Thorns & Wildflowers

CHAPTER 2: NO SENSE OF DIRECTION

The rain slackened into a fine drizzle, sticky and needle-sharp against the skin.

Cain took the lead. His stride remained steady, measured—squelch, squelch, squelch—as his boots broke the surface of the puddles.

The girl trailed close behind.

They covered some distance before she called out, "Where are we going?"

He offered no reply.

They walked a bit further. "Hey, where are we going?"

"...Ahead."

"Where is 'ahead'?"

He left it unanswered. Eve sighed, her footsteps quickening to close the gap.

In less than an hour, she had asked the exact same question nearly twenty times.

Cain accelerated. The footsteps behind him quickened in tandem. He slowed down; she slackened her pace to match.

He snapped to a sudden halt. An instant later, something collided with his back. Her forehead struck his shoulder blade with a dull thud.

Eve climbed back two paces, her hand instantly flying to her face, capping a red-rimmed nose with her fingers.

"Is your back made of iron?"

Cain turned to look at her. Rain trickled down her chin. Her hoodie had shifted askew, baring a pale shoulder.

"Can you watch where you're walking?"

"I am watching. I’m watching you."

"...Watch the path."

"Aren't you the path?"

He chose not to reply. Turning back around, his tail flicked once, scattering droplets of water across her face.

Eve wiped her eyes and broke into a light jog to keep pace, her waterlogged shoes squelching loudly with every step.

"My name is Eve," she offered. "No last name."

Cain remained silent.

"And you?"

"...Cain."

"Cain what?"

He didn't say. Eve didn't press, shoving her hands deep into her pockets as she fell into step beside him.

They walked on through the waning storm until the only sound left was the rhythm of their own breathing.

A heavy tightness began to constrict Cain’s chest. A localized heat began to writhe beneath his skin, mimicking the crawl of living things beneath his flesh.

"There's something on your chest."

Cain’s stride faltered.

Eve looked up at him, tilting her head.

"It's dark red. It stretches from your left shoulder all the way down to your right ribs. Like thorn marks."

He turned his gaze toward her, his eyes unblinking despite the rain. "You can't see that."

"I can," she insisted, tracing a line across her own chest to demonstrate. "From here, to here. It's moving."

A searing spike of heat flared in Cain’s chest. Then came the pain—not the superficial sting of a burn, but a deep, boring ache. It dug past his skin, carving through muscle to grate against the marrow of his bones.

His posture broke. He doubled over, bracing a hand against a nearby wall. The rough brick bit into his palm.

His breath grew ragged.

Eve closed the distance. She extended her hand but held it just short of making contact.

"Are you okay?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came—only a low, guttural growl that tore from his chest, entirely beyond his control.

The transformation was taking hold. His fingernails darkened, lengthening into sharp, lethal talons. His jaw shifted. His canines lengthened, pushing past his lips.

His center of gravity shifted forward.

Eve knelt beside him. She reached out, pressing her thin palm flat against his chest. Her hand was cold, slick with rain.

Then, she began to sing.

It possessed no recognizable melody. The syllables bled into one another, ancient and resonant. Each note carried an immense weight, sinking deep into his bones.

Slowly, the burning in Cain’s chest began to recede. It retreated from the marrow, pulled back through the muscle to the surface of his skin, and finally vanished into the air.

His breathing stabilized. The talons retracted into normal fingernails; his canines shrank back behind his lips.

He looked up.

Eve’s eyes were closed, her brow furrowed as her lips continued to move. She seemed entirely unaware of what she was doing.

As the final syllable faded, her eyes fluttered open. She blinked twice.

"Did I just... sing?"

Cain stared at her. Rain slid from her matted hair, dripping down.

"You didn't know?"

"No," she said, scratching her cheek. "It just happens sometimes. My body moves on its own."

Cain stood up, his legs trembling slightly. He leaned against the wall for a brief moment to steady himself.

Eve rose with him, slapping the wet mud from her knees.

"My mom told me I've been like this since I was a kid," she muttered. "She called it a gift. But I always thought—"

She cut herself off, casting a brief glance in his direction. "Aren't you going to say anything?"

Cain pushed his damp hair back from his forehead. "Let's move. There's an abandoned temple ahead. We can take shelter there."

He walked onward, and Eve followed.

The rain continued to die down. In the distance, a dark, blocky silhouette rose against the hillside.

