Skarsh Waterscale's Arc

Chapter 4 of 9

She points to the stained cloth in his hand, then to him. Her fingers move to the wound on her shoulder, then back to his face. The question is clear even without words: where did you come from, and why were you dying alone when I found you? Skarsh looks past her to where the old nest sits half-buried in mud and cattails, its chambers collapsed and empty except for scattered shells. He rises slowly, testing whether she will follow. She does, bracing herself against the stone bench worn smooth by years of water. The drake circles once, then settles. Skarsh leads her to the nest and crouches beside it, pushing aside the dry reeds until he finds what he carried here seasons ago. The eggshell is pale and fragile, covered in marks he carved himself — one small lizard breaking free, surrounded by eggs that never opened. He holds it out to her. She takes the shell carefully, turning it to see the whole story etched into its surface. Her eyes move from the single hatching to the closed eggs, then back to his face. Understanding settles there, quiet and certain. She traces the carving of the lone lizard with one finger, then reaches out and touches his arm. Not with pity. With recognition. She knows what it means to be the only one who survived. Skarsh takes the shell back and sets it in the nest where it belongs. The woman does not try to comfort him or fill the silence with words he would not understand. She simply stays beside him, her presence steady. The question she asked has been answered, and something shifts between them — not the distance closing, but the weight of it changing. He no longer carries his isolation alone. She has seen where he came from, and she has not turned away. That is worth more than all the years he spent watching from the water.