We walked through the clearing, the strange grass brushing against my legs and leaving trails of sparkles on my pants. Enslak moved with purpose, his eyes constantly scanning, assessing.
I was grateful for my uniform—the same one I'd worn on the rescue mission.
It was designed for movement, climate controlled, adapting to the temperature shifts as we moved from sun to shadow.
The fabric breathed, wicked away moisture, kept me comfortable even as we hiked through this alien landscape.
Enslak wore loose-fitting drawstring pants that looked like hospital scrubs, gray and simple. They hung low on his hips, the drawstring tied in a hasty knot. His chest was bare, his pelt catching the filtered sunlight that broke through the canopy above us.
I'd noticed when I perused the supplies that George had packed more clothes for Enslak—several pairs of pants, some shirts, boots. The thought had seemed practical at the time, necessary for a thirty-day stay.
But now, walking beside him, watching the way he moved with such focused intensity, a different thought struck me: how exactly was I supposed to get him to change clothes?
Heat flooded my cheeks.
He'd worn only a pair of leather pants on Merisalle, the makeup more dirt than fabric. He'd probably worn them for years.
The image came unbidden—me trying to explain through gestures that he needed to put on a clean pair of pants. Him looking at me with those intelligent eyes, confused about why it mattered. Me having to what? Help him? Turn around and give him privacy while hoping he understood what I was asking?
God, I was blushing harder now.
It was such a mundane concern compared to everything else—the dinosaurs, the survival situation, his damaged mind. But the intimacy of it, the domestic reality of spending thirty days with someone who probably couldn't understand verbal instructions about something as simple as changing clothes...
It made everything feel suddenly, intensely real.
Enslak glanced back at me, and I quickly looked away, pretending to be fascinated by a cluster of bioluminescent flowers growing at the base of a tree.
One problem at a time. First, find shelter. Then worry about laundry logistics.
The forest opened up ahead, and suddenly we stood at the base of a massive rock face that stretched upward at least two hundred feet. The stone was dark gray, almost black in places, weathered by time and elements I couldn't begin to understand.
Vines covered much of the surface—thick, ropy things with leaves the size of plates. They cascaded down the rock like green waterfalls, some as thick as my arm, others delicate as thread. The whole cliff face seemed alive with them, swaying slightly in the breeze.
But between the curtains of vegetation, I could see darkness. Pockets of shadow that suggested depth. Caves, maybe. Or at least indentations in the rock.
"Up there?" I asked, pointing.
Enslak's gaze followed my finger, scanning the rock face methodically. His head tilted as he assessed each dark opening, calculating distances and evaluating access points. His hand tightened slightly around mine—not painfully, but protectively.
He started forward, leading me along the base of the cliff. His eyes never stopped moving, cataloging every detail, every potential threat or advantage.
The first opening we reached was large—maybe twenty feet across, with a high ceiling that vanished into shadow. Enslak paused at the entrance, nostrils flaring as he tested the air. His entire body went rigid, and he made a low sound in his throat. Not quite a growl, but close.
He pulled me back gently but firmly, shaking his head. His eyes locked on something inside the cave—something I couldn't make out in the darkness with my optical enhancement turned off. Then I caught it: a smell. Musky and sharp, like wet fur and something else I couldn't place.
"Something lives there?" I whispered.
He nodded once, already guiding us along the cliff face, putting distance between us and whatever had claimed that cave as its territory.
The second cave sat higher up the rockface. Enslak had to climb to reach it, his powerful arms hauling him up the tangled vines with ease. I waited below, watching as he disappeared into the opening.
He emerged less than a minute later, already descending. When he reached me, he shook his head again, more emphatically this time. He gestured at the cave, then made a sweeping motion with his hand—like water flowing. Then he pointed down toward the ground.
"It floods?" I guessed.
He nodded, satisfied I understood.
We continued along the base of the cliff.
The third was perfect.
Set into a rocky outcropping at the edge of the clearing, the cave stretched maybe fifty feet deep and twenty feet wide.
Large enough to be comfortable, small enough to be defensible.
The entrance was narrow—only one way in or out—and tucked behind a curtain of vines and boulders.
From inside, we'd have a clear view of the entire clearing.
Enslak released my hand and moved inside, checking every corner, every shadow. When he was satisfied, he turned back to me and nodded.
"This is home?" I asked.
Another nod.
Over the next hour, I watched him transform the cave into something livable.
He started with the bedding. Moving back and forth between the cave and the clearing, he gathered armfuls of the softer grass-like plants—the ones with silvery tips that caught the light.
He laid them carefully in the back corner, away from the entrance, creating a thick mat that looked surprisingly comfortable.
Each trip was deliberate, each placement considered.
He tested the bedding with his hand, pressing down to check the cushioning, then added more until he was satisfied.
Next came the stones. He found flat ones near the river—I could hear the water from here, a constant musical backdrop—and carried them back three or four at a time.
He arranged them near the entrance in a careful pattern.
Some formed a low circle—a fire pit, I realized.
Others he positioned nearby, creating surfaces for food preparation, for sitting, for keeping watch over the clearing beyond.
Then he collected fallen branches. Not just any branches—he was selective, choosing ones that were dry, that would burn well, that were the right size.
He stacked them against the cave wall, organized by thickness.
Kindling at the bottom, larger pieces on top.
Fuel for the fires we'd need in the coming days.
I watched him work, and something occurred to me that made my chest tighten with unexpected emotion.
Someone had taught him this.