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UNSPOKEN
A Dreamworks Trolls Fanfic by C. Prince

inVESTed

Tinkling pieces of colored glass knocked against each other, strung up as wind chimes in the foliage by Milton's back pasture. Hundreds of the fragments sparkled in the woods like a shattered rainbow suspended in time and space.

Milton hooked a piece of glass onto one of the ornaments. Branch watched with folded arms beside a pyramid of three critter crates. He resisted the urge to lean against the crates, first because they might topple over, and second because the animals inside sensed his gloom. They stayed as far from him as possible. At least the gray Cloud Guy hovering over his head had finally disappeared. Sometimes starting up a conversation with a friend seemed like the only way to get rid of the rainy pest.

"I don't like it," Branch continued, voicing his suspicions about Trollberg. "Something is going on."

"What makes you say that?"

"Creek hasn't been back a single time to rub some offhanded insult in my face."

Milton unlatched one of the critter crate lids. He attempted to reach the critter inside, but the yellow quilled puff dodged, squirming around the back corner whenever gentle hands came for it. Milton hummed, puzzled. He followed the critter's beady stare to Branch. "Ah. Could you back up a bit?"

Branch grunted and shuffled backward two steps.

"A little further."

He obliged.

"Perfect." Milton reached into the crate and scooped up the critter, brushing the spines flat and resting it in the crook of his arm. He kneaded along the leg the critter had been favoring until it let out an indignant squeak. Milton frowned. "I may not know Creek very well, but is it possible he is simply enjoying a fresh start?" He murmured comforting words to the critter. "Sorry, this may hurt a bit."

There was an audible pop when Milton snapped the joint back into place.

Branch growled out his complaints. Now that Creek was gone, there was no way to know if he was up to something. In truth Branch was using these thoughts as a distraction from a bigger worry.

Amethyst and Layla's baby hatched. He hadn't seen her yet, but he didn't need to. The news spread like melted butter. The newborn was healthy in every way. Except one.

He veered his attention back to the eternal pain in the neck that was Creek, a pain Branch grudgingly admitted was much less thanks to lots of physical distance. That made him anxious. He'd feel better if the feckless coward jumped out of a bush right now and stabbed him in the back with an arrogant remark. At least then he'd know things were normal.

Milton moved to the next crate. "Honestly I'm a little surprised. You haven't mentioned Creek at all since he left. Your sudden concern is unusual."

"Yeah, well," Branch said, fishing for ammo and coming up with nothing recent. "He's still annoying."

"Annoying enough for your fists to be balled up like that?"

He sighed. The list of trolls who could see through his defenses kept getting longer.

"I won't ask you to talk about whatever is bothering you. However, I do know several critters with soft fur that wouldn't mind attention. Although you might be better off taking that one for a walk." Milton nodded at a puffalo that looked grouchy enough to headbutt Branch into next week. "Smidge likes to take her whenever she needs to blow off some steam. Which is a lot."

That explained the times he'd seen the yellow troll being dragged full force up the sledding slopes.

Branch risked prodding for more information. "You heard about the new baby, right? The one everyone's talking about."

"The one you and Poppy rescued."

Yeah. That. Why couldn't he have jumped into the pod without hesitation? Bitter regret pained its way onto his face. He spoke a troll's worst nightmare. "Her hair doesn't work."

Milton genuinely didn't seem to understand. "Is that a problem?"

"Yes!" The flood gushed forth. "She'll never be able to climb into the tree. If she falls, she won't be able to catch herself. She can't defend, or hide, or camouflage, can't dance the way we do. Everything will be so different for her. She won't even be able to pick things up and store her belongings; even the most basic hair shake is outside her ability. We're using our hair all the time and we don't even think about it!

"What if she feels all alone? What if the other kids exclude her? If the trolls get nervous or superstitious around her because she's so different from the rest of them? If she's rarely happy? What if she turns gray?"

A missing limb would've been a better fate. Branch's guilt leaked out in a whisper. "It's my fault. It's all my fault."

Milton's patient smile didn't break. "Come with me."

What else was Branch going to do? If he went back into the village he'd have to hear it over and over again. She can't move her hair.

