Page 18 of Survivor
Although I hadn't fully grasped the intricacies of the Peecha language, my fear of the creatures had dissipated. Once they discovered my fondness for the sweet, juicykipawafruit, not a single day passed without a basket brimming with the vibrant bounty being delivered to the treehouse.
My responsibilities mostly revolved around domestic chores. Although we hadn’t yet encountered any dangerous predators, Vysar assured us they lurked in the shadows, and neither he nor Vraxxan let me venture far from the safety of the treehouse alone. Most days, I worked in the small, flourishing garden that Vysar cultivated nearby. He was also teaching me the art of foraging, an essential skill in the untamed wilderness. The bow he made me I wore slung across my back with a quiver of arrows nearby. Vysar insisted that I needed a means to hunt and protect myself. Vraxxan hadn't readily agreed to my being armed but capitulated to my excitement and his father's wisdom.
Vysar reminded me of my grandfather, the perfect combination of wisdom, patience, and a playful spirit. I suspected he had been a wonderful father to Vraxxan, though their time together had been woefully short. It gave me a sharp pang of longing for my own dad. He'd been a good man, but my illness weighed heavily on him. He tirelessly worked day and night to cover the mounting medical bills, making each moment we spent together a cherished memory.
Vraxxan was... wonderful. Despite the lingering feelings of inadequacy instilled in him by his mother, he'd more than proven himself as a protector, warrior, and hunter. When he finally relented about the bow and arrows, Vraxxan insisted upon being the one to teach me to use them. While my distance shots were still shit—a strength thing—my aim at closer objects hit the mark most every time thanks to his tutelage. I'd even been able to contribute to the dinner table, nabbing several plump, thankfully slow creatures with my bow.
I wished Vraxxan could see himself the way I saw him—a steadfast guardian, fiercely loyal, undeniably handsome, and charming to boot.
As darkness enveloped the landscape, we would huddle around a warm, crackling fire, savoring simple, flavorful meals that rivaled the fare atSpace Pearl's. After dinner came story time. Last night, I finished theChronicles of Narniaseries. It was cute to see how Vraxxan and his father fretted over the Pevensie children. Tonight, I planned to begin theLord of the Ringssaga. On nights it was Vysar's turn for story time, he regaled us with tales of the history and folklore of the Zarpazians. His stories painted them as a remarkable people, full of courage and spirit, making it all the more heartbreaking to know how most were treated by the queen. My heart ached with the hope that the Alliance would succeed in dethroning her, allowing Vysar to reclaim his rightful place as king.
Until then, the threat of being discovered by Seibring or the queen hovered like storm clouds on the horizon. To guard against a shapeshifter slipping into our midst, we’d devised a hand signal for ourselves and the Peecha to use as a greeting. I taught them to flip the middle finger. Granted, it was a bit juvenile and bratty, but it guaranteed I would always greet Vysar, Vraxxan, and the monkey-like beings I was beginning to consider friends with a smile.
Despite all the fun I shared with Vysar and the Peecha, my most cherished time of day came late at night. The air was cooler, and the sounds of the jungle softened to a gentle whisper. Vraxxan insisted I take the single bed in our cozy shared room, but he was always nearby, resting on his fur pallet. We talked late into the night, careful not to disturb Vysar's snores that echoed through the treehouse like distant thunder. We spoke of everything and nothing. I told him about Earth, and he taught me about Zarpazia. I bared my soul to him, revealing every part of myself, except for one truth I kept hidden—my cancer. The thought of him looking at me with pity was unbearable,a shadow of death that I refused to let touch our precious midnight conversations.
I never had a boyfriend. It was hard to plan for prom when you didn't know if you'd be alive that long. I had sex once. A fellow cancer patient named Sean, simply because neither one of us wanted to die a virgin. It proved a rather pathetic escapade. We'd slipped away to a dimly lit supply closet late one night, the sterile scent of disinfectant lingering in the air. The experience lacked the tenderness and warmth one might hope for, feeling instead awkward and rushed. It wasn't what I'd call pleasant, but it got the job done.
I liked to imagine that if I ever had a real boyfriend, he would be a lot like Vraxxan. He would be strikingly handsome like Vraxxan, with features that seemed chiseled by an artist's hand. His sweetness would be genuine like Vraxxan's, a kindness that radiated from his very soul. He would be protective like Vraxxan, with the strength to back it up. And his eyes would gaze at me as if I had hung the moon and stars in the night sky like Vraxxan sometimes did. Most nights, I drifted off to sleep with visions of being tucked away in a supply closet with Vraxxan, the outside world forgotten, wrapped in a cocoon of dreams.
Today, Vysar and I foraged for a root plant that possessed a striking likeness to one of my favorites—sweet potatoes. Vraxxan had gone out huntingmaramount, something Vysar described as looking somewhat like a deer and apparently very delicious. I'd wanted to go with Vraxxan, citing the need for real-time practice with my bow. The truth was, I just liked being with him. But apparently, maramount were quite skittish, and one must move silently to hunt them. Something both Vysar and Vraxxan teased me mercilessly about not being able to do.
