for Clay

---

there is much for her to do before the end of this moon cycle. cloud lash is beside herself in the wetu she has built from the ground up, pacing back and forth between the racks of drying meat. the lanzadoii had been generous and therefore...expected something in return, had they not?
she hadn't had her ceremony. her rites. she was no matriarch here, though she wished it so. chakliux would offer himself up in a flash, but she did not wish to see him go. the longer apart, she feared, the less likely he would return once more.
she had spoken with elk charm. now, she wondered where her brother had been. elk charm's sentinel lurked, too, whom she'd imagine was more than just...a man to meet the eye. but he was a stranger no less. and that did not bode well with the sharadoii woman.
frustrated with how the meats were coming along, she smacked her paw against one of the wood slices, giving herself a splinter. she hissed, and flipped her paw right side up to investigate the gnarly wooden shard.

clay had taken to the ridge beyond the camp, collecting roots and bark with half his mind and spending the other half listening for voices that didn’t belong.

he did not like the sharing of the singing hills with the lanzadoii men, their women, and cubs.

neither did he like much of anything, though.

the chieftain’s son is not drawn from his gathering until there comes the commotion in the distance, drifting soundly from the silhouette of cloud lash’s wetu. it draws him now like the pitter pattering of cold wash rain upon his gray pelt, and he moves as if he is wind, his bundle of goods in tow.

it is not long before he stands tall and questioning beyond the entrance of the wetu, peering within using green gem eyes and passing judgement upon a grimacing look.

clay breathes, and drops his things, to come to her aide.

i have a salve. he begins speaking and takes her paw within his, using the gentle touch taught to him by his mother. clay does not offer much more in conversation or even a glance as he peels back the deer skin hide he carried with.

but as he does so;

you could have called for help. my sister is excellent at preparing meats. clay does not let his emerald eyes lift to her ruby gaze, returning her paw to his glimpse for inspection. the balm would help to draw the splinter out, and ward away any infection.

clay sighs gently. she is excellent at everything.

cloud lash bit back a hiss as the balm touched her skin, stung, just so, but it was his hands that surprised her most. sure. warm. far gentler than his stone-carved face suggested. but the light caught the fragility of him. of his nature.
i thought it would come out on its own, she muttered, not meeting his eyes. it was stubborn pride, nothing more, that had kept her from calling. a foolishness. she knew better. she shifted slightly as he worked, trying not to flinch.
his words earned a small twitch of her ear. his sister.
she is kind, she offered at last, voice soft. and sharp. she asked if i liked your hair. a flicker of amusement crossed her face, the barest ghost of a smile. i told her it was...cloud-colored.
a pause. her paw relaxed in his grip. i did not wish to wake anyone.
only now did her ruby eyes lift, searching his dainty features. you don’t say much. but i think you care more than you let on.
another beat. quieter. ...thank you.