Luna of Rogues

Part 41 - Closer Than You Think

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I was rudely awoken by the clinking of stone on stone. It wasn't constant, but rather a pattern of clink clink clink, then a brief pause, then clink clink clink all over again. Sometimes there were more clinks and sometimes fewer. It was a pattern irregular enough to jolt me from sleep.

My dream had been a strange one — I'd been blind, stumbling around by touch and feel. When I finally cracked my eyes open, the light was still dim and hazy. It wasn't even sun-up. So why was I awake? I propped myself up onto my elbows, careful not to wake Leo and Tally, and undertook a lazy scan of the clearing.

The hammock was empty. It was still slung, and Dad's rucksack was nestled in the roots of a tree, but Rhys was nowhere to be seen. Dammit. Further investigation was required. I extracted myself from the 'bed,' provoking a grumble from Tally.

"Go back to sleep," I told her. No reply — which was as good as agreement, I supposed.

There was nothing like a missing sibling to wake me properly, and my stumbling sleep-walk transitioned to an alert trot in seconds. I passed the ashy remains of our fire and the smattering of pigeon bones surrounding it. I was following the infernal clinking, to be honest.

I half skid, half clambered down the gorge. When the stream came into view, so did Rhys. He was perched on a rock pile, methodically skipping stones downriver. Most of them managed a couple of bounces before hitting the rocks of the bank with that clink clink clink.

I paused and folded my arms across my chest, debating whether I should make a sarcastic comment or just pelt him with birdshit. Before I got the chance to do either, he said, "Morning, Skye," without even turning his head, far too cheerily for the hour before dawn.

"Morning, invalid," I growled. "Time to return to captivity."

He snorted, meaning no, thanks. Then he said, "Dad left."

And it wasn't a question, but I nodded anyway.

The next snort was derisive. "You lied."

"So did you," I pointed out, feeling another flash of anger at the beating he had denied.

His eyes flickered to the ring of bruises on each of his wrists, his jaw tightening. "Fine. We're both liars."

Not a revelation. We'd been taught to lie, and extensively. But lying to each other? That was less normal. I tried not to think of how many lies I'd already told him for the sake of that promise to Fion. I was trying harder and harder not to think about it these days, and it was trying harder and harder to be thought about.

And then I noticed that the pebble he was holding, the one he was about to skip ... it was in his left hand. All those thoughts went away, that easily, and I beckoned. "C'mon then. Let's see your shoulder."

"Why? You've never tried coddling me before," he muttered sullenly.

"I've never seen you fall out of a window before."

He obviously wasn't coming to me, so I went to him, traversing two banks and a stream to do it. He let me examine his forearm, which looked much better (on the surface, at least). The broken bone had realigned and scabbed over. Fine. When it came to the shoulder, I had to swat him a few times before he'd pull his shirt over his head far enough to let me see the bullet wounds.

Now that it wasn't coated with blood, and my brother wasn't in imminent danger of dying, I could see that—

"Rhys!" I exclaimed delightedly. "Look! This one's in line with the other scars."