Milton led Branch inside the mushroom clinic. Stairs up the back wall climbed to the second floor, probably a bedroom. The first was an odd mix of everyday life and critternarian equipment. A series of increasingly tall T shaped perches resided by a picture window. On one of the higher perches a small bird pecked through a cup of seeds. Iridescent blue plumage covered its body, spreading to an equally shiny green at its neck. Funny feathers crested its head and its long tail drooped in fluffy tendrils, each a different color.

Milton approached the perches. He extended his arm and whistled. The bird hopped aboard, shimmying claw over claw to get to his shoulder. Its left wing floundered awkwardly. When the bird settled its tail draped over the back of Milton's white coat like a cape. "This is Fizz. We're lucky he's inside today. He likes to wander."

They left the house and went to the outdoor enclosures, each containing a different habitat. "Most critters that stay here rehabilitate back into the wild. This little guy," Milton indicated a swag stag fawn loping up to the railing of one pen, "both his back legs were crushed under a log during that storm. He'll always walk a bit funny, but he'll be fine."

One by one Milton introduced him to critters with debilitating injuries. All of them were set to be released, eventually. Their lives would change but the damage was survivable.

Milton stopped at a pen with tall mesh netting along all four sides. Fizz began to fuss, squawking and bobbing. Milton ignored him. He prepared a bowl of uncut fruit for the penned critter. Fizz cocked his head, turned, and impatiently used his beak and talons to climb down Milton's coat in a sort of weird grasp-hook method. The bird dropped to the grass, hopped over the lawn, and proceeded to climb up the netting beak over claw. He flipped himself over the edge.

When Fizz landed in the enclosure the juvenile caterbus inside peered out of its leaf tube nest. The caterpillar was still quite young, no bigger than Milton himself. It ambled into daylight, its multifaceted gemstone eyes catching the sun. Branch had never seen one this fluffy before. Its fur pattern must've been caused by a mutation of some sort. Instead of ringed stripes, thick fluff carried splotches of many colors, as if Cooper had been put in charge of the design.

Fizz seemed to be having a good time clambering around and over the caterbus, picking twigs and leaves from its fur with his beak. He made a purring coo while he worked, scalloped neck feathers ruffling and then smoothing back down.

Milton swept the fruit bowl into his orange hair and lowered it into the enclosure. The caterbus nommed into a tango melon, splitting the fruit down the center. It only ate one half. When Fizz finished preening he bounced over, long tail fronds still partially stuck in caterpillar fur. He carved his beak into the free melon half. The two critters ate in companionable silence.

"I do everything I can, but..." Milton trailed off.

Nearby a fuzzbumble scooted along the lawn. It was one of many such free range critters that came and went. This one, however, moved slow. Of the legs used to inch its way through life, only one remained. Claw shaped patches on its puffball body revealed old scars.

"Once in a while the injuries are so severe the critter can't survive on its own. I often blame myself. If only I were better, I'd know how to craft the right implant. I'd know what medicine to give or song to sing. I'd identify the disease right the first time and I'd always know how to treat it."

A cuddlepup bounded through the white fence surrounding the critternarian clinic. It circled the caterbus pen, yipping eagerly. Fizz hauled himself over the netting and flopped down, flapping his wings to keep from tipping over. The right wing flared out but the left didn't open fully. It was unnaturally twisted. Fizz used it like a crutch.

Soon the pair were out playing, one hopping bird and one wild cuddlepup. The game was chasing Fizz's trailing plumes. The pup tumbled. It stood up, shook off, and pounced for Fizz's streamers again, tail wagging the entire time. The two animals chased each other around the field.

"He'll never get to fly with the other birds," Branch said.

"Is that what matters?"

Fizz puffed up and beat his wings, shrilling happily. His shiny plumage rippled each time he made the sound.

Milton opened a cage and removed the dressing from a songbird's wing. He placed the round purple bird back inside but left the door open. For a while, the bird tested its wing and peered at the exit. When it decided it was safe it flapped onto the wire below the open door. Then, in a burst of wingbeats, it soared into the sky and winked out of view.

Milton reached into his pocket and pulled out another piece of colored glass with smooth worn edges. His hopeful, calm, and kind voice didn't waver. "I can't save them all. I make it a habit of remembering the ones I could."

