The Mating Run

Chapter 26

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Ettie’s back has been something that I’m used to following all the years we’ve been together. The only time that I’m ever in front of Ettie is during our morning jogs, but that’s because Ettie says that she’s tired and worn out. Though judging from her lab results, | knew that she was lying, probably just so that | could feel better about myself.Content held by NôvelDrama.Org.

And so as she leads the way, I’m not surprised in the slightest. | grip the strap of Zeke’s bag tighter around my shoulders, sneaking a glance to the corpse of the Hunter beneath my feet. Bending down, my hand instinctively snat ched the map clutched in the dead Hunter's grip. The edges were now crumpled and stained with blood, but | ignore it, safely tucking the map away inside my pocket.

For some reason, | stole a glance at Ettie, ensuring her gaze remained fixed ahead, unwavering. | didn’t want her to see that | had a map to begin with.

Where are we going?

Somewhere safe.

A few minutes after, | spot a makeshift hut looming ahead. My eyes widened with amazement at the sight, not expecting such a place in the middle of the forest. Ettie led the way with an assurance that resonated with the familiarity of a place that, despite its primal surroundings, echoed with the heartbeat of home. The logs. and intertwined branches formed a protective cocoon, a sanctuary, just what Ettie would have wanted.

As we approached, Ettie’s silhouette against the backdrop of the rustic dwelling embodied a semblance of normalcy, a stark contrast to the predatory chaos lurking beyond its wooden walls. The scent of damp earth and the comforting musk of wood permeated the air, momentarily soothing the raw edges of apprehension etched upon my consciousness.

Ettie, pushed a curtain of vines that served as a door to the side, urging me to come inside. Carefully, | walked through the vines, expecting more people but was

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surprised to see that we were alone. Ettle then unceremoniously dropped her arrows and quiver to the side, propped against the log wall.

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“Drop your bag there, Alina,” Ettie suggested, her voice a thread of vulnerability woven into the tapestry of the forest's symphony. Her eyes, reflective pools mirroring the scars of our fractured history, held a fragile plea for trust.

A fleeting hesitation gripped me, my fingers unwilling to relinquish the tether to security that my bag represented, | didn’t think it was safe to be here empty. handed, and | didn’t have it in me to trust Ettle, just yet. She looks more like a stranger than my friend as of the moment.

Ettie, her eyes catching the flicker of hesitation and hurt, spoke with a measured acceptance that carried the burden of understanding.

“It's okay, Alina,” she said, a sigh traversing the divide between us. “I get it. Trust isn’t something that mends overnight, especially after everything.”

The admission, hung in the air like an unspoken vow. Even | felt guilty, especially with how | can’t even deny it, even though | knew that there’s nothing to be guilty of. My bag, a repository of survival etched upon its frayed surface, remained tethered to my grasp-a silent testament to the jagged contours of our shared journey.

The hut, a haven cloaked in the shadows of secrecy, beckoned us into its embrace. Ettie’s invitation, a delicate dance between hospitality and the unspoken ache of redemption, echoed through the air.

| chose a corner, my back to the wall, a calculated stance that mirrored the lingering specters of caution. Ettle, her movements fluid as a leaf carried by the wind, busied herself with tasks that spoke of a routine etched within the confines of our shared sanctuary.

She cast a fleeting glance in my direction, a silent acknowledgment of the chasm yet to be bridged. The logs c rackled in the fire, their dance of shadows an intricate ballet that mirrored the tumultuous interplay of emotions within the confines of my heart.

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“Are you hungry, Alina?” The words, imbued with a sense of hospitality, held the power to bridge the gap or deepen the fissures that lingered between us.

Caught off guard, | was about to utter the customary denial-a well-practiced shield to conceal the gnawing emptiness within- when an involuntary rumble emanated from my stomach. Our eyes met, and, for a moment, the solemnity melted into laughter a shared acknowledgment of the universality of hunger, a reminder that, beneath our veils of animosity, we were, at our core, beings tethered by shared needs.

Laughter, that age-old remedy for fractured connections, reverberated through the hut, momentarily suspending the weight of distrust that had become the silent companion to our every interaction. The echo of shared mirth cast a flicker of familiarity upon the walls, like the fleeting warmth of a sunbeam breaking through storm clouds.

