but recently, the flames are getting out of control; any

[weed]

she is the lamb; he is the slaughter

Weed immediately recognizes the spotted mare who approaches him, but recognition doesn’t flood his features. Instead, ever the actor, his body melts with stark relief. “Thank goodness,” he says as the squat mare, his voice shrill and unpleasant on the ear, but genuine. The relaxation does not last for long through. Instantly, his white-rimmed eyes are moving toward the border, his stubby ears flicking non-stop atop his head as he monitored his surroundings. “I can’t stay long, but I had to come, I had to—”

Without breaking face once, Weed commands a branch to crack several feet away in the jungle, he jumps, startled, sweat beginning to sicken his strangely red neck. “My mother used to live here, she would have wanted me to come.” Her frightened eyes meet those of Tantalize, and they latch on with hope.

“The Tundra can’t be trusted,” he finally squeaks out. “I wasn’t allowed at the meeting, but I snuck in and listened. I heard things.” He swallows, “Something about how Errant and Singe,” he shakes his head, “no, that’s not right. Char? Sear?” Weed bites his lip, “Damn it. I know this.” His breathing is rapid, and he feels his pulse reacting, pleased with his own performance. “Scorch! Scorch. It was Scorch.”

Weed licks his lips, visibly trying to gather himself, “Something about how the treaty died with them. They found me after that and chased me away. I didn’t get all of the details.” Another branch cracks in the distance and he snorts, side-stepping nervously, “I came here right away. I can’t stay. They’ll know.”

He meets her gaze again, pleading, “Just be careful.” He begins backing up again, nostrils flaring and his neck now clearly slick with sweat. “They can’t be trusted.” Then, with one more glance, he turns and runs.

WEED

© oscar keys