He slipped a transparent thread of spidersilk through the hole in the glass and tied it up with the others.

x x x

Branch held on to Poppy's hand. It was funny to see all the trolls in the marketplace both trying to avoid the craft jewelry stand and also wanting to pack around it as tightly as possible for a look. Amethyst was immune to the charged atmosphere. If her purple glow could stretch to encompass the playpen behind the counter it would have. She weaved elastic threads into a bracelet, smiling like Poppy at the beginning of the world.

Branch hoped he wasn't squeezing too hard, but he needed the moral support or he would avoid this part of the market for the rest of his life. Poppy and Amethyst chatted. He barely noticed their voices.

The trolling was almost the same lilac color as Milton, but with pink intensity. Her shock of orange hair glittered when she turned her head to marvel at the egg shaker she was playing with. Her hair didn't have any of the usual troll spring to it. It was light and wispy, crackled with the tiniest hint of silver tinsel. Unique.

She had a round squat body and stubby little arms. That didn't stop her from shaking a rhythm out of the handle-less maraca. The instrument was small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, but it took her both just to hold it. The beads inside rolled. Two perfectly centered teeth peeped from her bright grin.

Sweet Pea. Named after the flower commonly seen with a vibrant pink color. It was a climber, a vine…

Amethyst lifted Sweet Pea out of the playpen and gave her a bracelet of thick wooden beads. Of course Sweet experimented with putting it in her mouth and gnawing at the fruit dyed wood. Every inch of Branch screamed to say or do something. A million choking scenarios rushed through his head.

Amethyst noticed the situation almost immediately. She hefted the trolling from one arm to the other with a tired motherly sigh, the sigh of a person who hasn't quite gotten a full night's rest realizing their child is destined to taste test everything within grasp. "Sweets," she said, "Layla will be back with nectar soon. Then you can eat. Alright?" She tickled Sweet Pea's stomach with a tendril of hair and tried to reclaim the bracelet with her free hand.

Instead the beads slipped from Sweet's grasp and landed in the grass. Amethyst glanced at them, still tending to the baby in her arms and talking with Poppy at the same time. Sweet Pea stared at the beads with intent. Branch found himself desperately wishing for something to happen, for even one single hair to move. Sweet burbled a tiny laugh.

"I know we named her Sweet Pea, but I get the feeling we'll all end up calling her something else."

Sweet Pea's left leg stretched out and kicked at the beads in the grass.

Branch nearly had a heart attack. Amethyst didn't flinch, didn't so much as bat an eyelash as she gathered up her daughter's limp noodle leg and stooped to pick up the bracelet before Sweet Pea could get her foot through it. Poppy didn't react. How was this not surprising?!

He gaped until Poppy nudged his shoulder and his jaw decided to hinge shut again. Sweet Pea had been born upside down. Her hair didn't stretch. Her legs did.

He was surprised his legs worked when Poppy strolled off with his hand still attached to hers. Shock coursed through his system. How did that even work? Could she change colors too? Would she be able to walk?

"She can walk if that's what you're wondering," Poppy teased. That only sent the mine cart of his mind on a different track, imagining how life would be if instead of pulling up by your hair you had to push up with your legs.

Eventually, Poppy took his continued silence for what it was: sheer sprinkling astonishment that Sweet Pea had extendable legs. The troll he'd overheard this morning had said nothing about legs!

"Branch, did you storm off after the first thing you heard?"

No.

Yes.

"Well, I uh. I… I…" he mangled an excuse and Poppy laughed the whole way through.

He felt like a fool, but he didn't mind being that way in front of her. Branch shook his head and listened to her joyous giggling. He decided not to say anything about the sparkling lilac heart Milton had showed him before he left. The critternarian had been as politely nervous as the day he'd come seeking Smidge for the first time.

In the end Milton pulled on the large gem and it clicked apart into two halves, one to keep and one to share. "I don't know if she'll accept it, but I'll work up the courage to ask."

Branch was sure if Milton didn't ask soon, Smidge would come bursting into the clinic at a ridiculous morning hour roaring, "Milton will you be mine?!"

Out of the corner of his eye Branch gazed at Poppy, minding her own happy business like being next to him was the most natural thing in all of trolldom. And yeah, it felt like it was. This was a good place to be.

He looked ahead. He was nearly finished, so he could finally surprise her. All that was left was to pick a good time. Tomorrow, or the day after, maybe.

x x x

Her bergen best friend came to the village without notice. Bridget's pigtails were frazzled and her eyes had a hard focus to them Poppy hadn't seen before. Dark rings betrayed lack of sleep. Bridget was still smiling though, a cute curl that got bigger when she saw Poppy.

