Fanta's Revelation
Mike returned shortly after, hair damp, clothes re-donned. If he sensed her flustered demeanor, he didn't comment, though he caught her gaze flicking over him and pinkening. A tension thickened around the fire again, fueled by the knowledge that each had glimpsed the other's partially revealed figure. They tried to act normal, ignoring the mutual flush in their faces.
Luckily, their hunger diverted them. The rabbit was done, and Fanta had found some edible leaves. They ate in relative silence under the glowing moon, the warmth of the freshly cooked meal soothing their exhausted bodies. The aroma of roasted rabbit mingled with Fanta's sweet scent and the forest's earthy musk.
They finished the meal, disposing of scraps carefully to avoid attracting scavengers. Then they settled by the fire once more, bellies full for the first time in days, a sense of cautious contentment creeping in. The forest's nighttime chorus began anew—a rhythmic hum that set their hearts at ease.
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By now, Fanta felt a stirring in her soul. She could sense Mike's kindness, his curiosity, his unthreatening admiration. The day's bathing incident, the near-silence of their shared trek—she realized she was warming to him. Perhaps she could trust him, at least a little, with the truth: She wasn't the simple village girl with broken English. The desire to be honest grew irresistible. Why keep him in the dark?
As they relaxed by the dying embers, she mustered courage. She repeated an English phrase in her head—the lines she'd practiced since childhood. Mike was preoccupied with his notes. Fanta inhaled. Then she spoke quietly, in flawless English:
"I come from a place where everyone hates me except my mother. I can never go back."
Her words echoed in the night air, crisp and unaccented. Mike froze, mid-note. His eyes widened, and he let out a startled choke, spitting out a piece of rabbit he'd been chewing. He coughed, doubling over, while Fanta hurried to offer him water. The comedic moment unfurled with them both half-laughing, half-panicking.
When he finally cleared his throat, he gawked at her. "You… you speak English? Fl-fluently?" he stammered, voice cracking. "What… is this a… prank?"
Fanta couldn't help it—she burst into laughter, a sound that was part relief, part amusement at his incredulous face. Her blinding white teeth flashed. Mike stared as though he'd discovered a hidden treasure. He let out a breathy laugh, disbelieving yet enchanted.
Once the laughter subsided, Fanta explained haltingly, choosing simpler words: "I taught myself. Old books. Missionary texts. I never told my village. They fear foreign knowledge. They'd call it demon speech." Her eyes dropped. "I'm sorry for the deception. I was… scared."
Mike inhaled, nodding slowly. Awe radiated from him. "That's… wow… that's incredible. You… speak better than me." He rubbed his forehead, as though this twist was too good to be true. "Why do they hate you?" he asked softly.
Her laughter faded, sorrow drifting across her features. "Because of how I look," she answered, gesturing to her violet hair and unearthly eyes. "They say I'm cursed. They almost drowned me, or tried. I ran." Her voice hitched, tears threatening.
Mike reached out, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he murmured. She saw genuine compassion in his gaze. "But you… ugly? No. That's crazy. You're…" He trailed off, searching for words. "You're unbelievably… angelic."
Her cheeks warmed at the compliment. "To them, it's demonic. I'm—" She hesitated, deciding not to reveal her rapid healing or full background yet. "I'm just different. And difference isn't tolerated."
He nodded, letting the weight of her confession settle. "Fanta," he said quietly, rolling her name in his own accent. "Thank you for trusting me enough to speak. I thought—" He chuckled. "I thought I'd have to keep stumbling in broken words."
A gentle warmth enveloped them. For the first time, they could truly connect. She recognized the wonder in his gaze, the swirling attraction intensified by the knowledge that she wasn't ignorant but bright, well-read, and forced into hiding her gifts. He found it all the more captivating—her intellect matched her beauty.
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As they savored this newfound openness, voices suddenly pierced the forest hush. Fanta stiffened. Mike snapped to attention, grabbing his camera and stuffing it away. The voices carried from somewhere beyond the trees, coarse and insistent, calling a name with harsh clarity:
"Fanta! Fanta! Come out!"
Her blood chilled. Ogamba's warriors. She recognized their timbre—men who served as the village's armed enforcers. They're after me. She flashed to images of them dragging her back, subjecting her to Mojono's demands or letting Handuza finish the job. Her chest constricted in panic.
Mike saw the terror in her eyes, gleaning enough to know these were enemies. He shot to his feet, glancing around for options. The campfire was too visible. They had to move or hide. Fanta clutched the blanket around her, heart pounding with renewed fear. She'd assumed the forest was too vast for them to track her. But evidently, Ogamba's determination ran deep.
Stepping closer, Mike whispered, "I'll… protect you," his English steadier now that she'd revealed she understood. She swallowed, gratitude warring with terror. Could he truly protect her against multiple warriors armed with spears or knives?
Another shout rang out: "Fanta! Show yourself!" The voices grew nearer. Fanta recognized one or two—men loyal to the elders. Her adrenaline surged.
Mike's eyes flicked to the shadows. We need to slip away or outmaneuver them. He gently took Fanta's hand. "We hide, then run," he murmured in the newly shared language. She nodded, trusting him wholeheartedly in that moment.