[and god said, let there be light; and there was light. and god saw the light, that it was good and god divided the light from the darkness.]

genesis 1:3-4

SHE WATCHED THE SMOKE DISSIPATE INTO THE NIGHT SKY. She felt dirty here, unclean. Everything here was so pure, a law of nature, a neutral cycle that didn't cast judgement upon others. But she was different. She didn't fit into the cycle. She was fueled by hatred, by blood. Hate kept her up at night, but regret and sorrow haunted her steps. It followed her like the sting of a cazador. It mocked her and pointed out all of her flaws - pointed out that she hadn't done anything, that she'd been a coward. That Benny was still out there, breathing and none the worse for wear. She'd had it all in her hands. The weight of the choice, the weight of the gun, it was all the same to her. All it took was a pair of balls. A pair of balls she lacked. Or maybe it was sympathy... empathy? She wasn't sure what it was. All she knew was that she'd let her killer - but not really - get off scot-free.

Her eyes fell shut as a soft sigh escaped her lips. In this moment, she had another choice. Nowhere near as heavy as the one in the Tops Casino, but a choice nonetheless. Either try to go back to bed and face the nightmares, or stay on this rock until the sun rose. Neither sounded particularly appealing to her in that moment. But she chose the latter, sighed and stared out at the open chasm below her. Zion was possibly one of the most beautiful places she'd ever seen. And she'd seen plenty of places. Even saw a small town with a talking tree back in what used to be Washington D.C. Every inch of that place had been covered in greenery. But this was... different. There wasn't as much green as that place, - what'd they call it? Sanctuary? Haven? Oasis! - but it didn't make Zion any less beautiful. In fact, she felt it added to it all. It was less suffocating that Oasis. It was open and deadly and felt like a home she hadn't had in a long while. Not since she'd left all those years ago.

Gentle boots crunched from behind her, nearing her. Her eyes fell shut as a soft sigh escaped her lips. She crushed the cigarette onto the gravel below her and turned her head to face the tattooed man to her right. "Joshua wants to talk to you. Sounds important." Follows-Chalk spoke from his spot next to her. His own eyes looked out over the land in front of them. He never grew tired of it, his home. And from the look in her eyes, he could tell that she couldn't bring herself to grow tired of it either. It made him wonder if traveling out of Zion was smart or not. It confused him, complicated things. "Can I ask something?"

"Free country." She mumbled, her head swiveling back to look out at the expansive lands ahead. The man next to her took a seat on the gravel. There was something in his voice, something that made her feel uneasy. It made her uncomfortable. The last thing she needed was some heart-to-heart with a guy she'd only known for a day or two.

"Do you enjoy New Vegas?"

"Enjoy?" Her eyebrows furrowed as she turned to look back at him in judgement.

"It is your home, no?"

Home. Jesus, that was a word that seemed to haunt her these days. Her shoulders shrugged slightly. "I guess. Better than anywhere else I been."

He slowly nods, digesting her curt words. Part of him feels hesitant bringing the topic up to her. It was clearly a sensitive issue. So far in their time together, she'd been quiet but polite, making small talk here and there. But this seemed to put her on edge, talking about home. He wondered if he'd put her in a bad mood by asking. He really hoped not.

"Why? You wantin' to move there?"

"No, no. Not move. Explore."

It was her turn to slowly nod. Her fingers reached up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "Well, it sure is good for that." She was itching for another cigarette but she figured they might be hard to come by in this place, so she forced herself to ignore the craving. "Tell you what, if you want, I'll take you back with me after I'm done here. That is, if you haven't changed your mind by then."

His eyes slightly widened and a small smile grew on his lips. "You would do that?"

"What can I say, you've caught me feelin' charitable." One thing Boone didn't like about her was her sarcasm. Before she'd been shot, she was hardly ever sarcastic. Always happy to be the doormat that people wiped their muddy boots on. That's part of what got her shot. Maybe it was some epiphany that she'd had while lying down on Doc Mitchell's uncomfortable mattress, that maybe being a pushover wasn't the best way to go about life in Nevada. But he'd never known her before she'd gotten shot. He probably wouldn't have liked her before either. Hell, she didn't even really like herself before. Maybe she should've thanked Benny for the bullet to the head.

Follows-Chalk smiles to himself. A ticket to the outside. His own tour guide of that beautiful world outside of this one. But his smile began to drop as his mind returned to his family, to Joshua. The bandaged man would never let him leave. Too dangerous, he'd declare. But maybe with the reassurance of the courier next to him, he'd be a little more lenient, a bit more understanding. "When you speak to Joshua, could you ask him if I could travel with you to New Vegas?"

Her eyes glance over to him as she shrugs her shoulders. "Sure." Though she's listening, her mind is a million miles away, back in the Lucky 38. She thinks about Arcade and Cass and Boone and Rex. Part of her wonders if they miss her, if they're worried about her. Another part, something deeper and larger, wonders if they're secretly relieved. Happy that they don't need to watch their backs and her own. Happy that there isn't a body they have to bury. A frown plays on her lips, her fingers twitching back towards her cigarette pack.

