Chapter 11 #5
My hand rose to touch my cheek where his palm had been, the warmth still lingering.
I thought about those predator tracks we'd seen around the ship.
How Enslak had known they were there, had chosen this cave to shield us from them.
How he'd carried me through the sewers on Merisalle.
How he'd fought a dozen guards while bleeding from multiple blaster wounds.
How he'd touched my face before losing consciousness, seeing me despite my disguise.
He was protecting me. From every threat this universe could throw at us. Every danger lurking in Avalon's beautiful, deadly forests.
And somehow, sitting in that cave, I felt safer than I had in years.
Safer than I'd felt anywhere since Danny died.
Enslak returned half an hour later with something that resembled a deer but had six legs and scales instead of fur. He'd already cleaned it, already prepared it for cooking. He laid it near the fire pit he'd built and met my eyes, waiting.
"I don't know how to start a fire without matches," I admitted.
He tilted his head, considering, then picked up two stones and struck them together. Sparks flew. Within minutes, a small fire crackled to life.
"Show off," I said, but I was smiling.
We ate in comfortable silence. The meat was surprisingly good—tender and flavorful, unlike anything I'd tasted on Earth. Enslak watched me eat, and I caught the satisfaction in his expression. The pleasure of providing. Of taking care of me.
When we finished, the sun was starting to set and that strange sky was turning colors I didn't have names for. I finally said what I'd been holding back all day.
"I brought you here because your family wanted to kill you," I said softly. "Not because they didn't love you. Because they did. Because they thought you were suffering. That you were trapped in your own mind, and the kindest thing they could do was let you go."
Enslak went very still, his golden eyes locked on mine.
"It's called koa ukufa," I continued. "A warrior's death. An honorable end. Your brother Charick was going to..." I paused, the words catching in my throat. "Release you from your suffering."
Enslak's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. Understanding, maybe. Or memory.
"My grandfather told me a story once," I said. "About Japanese warriors who would commit seppuku—ritual suicide—rather than face dishonor. They'd cut open their own bellies, and a friend would behead them to end the pain quickly. It was considered honorable. Noble, even. A good death."
I moved closer, needing him to understand.
"But I always thought it was such a waste," I said. "All those lives ended because of pride. Because of tradition. Because it was easier to die than to live with shame or pain or difficulty."
"I couldn't let them do that to you," I continued. "I couldn't let them waste your life like that. I know you're in there, Enslak. I know you're still fighting. You just need time. Space to heal. You need—"
I reached out and touched his arm. Just a light touch, my fingers resting on his pelt.
The change was instantaneous.
The moment my hand made contact, his entire body relaxed. The tension I hadn't even realized he was carrying just melted away. His eyes softened, his posture shifted, and a sound rumbled up from his chest.
A purr. Deep and resonant and impossibly soothing.
He was purring.
"Enslak?" I whispered, my hand still on his arm.
He leaned into my touch, his eyes half-closing, that rumble growing louder. He looked almost drunk with contentment, like a cat being scratched in just the right spot.
I moved my hand slightly, stroking down his arm, and the purring intensified. He shifted closer, pressing against me, seeking more contact.
"You like that?" I asked, wonder filling my voice.
He made a sound—not quite words, but acknowledgment. Agreement. Yes.
I kept touching him, running my fingers through his pelt, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath. And he just melted. Became completely docile, completely trusting, completely at peace.
George's words about the Vaktaire bond came back to me then, unbidden. At the time, I'd thought it sounded beautiful. Romantic, even, in an alien sort of way.
Now, feeling Enslak's massive body relaxing under my touch, hearing that deep, rumbling purr, I understood it differently.
This wasn't just comfort. This was need.
He'd been drugged, tortured, broken down to something barely sentient. And through all of that, some part of him had been screaming for this—for the simple comfort of a gentle touch.
"We're going to be okay," I whispered, more to myself than to him. "We're going to figure this out. I'm going to help you find your way back."
He rumbled in response, his massive shoulder pressed against mine, his breathing slow and steady and content.
And sitting there in the mouth of that cave, on an alien planet filled with dinosaurs and impossible beauty, with this broken soul purring under my touch, I felt something I hadn't felt since the moment I'd been shot in Hell's Kitchen.
Hope.