Holy Tears
He pressed a hand to the spot, wincing at residual soreness but finding no open wound. "I thought so too," he murmured, astonishment crossing his features. "But… I guess not." His gaze flicked to her tear-streaked face, noticing the faint shimmer of moisture. "Fanta, what—?"
She realized her tears had fallen onto him, mingling with the blood. She thought of the ancient legends that rumored holy tears or certain curses could do impossible things. Could my tears…? Her entire life, villagers labeled her cursed for her unnatural healing and beauty. She never suspected her tears might have healing power—for others.
Mike softly touched her cheek, brushing away a leftover tear. "You cried… on me?" he asked, voice hushed. She nodded, stunned. "And now I'm… healed." They locked eyes, unblinking, stunned by this small miracle.
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For long seconds, they sat there, the forest's rushing river behind them. Mike's camera bobbed at his neck, but he made no move to record this. He was too overwhelmed, trying to process how he'd come from near death to sitting upright, wound gone. Fanta, tears still slipping from her luminous eyes, felt both relief and fear. If the villagers discovered this… they'd brand me something worse than demon.
Yet Mike's reaction was not horror. He wore an expression of reverent amazement. Slowly, he rose to his knees, still cradling his side as if expecting pain. "I feel… tender, but… alive," he said, blinking in disbelief. Then he caught her gaze. "Thank you."
She let out a shaky laugh, tears of joy replacing sorrow. "I didn't do anything," she mumbled. "I just cried."
He took her hand gently. "Well, you cried me back to life," he teased softly. "I'm not complaining." They locked eyes again, the tension building—a swirl of gratitude, shock, and the unspoken bond that had blossomed.
Before either could speak further, distant sounds of the warriors drifted along the river. Fanta froze, remembering they were not out of danger. They'd jumped a waterfall, but there might be a path around it. The threat of pursuit remained.
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Their magical moment ended. Mike scrambled to his feet, testing his side. Though the cut was gone, he felt lingering soreness—like a bruise. He offered Fanta a hand. She accepted, rising from the pebbly shore. The tension between them lingered, but survival took priority.
She inhaled, scanning the thick forest beyond. "We need to go," she whispered in perfect English. "They might still be hunting us." She glanced at the roaring river, half expecting the warriors to appear on the opposite bank. None showed, but that didn't mean they'd given up entirely.
Mike nodded, eyes flitting from the waterfall's mist to the dark trees. "Let's… move on," he agreed, voice subdued. He shouldered his gear, then paused, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Thank you," he repeated. This time, his tone was raw with genuine emotion. "For saving me."
A shy smile touched her lips. "You saved me first, from the net. And from Ogamba." She exhaled. "So we're even."
He grinned, relief and warmth mixing in his eyes. "Deal."
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They set off along the river's edge, hoping the warriors would assume them dead from the waterfall jump. With the near-fatal accident behind them, tension still sizzled—a new dimension to their bond forged in the crucible of life-and-death. Fanta couldn't stop glancing at Mike, who walked with renewed vigor despite the unbelievable healing. She marveled that her tears had that power. Could they do more? She wasn't sure, and the mystery nagged at her.
As they traversed a rocky outcrop, Mike tested his side again, wincing slightly. She placed a gentle hand there, smiling in reassurance. The day pressed on, each minute overshadowed by the possibility that Ogamba's men lurked in the forest. Yet for now, no sign of them emerged. Possibly the warriors had turned back, believing no one could survive that deadly fall.
Fanta and Mike exchanged few words, but a quiet closeness enveloped them. She recalled the watery meltdown, how she'd poured her sorrow into those tears. Did my heartbreak mend him? She wondered, half-laughing at the poetic notion. But as she watched him navigate the path, alive and well, she couldn't deny the surreal truth.
By twilight, they found a small overhang under a massive tree root, forming a natural shelter. Exhausted from the day's chaos, they decided to rest. Mike cleared a patch of ground, while Fanta scouted for small branches to spark a modest fire. They needed warmth, but also had to avoid drawing attention.
When the flames flickered to life, they shared a moment of peace, hearing only the forest's nighttime symphony. Each time Fanta closed her eyes, images of Mike lying bloody on the river's shore haunted her. Then she'd recall the relief at seeing him revived. She found her gaze drifting to him, lingering on the spot where the wound had sealed.
He caught her staring and gave a crooked smile. "Still there?" he teased softly, tapping his side. "I promise I'm not a ghost."
She let out a nervous laugh. "I'm just… trying to understand how it happened."
He nodded, the awe still present. "Me too." He studied her face in the low light.
She fiddled a twig, uncertain how to articulate her swirling feelings. "Without you, I'd be a captive now. Or worse." Her eyes, bright blue gems filled with fear and appreciated.
Silence settled, thick with unspoken emotion. They recognized their bond had transcended mere survival. Something deeper, fragile, and new blossomed, shaped by each brush with death.