I shifted onto my knees, my fingers digging into the earth as I attempted to coax a particularly obstinate root fromthe soil. We foraged just beyond the sightline of the treehouse, surrounded by the lush, low-growing foliage where the alien sweet potatoes thrived in the soft, damp earth that gave the air a rich, loamy scent.
The sun hung at its zenith, casting light down through the canopy of leaves in a kaleidoscope of colors, much like sunlight filtering through stained glass. It illuminated the array of Vysar's shimmering blue and gold scales, creating a dazzling, iridescent display, like a painting.
"Were you exiled simply because you couldn't shift your scales?" I asked. It seemed ridiculous to me that his beautiful coloring wasn't appreciated.
"No," Vysar chuckled, pulling out his broad, flat knife to use as a garden tool. The alien sweet potatoes clung stubbornly to the dirt. "Most Zarpazians cannot shift. To force a shift takes years of training and a particular cruelness of spirit."
"Then why did it become so important?" From the stories Vysar told, Zarpazians were easy-going people who appreciated beauty and culture. They thrived on tradition, and the gatherings he recalled were filled with laughter and warmth.
Vysar gave an aggravated grunt that I doubted was about wrestling an alien sweet potato from the dirt. "Most Zarpazians want to live in peace, but the warrior faction, the clans that spawned the queen, wanted more." He gave a final yank, the long pale blue root emancipating from the soil, and sat back on his heels. "Being able to shapeshift means not only can you shift your appearance into that of another, but you can make yourself bigger and stronger. A Zarpazian who has shifted naturally is nearly unbeatable. An army of forced shifters, while not as strong, is equally deadly."
"The queen wanted more power, and you didn't?" I guessed. I wanted more power, too. This damn potato was stuck.
"The queen wanted our people feared," Vysar said with a sad sigh, tossing the root he held into the basket and digging for another. "She knew I stood against her beliefs and had been slowly gaining support to have me removed from power." He sighed again, and his broad shoulders slumped slightly, the faint shift of his scales making the blue darker. "My greatest regret is that she used the idea that Vraxxan, our son, was somehow less because he could not shift. When Vreses proved excellent at forcing the shift, she wanted to make him heir instead. I opposed it, of course. As king, I would never allow Vreses to rule, so she had me taken in the night. Zarpazian law would not allow her to kill me and retain power, so she dumped me here."
"What about Vraxxan? Wouldn't she have to get rid of him for Vreses to become king?" From what Vraxxan told me, his life at the castle consisted of numerous tasks one would expect for an up-and-coming king. Education not just in Zarpazian law but in Alliance law as well. Training with the armies, learning not only to command them but to fight alongside them as a warrior king. And inclusion in enough political meetings to make my skin crawl. His entire life seemed to revolve about being groomed to be king. But his mother was a sneaky bitch.
"Our laws prevented her from outright harming him," Vysar said, gratitude rolling off him in waves. "But we are a warrior people. When it became time for Vraxxan to ascend the throne, she would have had Vreses challenge him for the crown."
"And Vreses could shift," I added, shuddering at the icy finger traveling along my spine.
"Yes." The word was flat and devoid of emotion. Yet his entire demeanor radiated the fury of a father who witnessed his son being wronged. His eyes narrowed on the plant in his hand, and his fingers tightened, much like they'd like to tighten around the queen's throat, I imagined.
"You must be proud of Vraxxan. He will make a great king." I observed the subtle shift in Vysar's demeanor, his shoulders easing from their tense posture, indicating that my words had struck a chord. The relief, however, was fleeting. A deep, rumbling growl of frustration shattered the momentary calm.
"Yes, he would indeed, but the queen will never allow it," Vysar replied, his voice heavy with regret. "And now, I fear, she has the perfect excuse to eliminate him once and for all." His eyes, deeply blue and flickering with concern, met mine.
"You mean she would kill him for helping me?" I gulped, feeling like the hot, humid jungle air had just suffered an arctic blast.
Vysar sighed, rising to his feet, the root between his fingers smushed to a pulp. "On Zarpazia, disobeying the queen's word is high treason, punishable by death." Vysar tossed the squashed root in the basket where it landed atop the others with a loud splat. "By rescuing you, even though he did the right thing...." Vysar was quick to add, "it allows the possibility for an accusation of treason."
I blanched, both stunned and horrified by his words. "You mean by rescuing me, Vraxxan gave the queen an excuse to kill him?" My voice trembled with disbelief. The slick, purple leaves I clutched slipped from my grasp, fluttering silently to the ground. A tumult of emotions surged within me—horror, fury, and a fierce determination. I didn't know how I would stop it, but I vowed, with every fiber of my being, that I would never let the queen harm Vraxxan because of me. Never.
"Yes." Vysar's gaze softened on me as though he suspected my inner turmoil.
"Did he know?" Perhaps Vraxxan was oblivious to the full weight of his actions. The gravity of the situation might have eluded him. Maybe he didn't truly believe his mother wouldexecute him simply for protecting me. Yet, based on everything he'd said about her... he knew her cruelty, her bloodthirstiness, and her hatred of what she perceived as his failings. He had to know how she would react.