A soft sigh escaped her lips as she pushed herself up from the ground. No use sitting on a cliff and wondering about things that didn't matter anymore, on probabilities. It was unhealthy. Arcade had once tried to sit her down for a therapy session. He'd all but cornered her like a wild animal to get her to sit still for one moment and attempt to open up to him. It had been clunky and awkward, forced and uncomfortable. After nearly two hours of small talk, she'd finally decided to throw caution to the wind and bring up her ex-husband, the man she'd left in the middle of the night. To her surprise, she'd cried to Arcade in that lonely Lucky 38 suite. He pinky-promised not to tell a soul - doctor/patient confidentiality and all that. It would be a lie to say she didn't feel better afterwards.

Her boots crunched against the dirt as she followed the path back into the cave. As hot as it was outside, it almost seemed hotter inside the cave. Between the torches lighting the way and the campfires others slept at, it all almost felt like a sauna. She pictured that this is merely a fraction of what he felt when he was thrown into the Grand Canyon. That she was lucky to have most of her skin intact. Glancing behind her, she noticed that Follows-Chalk remained outside, watching her retreat down into the cave. Part of her wondered if he was that scared of Joshua, why he was so scared of the man, if she should be as scared of him. But her time in the Mojave had taught her not to cower before any man, even the one that had put a bullet in your skull.

Her hands reached up, rubbing her face. Why her, she silently asked the sky - though it was more like she was talking to the roof of the cave. She'd met traveling preachers before, ones who carried around books with large t-shaped letters on the front and spoke about some man up in the sky who loved everyone. She'd patiently wait before showing them the jagged scar on the side of her head, the bald spot where no more hair could grow. 'I didn't feel God in that bullet in my head,' she'd tell them. They'd usually just shake their heads, muttering that they'd pray for her. But some secret part of her wished them to be true. That there was some slice of paradise awaiting them after the end of it all. But all she'd seen was darkness - like taking a nap. "Fuck," she hissed under her breath, the weight of the world resting on her shoulders. The NCR was breathing down her neck before she'd up and disappeared with the Happy Trails Caravan. Colonel Moore had been up her ass about getting rid of the Brotherhood, but she'd... Jesus, she'd just helped them fix their air filtration system. She'd made... friends down there. Maybe friends wasn't the right word. It seemed these days that her only friends were a cyber dog and an emotionally stunted sniper. Maybe the alcoholic former caravan runner. But she didn't think Cass was too fond of her.

"It's good to see you well." The deep voice caught her off guard, dragged her out of her thoughts kicking and screaming. The bandaged man sat at a table across from her, a stack of pistols in front of him. The only feature of him that she could see were his eyes, piercing and watchful. Almost as if he were peeling back her own skin, observing her like some caged animal. It made her skin crawl. "I understand that our makeshift bedding isn't always the most comfortable, especially when you're used to real beds in the Mojave."

She shrugged her shoulders, taking a step deeper into the room. "Hard to find a real bed in the Mojave anyway." Her eyes ran along the room - the chasm within the cave. Part of her wondered if anyone had been in this cave before them. If they'd considered making this very room their new home. If anyone had died in here. "Do you believe in ghosts?" She asks because she does. Everywhere she goes, she sees them. Ghosts of those she's killed, those she hasn't. Like some calling card that she can't escape from.

The man froze for a moment, set one his guns down on the table to watch her take unplanned steps around the room. She was curious, he spotted that the moment she stepped foot in the canyon. Some say that curiosity killed the cat, but he always noticed that everyone seemed to forget the second half of the saying. Satisfaction brought it back. It was clear that she'd lived by the second half of the saying. He wondered if she was like that before the bullet scrambled her brains. "I can't say I do." He sees similarities between her and Follows-Chalk, and he now understands why the young man wouldn't stop talking about her in the camp.

Slowly nodding, she took a seat on a rock by the far wall. "But you believe some man in the sky has it all planned out?"

Despite the bandages, she could see movement under them where his mouth would be. Possibly frowning at her skepticism. "I'm not here to evangelize you. I understand your... skepticism. I, too, was once like you. A nonbeliever. It took surviving Caesar's wrath to push me where I am now."

"You're saying I should get myself lit on fire and thrown into a canyon to get right with our maker?" She almost winced at her own words, born of hatred, of... envy. Envy that he'd found a purpose in his pain, in his trauma. What did she have to show for her own? A lighter and a gun? Nightmares that she woke up from in a cold sweat? Wasn't anything of worth. Wasn't something she could show off. No one would look at it and tell her that she was doing good, that what she was doing was good for her. When she thinks about Benny staring up at her, his eyes pleading with her, her pressing his own gun into his forehead, she thinks herself a coward. But maybe that meant she was a better person for it. That's what every fucking NCR soldier told her when she stepped foot in a base. 'Never thought a celebrity like you would kick it with the grunts,' they would joke. It all left a bitter taste in her mouth.

