Meniscus: One Point Five - Forty Missing Days

15.

Evening comes

and Odymn still unable

to stand on her own.

Woozy, almost tipsy.

"She should not be alone tonight,"

says Wen-le-gone

and climbs to his sleeping-limb.

Sends good fortune to the Slain.

The Slain steers Odymn

towards the ground sheet

where he sleeps.

Sits beside her.

Rubs her shoulder.

Tries to soothe her

with a brew of thief-bush zed.

He tucks her

into the circle of his arm.

Holds her hand.

Loves to feel

her warmth beside him.

Loves the curve of her waist.

Her soft curls on his shoulder.

She sags against him.

Extends her forefinger

to touch his face,

the whiskers of his beard.

"Eight days

since we left the link-shelter,"

she says, slurring her words.

"And your beard hasn't grown."

The Slain is silent.

"I know you haven't trimmed it,"

says Odymn and giggles.

"No knives on Meniscus."

The Slain smiles

but says not a word.

"When I asked him something silly,"

says Odymn,

"my dad used to smile and answer

'Something to make

little girls

ask questions'."

The Slain nods.

Traces the scar on her forehead.

Memento of her first encounter

with his armour.

Holds her broken hand in his.

Memento of the Gel-head gang

in Prell.

"The Dock-winders killed my dad,"

says Odymn.

"Followed me home from a dance

on the night they took me.

He tried to save me

and they threw him

against the chimney.

Don't know what happened

to my mom."

Odymn's eyes

fill with tears.

"I can control

how fast it grows,"

says the Slain.

"And if it grows."

"Your beard,"

says Odymn.

Struggles

with the change in subject.

"Genetic manipulation,"

says the Slain.

"Good disguise.

Warmth in winter.

Keeps the population

of nelips down."

Odymn giggles.

Lays her hand

on his cheek.

Her head on his shoulder.

Together they watch

the flicker of the campfire.