Hawke held the large, greenish egg against his chest, still processing the idea that he would eventually have to put it in his mouth. The shell was rough and porous under his fingers, strangely warm, as if it still held traces of the body that had laid it.
'Fry. I'm going to fry this. It has to be better fried.'
Grandma was already distributing the dead insects, separating parts with nimble hands, legs here, abdomens there, something that looked like heads in a separate little pile. She worked quickly, almost without looking, her experienced fingers knowing each joint. Yuka watched with obvious hunger in her large eyes, her hands moving anxiously in her lap, her lips parted as if she could taste the food just by looking.
Kaira sat down near the fire, finally relaxing after the long walk. She stretched her legs, let her shoulders fall, leaned her back against the stone wall. Her whole body seemed to sigh.
That's when they heard voices outside.
Grandma instantly raised her head. Her eyes, always half-closed, narrowed even more; not from difficulty seeing, but from alertness. Yuka stopped moving her hands. She tensed, her shoulders rising toward her ears.
"They're back," Kaira murmured, that she was already standing again.
Sounds of footsteps. Slow, dragging. Male voices conversing softly, tired, not the cheerful rhythm of someone returning successfully, but the dragging of someone carrying an invisible weight.
Two figures emerged at the entrance of the cave. They were men.
And they seemed... exhausted. Not just tired, exhausted in a way that came from within, that hunched their shoulders and emptied their eyes.
The first was tall, dark brown hair tied back with a leather strap. A sparse beard on his face, patchy, that looked more like dirt than hair. His hands were empty. He didn't even bring back the spear he had taken.
The second one was shorter and stockier, with thick muscles but a hunched body as if he carried the weight of the whole group on his back. His black hair was cut short, almost shaved on one side, with an old scar across his left eyebrow that made that eye always seem slightly more closed than the other. He held three leather waterskins that swayed, churning water inside.
Both wore strips of animal skin. Both looked like they had been through a meat grinder.
Grandma stood up too quickly for someone her age. Her eyes scanned the entrance behind them, looking for more shadows, more footsteps.
"Duggi and... who are you anyway?"
The shorter man blinked, confused. He put a finger to his chest.
"Kuggi, Grandma. Kuggi."
"Kuggi, yes." Had he already forgotten? Or had he never bothered to remember? "Where are the others? You left in eight!"
Duggi exchanged a quick glance with Kuggi, the kind of look that said "you count" and "no, you count" at the same time. Then he sighed heavily. "They're gone, Grandma. Most likely," he said.
"What do you mean 'they're gone'? WHAT DO YOU MEAN?"
"They kicked the bucket, Grandma." Duggi's voice came out flat, emotionless. "We split up to cover more ground. We agreed to meet at the same spot and be back before sunset." He paused. "They... didn't come back."
Grandma was quiet.
It wasn't a silence of processing. It was a silence of knowing. She knew before she asked, she knew before they came in, she knew from the moment she heard just two pairs of footsteps at the entrance.
She sat back heavily. She seemed to have aged ten years in a second, it seemed as if those ten years had all arrived at once, piled up.
"Six," she murmured.
She didn't ask names. She didn't ask how. "Six people. Half the group." She shook her head. "I knew it was going to go wrong. I knew it was dangerous."
Kuggi didn't wait for permission. He practically collapsed to the ground near the campfire, his legs buckling as if they had forgotten how to support him.
"We didn't find anything to hunt, Grandma." His voice was thick and drawn out. "Nothing. Not even a measly rabbit. The animals have vanished from this area, as if something had driven them away." He ran his hand over his face, rubbing his eyes.
"And fruit?" He shook his head. "None edible. All poisonous or rotten."
He raised the water skins.
"We only managed to get water. Three water skins. We filled them at a stream down in the valley."
Grandma's eyes gleamed. Literally gleamed; a moist flash that may have been a reflection of the fire or it may have been something else.
"Water! Give it to me! GIVE IT TO ME!!"
The hunger had been forgotten. The death of six people was momentarily filed away. The focus was now on the water.
She quickly grabbed one of the water skins from Kuggi, uncorked it, and turned it upside down. In a continuous gulp that made her throat work harder than a piston, her Adam's apple rose and fell in a frenetic rhythm. Liquid dripped from the corners of her mouth down her chin, soaking the leather strap on her chest. She didn't stop, didn't wipe her mouth, and didn't take a breath. She consumed the entire contents, drinking it completely.
She let out a loud, satisfied burp; the kind of burp that only someone who truly needed it could produce. Dropping the empty waterskin to the ground, it rolled, clinked against a stone, and came to a stop.
"Aaaaah," she sighed, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. "I really needed that."
Her expression shifted as she looked at the three men again. The glint of the water faded, and the weight of the situation returned.
"Was Tairo with you?"
Duggi nodded slowly. "He was. He went to the other side alone, saying he'd be back soon." He hesitated before continuing. "He mentioned he was going to follow the tracks of something big; he went to investigate."
"Tairo," Grandma's voice shifted in tone. It wasn't sad, not entirely; it was something more complex; tiredness mixed with acceptance, as if she were resigned to the situation. "So young still. He wasn't even of age yet.""
"But he was a man, Grandma," Kuggi said, his voice slightly slurred, the weariness making his words sound thick. "He was seventy seasons old, Grandma."
The old woman shook her head, her eyes now glistening with unshed tears.
"Too young for this. Too young to die like this."
Silence followed.
It wasn't a respectful silence; it was the silence of someone who didn't know what else to say. Someone who had already expressed these feelings before—during other seasons, for other deaths. Someone who understood they would have to say it again.