"Bridget! What happened?"

"I'm worried about Trollberg—"

"Are we too loud? I can tell everyone to be quieter. Gosh, I thought the trolls there were quieter types, I mean, except Stella, she's super loud, like super loud."

"Poppy it's okay. It's not the trolls I'm worried about, it's the bergens. Someone fell on the Trollberg lawn this morning. That's what I came over to tell you."

Poppy felt a rush of sympathy. Bergens were tall; a fall that far must be painful. "Did they get hurt?"

"What if a troll had been out there?"

A troll would've been crushed. "Oooo," Poppy said, wincing. "Well, how about a fence? We can make it pretty, decorate it."

"That was my plan too!" Bridget said with enthusiasm. It dissolved back into the tired, stressed bergen on the outside. "But the castle is really low on funds right now."

Poppy still struggled with many aspects of bergen culture. Money was one of them. "Can we, uh, 'pay' you for it?"

Bridget clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle-snort. "You don't have any money though."

"I could get a job," Poppy said excitedly. "Wait, how does a queen get money?"

"Taxes."

She wasn't sure she liked the sound of that word. "That sounds bad."

"It's how Gristle and I pay for things like the Trollberg fence."

They kept talking about bergen economics, but the more she heard, the more mind boggling the whole thing was. How did you decide the point value of actions? It was like the most complicated board game ever. Either way, it was clear Bridget needed help if they were going to make Trollberg safer. The trolls couldn't build something as heavy duty as a bergen fence on their own.

Poppy recited the explanation of bergen finances at a meeting in the fun dungeon. Her friends appeared as confused as she felt.

"I actually think it makes a lot of sense," Branch said, ignoring all the baffled looks as usual. "It's a literal way to keep track of favors, make sure everyone does their fair share."

"But what happens when one really cool troll does a lot of really cool things and ends up with all the money, mmm?" Guy said.

"They share it!" Cooper said.

"Split it up equally." Smidge shrugged. "Makes sense."

Cooper laughed. "Oh I was thinking a big money shower. Paper and coins everywhere. Grab what you can."

Smidge's eyes grew wide. "Ohhhh. That sounds way more fun. Maybe we should have money too."

"Guys!" Poppy interrupted. "This still doesn't explain how we're going to pay for a fence."

"Wait, I have a question," Suki said. "This currency stuff, you trade things to get it, right?"

"Right."

"Can we sell Branch?"

It was quiet for a second. Then the room exploded.

"Can I buy that face he's making right now?" Cooper asked. "I want to be able to make that face!"

"Satin's for sale," Chenille offered.

"Yeah Poppy, how much is a troll worth?" Smidge asked. "Because there's someone I wouldn't mind paying for, if you know what I mean." She wiggled her eyebrows with a sleazy giggle.

"But wouldn't Branch have to sell himself, or is that something you would do Poppy?" Biggie tried to reason.

"Dibs on Mr. Dinkles!" Suki said.

"Mr. D is not for sale. He's priceless."

"Ooookay," Branch groaned over everyone. The commotion died down. "Clearly you guys don't get it, so here's my plan. Poppy and I go to Trollberg and sort this out while the rest of you stay here and do fun troll stuff."

"All in favor for Poppy selling Branch!" Smidge called.

Branch threw his hands out. "What? That's not what I—"

"Aye!" the room agreed.

He slumped over the table chin-first, giving the room full view of his unappreciative glare. Poppy had to drag him out of the building with her hair.

If they left now they'd have time to get back to Troll Village by nightfall. True, they could spend the night in Trollberg. It was designed for that. But at this phase of development she had a sneaking suspicion they would end up in a "there's only one bed" situation, and Branch wasn't exactly in a good mood. He would insist on sleeping on the floor and that would annoy her to no end.

"We'll need another flyer bug. Mine is fast but she's small," Poppy said.

Branch gave a confident chuckle. "Oh, that won't be a problem."

As sure as he seemed, there was no way they'd both fit. She whistled for her bug. He could ride it over to the stables and collect another one.

The peppy ringed royal flyer came through the trees, but she wasn't alone. A second bug flew at her side. It had a zigzag down its back.

