Not Like You (The Simian Forest Saga: Vol. I)

The Journey [XXX]

The dark shape of a primate sat comfortably upon a lone leaning tree against a pale cerise sky, staring out at the lapping shore and the distant over-grown frame of the Golden Gate Bridge. Below was a young woman, dressed in fresh jean shorts and a shirt of the palest blue, her feet bare and her shoes settled beside her in the sand. A small fire smouldered away, dying to embers, the second chimp beside her finishing the remnants of their breakfast. Their journey had been long and tiring, yet they had persisted instead of turning around, the three finding that gazing upon the long-abandoned and empty city in the distance to be enough of a reward. The girl looked up at the male outcross, gazing wistfully off at the towering skyscrapers and the decimated windows. It wouldn't be long before they reached the end of their journey and went through with the duty they had come to fulfil. 

Winter had come and passed, the newly-devised Island Colony finding that adjusting to their new home hadn't been so difficult in the long run. In fact, with travel across the lake becoming easier thanks to the boats that Molly had left behind, it had been almost too easy. Krissa, of course, had to teach the apes to steer and sail, but in spite of this, Slate watched his small tribe grow and adapt with little trouble. They listened to her, and they followed her just as they would any leader. He often found himself reflecting on her ceremony and final acceptance into their ranks, back in the frigid days of sleet and gales that often tended to whip up around the lake. It felt like a distant memory, their courtship following his confession only natural for the two of them. Liepa had become something of an adoptive child to the two of them, despite Slate's original discomfort toward the idea. There was no possible way that Krissa could bear his young-- it was simple. They were from two different species, regardless of how closely related they were in kind. 

The chinobo wondered, at times, whether this saddened the ravenette, yet never saw any sort of damper in her mood when they would come to discuss it. Liepa was enough for her, which made him happy. It wasn't entirely easy in other segments of their relationship either: the two of them were both hard-headed and prone to arguments, but in the end they would turn to each other in the evening and whisper about the times before. She'd make him laugh, or he'd make her smile, or they'd say nothing at all and simply hold one another, silently apologising. He found himself opening up to her completely, like a blossom finally coming to fruition, spilling everything whether he intended to or not. Some things came in blips, some in pools of ink, ever growing. Krissa saw his insecurities and she made the best of them, and in turn he tried his best to do so just the same. They were different, yet they worked like clock-work together. 

It wasn't until one evening, back in early spring, that he had sat her down and discussed the topic of his father again. Krissa had crossed her legs and listened, eyes trained on him like two pits of glittering jade, intelligent and thoughtful. Her silence was appreciated. When he had finally allowed her to ask questions, they had been careful and well thought-out. She then brought up the topic of Alice, the woman's name scoring through him in one quick, cold, gouging claw. Maurice had told her everything, to his horror and disbelief, and she had hid that knowledge from him. Slate had been hurt by the fact that she hadn't let him know of this, but as she explained himself, he began to slowly understand. Granted, it had taken him a few days to come to terms with it, of course. 

The afternoon it had finally understood, it had hit him hard, harder than any rutting buck. Slate had been alone, examining his father's spear while resting against the tree opposite of Krissa's father's rifle. The eldest outcross had focused upon the strands of auburn woven around its handle, along with the band of woven cloth he had tied back around it in loving memory, its violet and gold colour damaged and faded from years of blanching. Pine had taken the path that his father had without the severe heartbreak as added fuel. He had charged into the fray guns ablaze with nothing but only a sense of pure, ardent rage. Not only did he realised this, but Slate remembered Alice. He remembered her funeral. He remembered the mud and the rain.