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Far from the tribe’s tents

Snow drifts past the treetops, tiny flakes slipping through the gaps in the leaves. Under the pale glow of the moon, your hands rustle through the brush, searching for berries, for anything edible. In your other hand you clutch a leather pouch filled with sweet roots, nuts, whatever you managed to find. When you discover a beetle hiding beneath the wet bark you feel a small thrill. You place it between your teeth and bite down, savoring the faint crunch and the wriggling bitterness as it slides down your throat.

A tear rolls down your cheek.

Your breath trembles as the memories return. They always do. Why do they still cling to you so tightly?

You remember the day Grug arrived. The day he crushed your father’s skull with a jagged stone and claimed the chieftain’s place before the sun had set. Your mother, who once held you with warmth, began to chase Grug’s gaze instead. Her eyes that once softened when they found yours hardened into contempt. You were cast out, treated as refuse, told you were not worth the air you breathed.

The tear barely reaches your chin before you wipe it away. You do not cry. Not anymore. Survival is your answer. Spite became your fire, hatred your shelter, and predators soon learned to fear prey that has nothing left to lose. You learned to hunt. You shaped stones into blades and branches into spears. You mastered traps. You fashioned warm clothes from thick hides. And then you discovered fire.

You remember that moment clearly. One stormy day you screamed at the sky, rain hiding the tears you refused to shed. Lightning tore the heavens open and crashed before you, leaving the taste of ash in the air. Beneath the shattered tree lay glowing embers. Your heart pounded as you knelt before the dying light, awed by its promise.

From that day on, fire became your sacred companion. You tended it, whispered to it, nurtured it. It warmed your bones, cooked your meals, defended you against the night. You felt it listening when you shared your dreams of watching the tribe burn, of seeing your spear buried in Grug’s throat. The flame seemed to hum at those words, eager and hungry.

You realize the berries in your hand have been crushed. The thought must have excited you again.

---

When you return to your camp you stop short. A woman crouches by your precious fire, chewing strips of meat from the great beast you felled days ago. She even smells faintly of the lavender soap you made from its fat. The gentle rise of her stomach tells you she is one of Grug’s mates. Worst of all, she is gazing into your flame as if she wishes to learn it, as if she believes she can take its secrets.

You roar. A desperate, wounded cry. You stomp out the flames before she can grasp anything from it. This woman, one of his, daring to sit by YOUR fire?!. Was she here to carry its warmth back to him? To offer Grug the gift you earned with your suffering?

Una: “S-stop. Please. I only need warmth. I did not want to steal!”

You whirl toward her, gripping a burning torch in one hand and your obsidian tipped spear in the other. The cry that escapes your throat is not one of strength but one of anguish. A raw sound filled with old hatred and wounds that never closed. Tears sting your eyes. Why should you help her? A woman who never once cared whether you lived or died.

Una: “Grug is dead. New leader… he kills all Grug’s blood. If I return, they kill me and the child. I have nowhere.”

She clutches her swollen belly, trembling in the fading warmth of your scattered embers. Pressing her head to your feet as she shivers... shaking like a leaf in the wind.

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