Yet, as laughter subsided, an awkward silence descended, an unspoken acknowledgment of the precipice we stood upon. Ettie, ever the resilient spirit, cleared her throat, her eyes now fixed on the fire, flames casting shadows upon the contours of her face. “| have some meat,” she confessed, her voice a hesitant murmur seeking solace amidst the uncertainty. “Even bacon.” The admission, spoken with the fragility of a secret unveiled, lingered in the air like a whispered plea for acceptance.

The revelation stilled the air between us, a shared breath suspended in the uncharted territories of reconciliation. The question hung, unspoken, in the space between our gazes-a question tethered to the origin of that elusive meat.

“Where did you get that?” | asked, the words slicing through the uneasy silence like a blade seeking truth. Ettie, caught in the crossfire of honesty and vulnerability, blushed-a shade of vulnerability etched upon her features.

“A sponsor,” she confessed, a bit embaras sed. “I’ve gotten most of what helped me survive this long from sponsors. | guess they kind of like me.”

The flickering fire painted the hut’s walls in warm hues, shadows dancing in rhythm with the ebb and flow of our unspoken emotions. The cozy interior, a haven

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crafted from the rugged simplicity of our surroundings, harbored secrets not born of the forest’s generosity but whispered by unseen sponsors. My gaze, a curious intruder, sought clues amidst the hushed ambiance of our fragile camaraderie.

Against the rough-hewn backdrop of logs and leaves, incongruent elements stood as silent testaments to a reality tainted by the unseen hands of benefactors. A fluffy blanket, its softness an affront to the c oar se textures of the forest, adorned a makeshift bed. Pillows, plump and indulgent, gathered in a corner-a luxury. inconceivable in the wilderness | had come to know.

A basket, not woven from forest vines but from some synthetic material foreign to our realm, cradled a trove of treasures. Fruits, pristine and untouched by the blemishes of nature, lay nestled beside a loaf of bread-a bounty bestowed by ant unseen hand, a stark contrast to the scavenging existence that defined our days.

As my eyes swept over this unintended display of opulence, a disquietude simmered within-a dissonance that struck a chord of discomfort within the recesses of my consciousness. It was an unwelcome quest, an ugly emotion that gnawed at the edges of camaraderie-a jealous pang that clawed at the bonds we sought to reforge.

The dichotomy between gratitude and envy, once a foreign concept, now unfolded as a disconcerting truth-a revelation that mirrored the complexities. woven into the fabric of our newfound reality. Ettie, my friend and compatriot in the theatre of survival, stood at the intersection of fortune and misfortune. Her hut, a sanctuary veiled in borrowed comforts, bore witness to the unseen forces that dictated the ebb and flow of our existence.

In the silence that lingered, pregnant with unspoken sentiments, my gaze locked onto the basket-the embodiment of indulgences foreign to the calloused palms of forest dwellers. A surge of bitterness, a visceral reaction to the apparent disparity, clawed at the fragile tapestry of understanding that threaded our friendship.

The aroma of sizzling bacon, a fragrance so allen in our rustic abode, wafted through the air, awakening my senses from the desolate slumber of our survival routine. Ettie, armed with a pot and pan from mysterious sponsors, orchestrated a culinary symphony amidst the echoes of the forest.

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“Want a slice?” Her voice, a melodic invitation, cut through the ambient cr ckling of the fire. She wielded a spatula with a dexterity that hinted at a familiarity with tools beyond the purview of our primal existence.

| nodded, my stomach voicing its approval with an impatient growl. Ettie, bearing a plate that seemed plucked from the realms of abundance, presented the bacon with a flourish-a mosaic of golden perfection that defied the frugality of our surroundings.

As she placed a slice before me, the glistening fat beckoning like an ephemeral indulgence, | hesitated. The plate, an emblem of opulence gifted by benevolent sponsors, reflected the paradoxes of our existence-a momentary escape from the grim clutches of scarcity.

| accepted the offering, my fingers trembling with a fusion of anticipation and apprehension. The bite, a communion with decadence, resonated through my senses a gustatory revelation that momentarily eclipsed the monotony of our survivalist fare. Ettie, mirroring my actions, savored the richness of the bacon in shared silence.

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