Eve snapped a dry branch underfoot. c***k.

"That thing that just happened... does it happen often?"

"Occasionally."

"Does it hurt?"

He didn't answer right away. They took a few more steps before he spoke.

"Yes," he said.

Eve fell silent.

They reached the abandoned temple.

The doorframe hung askew. Only half of the wooden door remained on its hinges; the other half lay rotting on the ground, blanketed by a thick layer of moss. Several patches of the roof were missing, allowing the rain to stream through the gaps like miniature waterfalls.

Cain pushed the remaining door open. The rusted hinges groaned in protest.

The interior was cramped. Dust lay thick over every surface, cobwebs anchored the corners. In the center of the room stood a stone statue. It rose just over a man's height, its surface heavily eroded by decades of dampness. It depicted a woman, her long hair cascading down her back, her hands cupped around a bundle of flowers.

Eve walked over and stood before the effigy, tilting her head back to look up at it.

"Who is she?"

"No idea."

Cain dropped to a crouch, scanning the floor. Someone had been here before—dry ash from an old fire lingered in a corner.

"She looks a little like..." Eve tilted her head farther. "...me?"

Cain turned to look at her. She stood perfectly adjacent to the statue, her head tilted at the exact same angle.

The statue’s face was ruined by time, its features erased. Yet the curve of the jawline—

He stood up and approached her. He looked at the statue. He looked at Eve.

"What?" she asked, blinking.

"...Nothing."

"Your face doesn't look like nothing."

"Stay inside. I'll take the night watch."

He walked to the entrance, propping his back against the doorframe while facing the dark expanse outside. As the rain thinned, the lights of Silvermoon City visible in the distance coalesced into faint, yellow clusters.

Eve selected a corner of the temple, swept away a patch of dust with her foot, and sat down.

"Aren't you going to sleep?"

"No."

"Then I'm staying awake too."

"Sleep."

"I'm not tired."

Her stomach swallowed the silence with another loud growl.

Cain reached into his coat and produced a strip of dried meat—hard, leathery, and frosted with a layer of salt curing. He walked over and held it out to her.

Eve took it and snapped it cleanly in two. She popped one half into her mouth and offered the rest back to him.

"Half each."

"I'm not hungry."

"Your stomach growled earlier too."

Cain looked down at her. She was already working on her piece, her cheek bulging to one side.

He took the remaining half and shoved it into his mouth. It was tough, requiring enough effort to make his jaw ache.

Eve leaned her back against the wall, stretching her legs out. She pulled her sleeves down until they covered her hands entirely.

"My mom used to do that. Whenever we had something good, she’d always split it down the middle."

Cain chewed the jerky in silence.

"She passed away last winter," Eve continued, her voice dropping lower. "Sick. I didn't have any medicine."

Cain looked at her. She was staring up at the breach in the roof, watching the rain strike the floorboards—drip, drop, drip, drop.

"What about you? Your family?"

"...Dead."

"All of them?"

"Yes."

A heavy quiet settled between them. There was only the sound of the leaking roof.

"Cain."

"Yeah."

"When that thing was happening to you earlier... what were you afraid of?"

Cain turned his head. Her eyes caught the dim light of the room—pale green, like leaves washed clean by rain.

"I wasn't afraid."

"Your hands were shaking."

He looked down at his lap. His fingers were trembling—a slight, persistent vibration he couldn't arrest. He shoved his hands into his pockets.

"I was afraid of hurting you," he said.

Eve watched him steady himself. "You wouldn't."

Cain offered no response. His tail lay flat against the dirt floor.

A low rumble of thunder rolled over the clouds in the distance. Eve closed her eyes, her breathing gradually slowing into the deep rhythm of sleep.

Cain stood up and walked back to the threshold.

The rain was nearly over. The sharp tang of wet earth mingled with the ancient, musty scent of the temple.

He glanced back over his shoulder. Eve was asleep against the wall, her head lolling to one side, her lips slightly parted. The stone statue loomed directly behind her. Their silhouettes were nearly identical.

Cain turned back to face the night.

Water dripped from the eaves, one bead at a time, striking the earth with a rhythmic tap, tap, tap.

Inside the temple, upon the stone bundle of flowers held fast in the statue's grip, a single petal bore a faint, glistening trace of moisture.

It wasn't rainwater.