Month 1, Day 3, Night
The river sounded different at night.
During the day it was background noise, a steady rush that eventually disappeared because the brain filtered it out. But the moment the camp was behind me and there was only water, the sky, and the cold, at that moment I heard every single splash. Every small wave that hit the stones.
Cealith sat next to me. He had pulled his knees up, wrapped his arms around them, and stared at the water. We had been sitting like that for a while. I didn't know what to say.
The wind pressed wet grass against my pant legs and it was cold. Really cold. So cold that you should've gone inside, but neither of us moved.
"I was seven," Cealith said.
Just like that. No introduction, not looking at me.
"That's when my father stopped looking at me."
I turned my head to him. He was still staring at the river.
"What do you mean, stopped?"
"Stopped." He shrugged, but the movement was stiff. "He didn't see me anymore. I stood in front of him and he looked straight through me."
I opened my mouth and closed it again. What do you even say to that?
"Why?" I asked.
Cealith grabbed a strand of hair and twisted it between his fingers. Moonlight fell on it and his hair glowed.
"In my people, there's an old story," he said. His voice was calm, but in a way that sounded forced. "About an elf who, a long time ago, brought great suffering to many. He ruled and killed and did things to his own people that nobody could forget."
I waited.
"He had silver hair."
I looked at him. Then at his hair. Then back at him.
"And because of that, everyone thinks you're like him?"
"Something like that."
"That's complete bullshit."
It slipped out before I could think.
Cealith turned his head toward me. For the first time since we had been sitting here. And for a moment he looked at me like he didn't expect anyone to say that.
"Yeah," he said then. "It is."
Silence. The river kept splashing.
"My father," Cealith started, then stopped. He tried again. "When I was born, my hair was dark. Like everyone's. My mother told me my father held me in his arms and laughed."
His voice got quieter.
"Then it changed. Slowly, over months. At first they thought it was the light. Then they thought it would go away."
He plucked a blade of grass from the ground and tore it apart.
"It didn't."
"And then?" I asked.
"Not right away." He tilted his head. "First he tried to dye it. He rubbed pastes into my hair that burned. It didn't help. Then he tried to keep me inside the house so nobody would see me. But I was a kid. I ran outside."
He made a small hand motion, like it was obvious.
"And everyone knew," I said.
"Everyone knew."
Somewhere in the camp, a branch snapped. We both went quiet at the same time. I held my breath and stared into the darkness between the trees.
Footsteps. Soft. Coming closer.
My heart hammered.
The steps continued, then got quieter.
I breathed out. Cealith did too.
"Are you always this alert?" he asked, and there was almost something like a smile in his voice.
"Yeah. And you aren't, or what?"
"I am," he said. "Always."
Silence.
"There was a day," Cealith said then. His voice sounded different now. Not calm. Not controlled. "I was ten. There was a festival in our village. Everyone was there. I stayed inside, like always, but I could see the lights through the window and hear the music. And I just wanted to be there once. Just once."
I pulled the jacket I had been wearing when I got teleported into this world tighter around me, but it didn't help against the cold.
"I sneaked out. Ran to the square. And for a moment it was nice. The lights and the people and the smell of food. For a moment I forgot why I wasn't allowed to be there."
He spoke faster, like he needed to get it out before he changed his mind.
"Then my father saw me. In front of everyone. Right in the middle of the square. He grabbed my arm and everyone watched and nobody said anything. He dragged me home."
He swallowed.
"And then he hit me. Once. Here." He tapped his temple. "Not so you could see it. He knew exactly what he was doing."
I felt sick.
"He said: You're not my son. My son would have hair like everyone else."
The words hung in the air.
I thought of my father. The last evening at home. The kitchen table. The light that had been too bright, and the silence that had been too loud, and my mother standing somewhere in the hallway.
Whether they had seen the impact.
I didn't finish the thought.
"And your mother?" I asked. My voice sounded rough.
"She was there." Cealith pulled his knees tighter to his chest. "She cried. But she didn't say anything. She never said anything."
I didn't say anything either. What could I say. Sorry is too small, and everything else is too much.
"And then?" I asked after a while.
"Then I got older. I learned not to stand out. To be quiet, to stay on the edge, to give no reason. But the hair stays. You can be as quiet as you want—if the first thing people see is the reason they fear you."
He said it without bitterness. Just like a fact. And somehow that was worse.
"They talk in the camp too," I said.
"I know."
"Nikita and Daisuke and the others, they don't think that. They're not like that."
"I know," he said again. Softer.
I rubbed my hands together. My fingers were numb.
"You know what?" I said, and I didn't even know where the sentence was going when it came out. "On my Earth, it was kind of like that too. Not because of hair, but because of everything. How you look, who you like, where you're from. And everyone acts like they have a reason. But they don't. They're just scared and they need someone to dump it on."
It sounded smarter in my head. Out loud it sounded like a cheap quote.
"Forget it," I muttered. "That was really flat."
"It was flat," Cealith said. Then he looked at me. "But it wasn't wrong."
The cold crawled into my bones and my teeth wanted to chatter. I pressed them together.
We sat there a while longer. In the damp, in the cold. By the river that kept flowing, no matter what happened.
At some point I stood up. My legs were stiff. I held out my hand and he hesitated for a second before taking it.
His hand was just as cold as mine.
On the way back, we didn't talk. The camp was quiet. Most fires had burned down and only embers were left. The half-built huts stood in the dark. Walls without roofs. Door frames without doors.
Cealith turned off toward his spot at the edge. He didn't look back, only raised his hand for a second. I watched until he disappeared into the shadows.
Then I went inside.
My hut was small. A bed made of wood and leaves. A blanket that still smelled damp. A small pile of personal things in the corner that I had collected since the first day. Not much.
I lay down and stared at the ceiling.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow morning I would go to the ruin with Unit Seven. And Unit One would come with us. Antoine would be there. The guy who humiliated me in front of everyone. The guy whose face I had beaten bloody. The guy who hated me ever since.
My stomach tightened.
I didn't want to end up on the ground again. I didn't want to run away again. I didn't want to be the one everyone laughed at again.
But I didn't know if I was strong enough to stop it.
Outside I heard footsteps. Someone walked past. I heard a soft whistle. Then nothing.
I closed my eyes.
Tomorrow was going to be a big day.