Branch rifled through his hair and pulled out two spotted fruits. Her bug was all over him in seconds, chittering and munching fruit. While Branch was being assaulted, he held the second fruit up high. The new bug carefully plucked it from his hand.

"Zigs won't let Lifesaver out of his sight," Branch struggled to say, trying to push her bug back with his hands to avoid being mauled.

Poppy didn't recognize the new flyer bug at all. It looked wild. "Will he let you ride him?"

"Sit on? Yes. Ride? Like I said," Branch jabbed a thumb at the royal flyer, "Won't go anywhere without her."

Poppy grinned. "Want to find out how fast he is?"

They took off, tearing through the trees, bursting from the forest over flower plains into the blaze of desert sun and sand. There were no obstacles now. Poppy thrust her bug's antennae forward. Rumble of wings became a roar. The wind on her skin was a razor, her eyes watering, hair a line into the past. The future was a squinted slit of snow, a breathless shock of ice burning her lungs. She couldn't move. Cold, cold, cold.

Winter whipped away and she was still frozen in a blur of green, the castle spire growing up from distant hills. Icicle bones cracked as she craned her head to look behind. A blue comet chased them. Stroke for stroke the wild bug matched hers, unrelenting all the way to Trollberg.

She climbed off her bug and tried to shake the chill. The ride home was always more comfortable because winter was followed by blazing summer heat.

"Use your hair next time," Branch said. He unwrapped himself from the effective but silly looking natural covering, something that became not so silly when he kept going and took off his leaf vest. He turned the vest around and held it open.

Branch wasn't a glitter troll, nor was he extroverted. Even when he went swimming he wore something up top. He had taken his vest off once or twice in the past. Nothing she hadn't seen before. So this was fine, totally normal. That's what she told herself as she slipped her arms through the holes. The garment was still warm with Branch's body heat.

"Ugh, Poppy, you're cold."

Shirtless Branch hugged her from behind, arms layering over hers to heat her up. He was being very matter-of-fact about this. Maybe it was a survival thing. Maybe she wasn't supposed to feel snuggly and safe. Too bad. That's how she felt. "Thanks Branch."

They left the flyer bugs and approached the base of the troll tree. Branch didn't ask for his vest back. The temptation to look and touch was strong.

"Wow, this place is really coming along," Branch observed. He had broad shoulders and a straight, smooth back. The field of bare skin stopped at the hem of his shorts.

Right: progress on Trollberg. She lashed her hair around a tree limb and pulled herself up. The artisans had done a fabulous job so far. Carved pillars accented pathways lined with leafy plants. Fun swirly slides in natural colors rambled around the treetop. A large, cream colored building against the trunk marked the spa. Water streamed down a leaf into a pool at the fore. There weren't any lounge chairs there yet.

Currently they were in the furnishing stage. Most of the pods would be empty. She could see pretty colors peeping through the leaves. Some were private and secluded, others loud and open. Each had its own balcony – an extreme luxury at home. Nearby they'd find mini golf, hammocks, picnic areas, a playground, and a buried treasure garden for digging.

Branch stopped to examine things. Every time he caught up she'd hear the drum of his feet over the wood. She snuck a glance here and there. Without a shirt it was obvious there was a lot of strength under the cuddly softness of his hugs. It occurred to her in all the time she'd known him, he could have easily resisted her, pushed away, broken out of a hair hold by force. He'd certainly escaped a lot of group hugs via physical strength. But apart from pillow fights and sports, he'd never turned his power against her. Strong Branch. Gentle Branch.

Even his affections were careful, like she was the one setting the limit. Aside from the love bite incident he hadn't rejected any of her advances, and he often had that heat in his eyes. Maybe he was waiting for her to make a move.

Or her move could end in wild flailing and, "Poppy what are you doing?!"

She huffed in frustration. She hadn't managed to bring up moving out of the bunker and she didn't wish to now because the thought of going back to friends made her want to barf rainbows. How much more of this fun should they have together when there was a potential jawbreaker in the party mix?

Though their together time hardly classified as basic "fun" at this point. She wanted him near, to be closer to him in every way. She wanted this to last.

That meant she had to decide if she could survive a separate living situation.

It was hard to think clearly around all that skin.

Branch took specific interest in the carved trim inside the spa. He ran his fingers over the woodwork and stood back, no doubt calculating how the patterns were cut and pieced together. A thought about where those hands could go flashed through her mind.

