CHAPTER 11: BONDING

The silence between Lauren and Moa stretched into an almost tangible weight, thickening the air with unspoken tension. Lauren sat in a shadowed corner, her quiet sobs the only sound breaking through the oppressive stillness. Her thoughts were a whirlpool of guilt and dread; she replayed the earlier events in her mind, desperately wishing she could undo them.

"Lauren," Moa's voice finally broke the silence. The sound of her name made Lauren freeze, her heart pounding. Another wave of dread washed over her as she remembered the deep, angry cut on Moa's arm. She hadn't intended to lash out like that; her anger had burned so hot she'd almost lost herself. Now, the fear of what Moa might do to her was overwhelming.

"Please, Moa," Lauren's voice trembled. "I'm so sorry—I didn't mean to hurt you or damage anything. I… I don't even know what came over me." She clutched her hands together, pressing her knuckles to her lips, as if by holding herself tightly, she could somehow contain the emotions roiling inside her. "I know this is your home, and I didn't want to disrupt anything. Please, Moa, believe me. I don't even know who I am anymore. I was just so…angry." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I never wanted this to happen."

Moa remained silent, her gaze fixed on Lauren with an intensity that felt almost like scrutiny. Finally, she sighed, the barest sound escaping her lips, yet it felt weighted, charged with unspoken words. "It's alright," Moa replied softly, her voice calm. "No harm done. But I want to understand, Lauren—why were you so angry?"

Lauren swallowed, staring down at her fingers as if they might offer her some guidance. "I… I went through so much in the wild, just to catch that deer, and when I finally thought I'd succeeded…" Her voice wavered, and she had to pause, collecting herself. "I woke up here. The deer was gone, just…gone. I remember blacking out in the woods, but I have no memory of getting back to the house. It's like I was just…transported here." A shiver ran down her spine as her mind flickered to the viper—the vivid memory of its scales, its unblinking gaze, the searing pain. She shifted uncomfortably, her gaze flicking toward Moa, gauging her reaction.

Moa's expression remained unreadable, but her eyes had taken on a hard gleam, an almost dangerous light. "What happened out there, Lauren? I need to know everything."

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Lauren began her story. She started with the raizard, watching Moa's face carefully. As she described its glowing eyes and strange, furry head, she saw a flicker of something—recognition, maybe?—cross Moa's face, but it was gone in an instant. She went on, recounting her reflection's eerie glow, the intense hunger and disorientation, and finally, her encounter with the snake. She described how she had staggered and struggled, feeling venom coursing through her, every heartbeat a fiery pulse of pain.

When she finished, a silence fell over them once more. Moa stared at her with that same unreadable expression, her dark eyes flickering with an intensity that Lauren couldn't quite decipher.

"Get some rest," Moa said abruptly, her tone cool and distant. "We'll talk tomorrow. And about the deer," she added, almost as an afterthought, "I skinned it. Food will be ready when you wake up." Without another word, she turned and walked out of the room, leaving Lauren alone, her mind spinning with confusion and frustration.

Lauren lay down, her body heavy with exhaustion, yet her mind wouldn't let her rest. She replayed her conversation with Moa, searching for clues, hints in Moa's expression or voice that might reveal what she was thinking. But exhaustion won in the end, and her eyes drifted shut.

She slept deeply, her body succumbing to the fatigue of the past days. When she finally awoke, the shadows had shifted, stretching long and thin across the room. She sat up, blinking in the quiet morning light, the events of the night before surfacing slowly in her mind.

The house was silent, empty except for the faint rustling outside. Guessing that Moa had gone to check the traps, Lauren stretched, wincing at the dull ache in her muscles, and headed to the kitchen. There, she found a portion of food, a piece of the deer she'd fought so hard to bring back. She ate ravenously, savoring each bite.

Just as she set her plate down, she heard a faint sound—a nearly imperceptible rustling that set her on edge. She knew without turning that it was Moa; only she moved with such eerie silence, her footsteps so soft they barely brushed the ground. It was a skill Moa had honed, drilled into her from a young age. To any other person, her arrival would be undetectable. But Lauren sensed her presence, an awareness as natural as breathing, though she couldn't explain why.

Moa entered and gave her a small nod, her gaze sweeping over the empty plate. "You're awake. Had a good rest, I hope?" Her tone was neutral, but Lauren detected a note of something—maybe relief, or maybe curiosity. She nodded in response, remaining silent.

After a pause, Moa took a deep breath, as if steadying herself. "Lauren," she began, her voice soft but with an edge that hinted at something deeper. "I won't apologize for sending you into the wild, no matter how harsh it may have seemed. I did it for a reason." She took a seat across from Lauren, folding her hands. "You needed to learn how to survive. I knew that if I taught you myself, you'd never truly understand—you might think I was just being cruel."

Lauren looked at her, her chest tightening. She wanted to speak, to respond, but the words wouldn't come.

Moa continued, her gaze steady. "I half expected you to come back around twilight that first day, but when night fell, and you still hadn't returned, I began to worry. The next day came, and still, no sign of you. I told myself you were resilient, but as time passed, the dread grew." She looked away, as if the memory was too painful to hold. "At dawn, I went searching. I walked for hours, combing through the forest, calling your name. When I finally found you…"

Moa's voice faltered, a rare crack in her calm exterior. She took a breath and pressed on. "You were unconscious, bruised, and bleeding. Your skin was pale from the blood you'd lost. I was half-expecting…no, I feared you'd already been taken. But when I touched you, you were still breathing."

Lauren's stomach twisted as she listened, a strange sensation settling over her. Moa's tone was more vulnerable than she'd ever heard, and the rawness of her words felt almost…tender.

"You'd been bitten by a saw-scaled viper," Moa said, her voice low. "That area is its territory; I always avoid it on my hunts. No one survives a bite from that snake, Lauren—not more than a few minutes. But somehow, you clung to life for hours. And what's more…" She hesitated, then continued, her gaze piercing. "When I cleaned the wound, I saw it closing before my eyes. It was healing on its own, like…like some force was knitting it back together."

Lauren's breath caught, a chill creeping down her spine. She stared at Moa, searching her face, trying to read the strange glimmer in her eyes. Was it awe? Curiosity? A hint of fear?

"I've always known you were different, Lauren," Moa said, her voice a near-whisper. "But now, it's clear to me that there's more to you than even you realize. I feel it in my bones—you're the key to something I've been searching for." She paused, her gaze softening. "I know I've been harsh with you, and I'm not asking for forgiveness. But I'm asking you to let me help you uncover who you really are."

Lauren blinked, tears welling in her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but emotion choked her words. All she could manage was a trembling, "Thank you, Moa."

That was all it took for the tears to spill over. Her memories of isolation, the jeers and stares of the villagers, the endless nights of wondering if she belonged anywhere, washed over her in a flood. She began to sob, her body shaking with the force of it.

Moa moved to her side, wrapping her arms around her, holding her as she wept. They stayed that way, the silence between them no longer one of tension, but of understanding—a bond newly forged, fragile but unbreakable, stretching between them as night began to fall outside.