After the Hunt
1228 Words
Eywa POV
By the time I reach the edge of the camp, the anger has already changed.
It no longer burns in sharp bursts or demands release. It settles instead, drawing inward, cooling into something steadier, something more controlled, shaping itself beneath my skin in a way that sharpens my thoughts instead of disrupting them.
The forest recedes behind me as I step into the open space between the huts, the familiar structure of the camp rising into view. Firelight flickers against wood and canvas, and voices drift through the night in low, overlapping conversations.
None of it reaches me.
Not the way it usually does.
My grip tightens slightly around the blade at my side as I move forward without slowing.
The memory refuses to stay where I put it.
Not the fight itself but the way it unfolded.
The way he stepped into the space I created instead of avoiding it. The way he shifted the rhythm before I could take control of it. The way he looked at me, not surprised, not pressured, not reacting as if he had already seen it. As if I had done exactly what he expected.
My jaw tightens.
I force the thought down, pressing it into something more useful, something that can be shaped, something that can be understood.
He is predictable.
That is all this is.
Confident enough to walk into a trap. Controlled enough to believe he decides how it ends.
That is not strength. It is arrogance, and arrogance breaks.
“You look like you had success.”
The voice cuts cleanly through my thoughts.
I do not slow.
Thom sits near one of the wooden huts, his posture relaxed in a way that does not match the attention in his gaze. He watches me steadily, as if expecting something from me I have no intention of giving.
“Where is the body?” Kelly calls, edged with amusement. David shifts behind it, leaning to look past me. “Did you leave it out there?”
A brief laugh follows.
“Didn’t bring your trophy this time?” Kim adds, her tone carrying curiosity rather than mockery.
I do not respond.
Their words pass through the space around me without settling, without meaning anything beyond noise. They are still measuring success in things that can be carried back, counted, proven.
That is not what this is anymore.
I move past them without breaking stride, heading straight for Maris’s tent, the need to strip the moment down into something usable settling more firmly with each step.
The moment I reach it, I push the flap aside and step inside.
Maris looks up as I enter.
Her hands still briefly over the table before resuming their work, her gaze moving over me quickly, efficiently, taking in what matters and discarding what does not.
No blood. No visible injury.
Only tension, held tightly enough to notice.
“You pushed too far,” she says at last.
Her tone is even, observational rather than critical.
“I pushed far enough,” I reply.
She studies me for a moment longer, her attention settling more deliberately now.
“Did you?”
The question lingers.
I do not answer it.
Instead, I step further into the tent, letting the quiet close around me as I come to a stop near the table.
“He walked into it,” I say.
Maris stills again.
This time, more noticeably.
“Into what?”
“A trap.”
Her eyes sharpen slightly.
“And?”
“I did not finish it.”
The words land heavier than they should.
Simple. But not simple.
Maris watches me more closely now.
“Then you miscalculated.”
The response comes easily.
Too easily.
“No,” I say, before I can stop it. “He knew.”
The silence that follows is different.
Tighter.
“He knew before I moved.”
Maris leans back slightly, considering that, her fingers tapping once, lightly, against the edge of the table.
“Then he is more dangerous than we assumed.”
“He always was.”
That has never been the question. What is new is not his danger, it is his control, and something beneath that something I do not name. I push the thought down before it forms.
Maris reaches for a vial and holds it out to me.
“Drink.”
I take it without hesitation.
The glass is cool against my skin. The liquid inside is darker than usual, thicker, clinging to the sides when I tilt it. The smell is familiar, bitter, grounding, something I have learned not to question.
I raise it to my lips and swallow it in one motion.
The effect settles quickly.
A dull pressure blooms behind my eyes, spreading outward before easing into something heavier, something that presses everything else into place. The sharp edges of my thoughts soften, not disappearing, but losing their bite.
The question, the one I pushed down, fades before it can return.
I close my eyes briefly, letting the sensation settle.
When I open them again, the tension that followed me into the tent has dulled into something manageable.
Contained.
Maris is still watching me carefully.
“Rest,” she says.
“I will.”
It is easier to agree than to question why.
I turn and step back outside, the night air feels clearer now.
Cooler. Sharper.
Or maybe I just don’t feel the rest of it as much.
The frustration that followed me from the forest is still there, but it no longer presses. It's, quieter, held in place instead of moving freely through me.
Contained.
I move past the others again without stopping, their voices fading into the background as I make my way toward the edge of the camp. Toward the forest.
This time, I stop just before the tree line.
I do not step inside.
Instead, I let my gaze settle into the darkness, allowing my thoughts to move in slower, more deliberate patterns.
The fight replays.
Not sharp, but measured.
The way he moved. The way he let the rhythm build before breaking it. The way he stepped forward when I expected him to retreat.
That was not instinct. That was choice.
My fingers tighten slightly at my side.
He could have ended it. More than once.
The realization settles quietly.
Unwelcome. Persistent.
He was not trying to escape. He was not trying to kill me. So what was he doing?
The question rises and slips.
Not gone but dulled.
Less urgent. Less important.
I let it go.
Because it is easier that way. Because there is nothing useful in it.
Only distraction. Hesitation.
And hesitation loses.
A quieter thought follows, softer now, less defined.
Why does he feel...
It doesn’t finish. It doesn’t need to because the answer comes faster.
Cleaner. Safer.
Danger feels familiar.
That is all.
Nothing more.
My gaze sharpens as I focus back on the forest.
No.
This is not something to question, it is something to end.
I was close.
Closer than before.
That matters.
That means he is not untouchable. Only controlled.
And control can be broken.
I straighten slightly, the last of the hesitation settling into something colder, more deliberate. Next time, I do not wait.
Next time, I do not follow. And next time I do not let him walk away.
- Writer