She was reconsidering an overnight stay now that she was wearing a leaf vest.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the troll they'd come here to meet. "Greetings Poppy and Branch," Creek said.

The two men regarded each other coolly. Branch spoke. "Bridget says we could use some defenses here. Any ideas on how to pay for that?"

"Actually yes. And I'll explain them in due time. But first, water? Juice? Tea?"

"Oooo, water please," Poppy said, thirsty. For water. Definitely.

Creek served the drinks with a smile. He put his palms together and watched the two of them. He seemed to be waiting for something. Maybe he was thinking. Branch lifted his cup.

"I'm sensing a lot of built up energy," Creek said. "There's a pod you two could share over by the playground."

Branch choked in the middle of his sip. He threw back a gulp of water to try and contain the coughing fit. Creek's face beamed with self-satisfied glee.

"No… thanks," Branch managed through coughs, piercing Creek with a glare. "We're good."

Creek raised his eyebrows and looked at Poppy. She shrugged and said nothing. If Branch didn't want it, she'd keep her hands to herself and pine for him in private later. She clicked into work mode.

"Thank you for reining in your aura, Poppy," Creek said. "Though it seems the same can't be said for all of us." His eyes flicked to the teal troll glowering at him.

"Hurry up and tell us your ideas so we can leave. Please."

Branch's irritated comment resulted in Creek waiting for an uncomfortably long time before speaking.

One of the goals Creek had was to better understand bergens and their culture. When bergens were curious about the group yoga and meditation exercises on the lawn, Creek invited them to participate. If he collected money from his existing pupils eventually they'd have enough funds for a fence. Creek didn't know how much a class was worth, though, and where would they put all those huge coins?

"They have paper money," Branch said. He was right. They'd once seen Gristle give Bridget a stack of bills to make her happy. It hadn't worked. Happiness must be expensive.

Branch went to analyze prices while Poppy stayed in Trollberg to find a spot for the money and catch up with the other trolls. She was about to step outside when she caught the tune Creek was whistling.

It was familiar, and yet she'd never heard it before. Rapid succession of notes breezed in a bright melody. Creek whistled up a storm of scales and complicated sixteenth note patterns. What were the lyrics? Could words even go to that fast without becoming mush? The music pulled at her emotions, drawing up memories of sunlight and flowers. Freedom.

"What's that song?" she asked, poking her head into the sauna. Leftover heat from the sauna rocks radiated over her. Creek scrubbed at the wooden panels with a brush and a bucket of water.

"I haven't titled it yet," Creek said. "The music here is different."

"Bergen music?" It sounded nothing like any bergen music she'd heard.

"No. The plants. The wildlife. Together." The sound of the scrub brush shushed in a constant rhythm over the planks. "Besides singing I didn't have any way to play music when I was alone. I guess you could say I learned to listen in a different way."

"Could you teach me?" She asked, curious.

"That may be a bit difficult," he said, pausing. "I tried instructing Ripple and Stella, but they say they need to know the words. Nature hasn't provided me with any. There may be none."

Poppy tried to copy the wild ramble of Creek's whistling. The sounds slurred together and she couldn't remember the score. He was right. She itched for lyrics. Without them the tune fell out of her memory.

"The notes are the lyrics," he said. "I'm not sure how else to explain."

To be fair, she did try a couple of times to repeat bars of Creek's song back to him. She couldn't do it. It was an instrumental but also more than that. Why was the sound so familiar? The feelings behind it were powerful. The heat from the sauna, the wordless music that still spoke; it reminded her of the afternoon with Branch at Black Rock.

Yes. That's why it was familiar. Different music, different feelings, using the same wordless language.

When Branch came back he insisted on setting a flag boundary so they knew how far to stay from the street in case of another accident. He seemed wary. "There's more bergens than usual," he said.

"Of course. A lot of them stayed inside before, too miserable to do much else." Her bergen friends said so. It sounded awful.

"Ah," he replied, but he had that crease on his brow so she knew he was still thinking about it. He wasn't scared like he used to be, but he didn't trust them.

She kissed his cheek and the worry line melted away. "Come on," she said, returning his vest so he didn't freeze before the desert. "Let's go home."

Back at the village Branch didn't take her home, though. He took her somewhere else.