The man in front of her remained silent, opting to observe her as she lost herself in thought. So this was the famed Courier Six of the Mojave. Not who he was expecting. But he really didn't know what he had been expecting. Maybe someone more like Ulysses. Someone more angry, more vengeful and beaten down than the woman in front of him. Or maybe she was all of that and more. He couldn't quite tell from here, from now. Her face was worn, her eyes tired and begging for rest - a rest she might not get in this life. A rest that he, too, sought after. But they both seemed to be lost causes. People not put on this earth to be restful. Maybe they didn't deserve that peace, him especially. He'd spent months, years repenting for his sins but no peace washed over him. No rest from what he'd done, what he'd been. Part of him wondered what haunted her steps. What aforementioned ghosts clung to her heels.

But she didn't pay any attention to him, her mind still back in New Vegas, at the Strip. With Boone and Rex. Her boys. The three had been damn near inseparable for months. Where one was, the other two followed close behind. You couldn't see one without the others. As little as they talked, she felt like she knew everything about Boone and he knew everything about her. A small smile grew on her lips at her memories of him. How she'd pestered him until he finally told her his birthday. May 3rd, he'd begrudgingly growled out. You're a Taurus, she'd laughed and fished out an old magazine she'd found in Goodsprings and read out something called a horoscope. She'd told him that she was a Libra, October 10th. She hadn't expected him to think anything of this conversation other than annoyance but when her birthday rolled around, he'd shoved a book in her hand and mumbled a happy birthday. That book stayed in her pack, she'd probably read it ten times. There was no title on the front of it, but it was some cowboy story. She could probably recite the first twenty pages in her sleep, at this point.

"Let's walk, shall we?" He stood up from his seat on top of the large rock, stepping down to her level. Her eyes followed his form carefully, watching him round the table and approach her, but keep his distance. The way he looked at her was akin to a skittish dog, like she was ready to bite and lash out should he get too close. And she would, she practically dared him to take another step towards her. She slowly nodded, though, following him down the path of the cave to the opening. Her dark eyes glared at the back of his bandaged head.

"Follows-Chalk is scared of you." She spoke, softer than her previous tone with him. But the man in front of her remained silent. Her eyes surveyed the land that waited outside of the cave for them. Most of the tribespeople were asleep in their cots, save for a few guardians that kept watch over them all. They did little to ease her paranoia. "I see it when he talks about you. But he's mostly in awe of you. He seems... impressionable."

"He's young." The man in front of her spoke, but not too loud. Too worried about disturbing any of their sleeping patrons. "But he's loyal. He'll follow you to the end, if you'd ask." The thought almost put a smile on his lips. The idea that there was someone who looked up to him that wasn't a monster. Someone who was pure and good in such close proximity reminded him everyday how to be a better person. And it gave him hope for the future of the tribe. They were filled with people like Follows-Chalk. The children that were hidden away from the incoming war were just like him, eager to learn and eager to help.

"That's what worries me." She broke his train of thought. Though he wasn't facing her, he could hear the frown in her voice. The skeptical frown that she'd worn since she arrived a day ago. But Follows-Chalk liked her, had nothing but kind words to spread about her. He'd watched the young tribal go around, telling stories of the adventures she'd told him from the Mojave. He'd seen how the others looked at her, at first like she was some trespasser then like she might be their savior. It was how they used to look at him, but now their gazes became more docile, more used to him. Now they looked at him like he was just some leader, as if someone waited to be next in line. Part of him preferred that. He was the last person anyone should follow. "An impressionable young man listening to the words of Caesar's former first legate... it's a dangerous situation."

His jaw clenched under his bandages. He wasn't a coward, he dared not hide from his past. And he made sure to never shy away from his name or his reputation. It's what he deserved, to be looked down upon and shunned. But after so long being treated like someone worthy of respect from the Dead Horses that now her blatant disrespect of him was jarring, grating on the ears. "I take it you're NCR."

"Quick one, aren't ya?" She rolled her eyes behind him. Her mind returned to Boone and she tried to imagine him in her boots. If he'd been here, he'd probably tried to blow the man's brains out. Hell, he probably would've already done it and gotten the hell out of here. But she was always the diplomat. That's one of her worst qualities, in Boone's eyes. She always talked her way out of shit. He'd much rather pull out his rifle and start gunning them down as soon as they breathed wrong. "I'm quite the celebrity there so if I go missing, they'll come looking for me." An empty threat. She was sure they'd shrug their shoulders and cut their losses, probably find some other sucker to try to fill her shoes. And even if they came looking for her-

"I doubt they'd ever think to come to Zion." He finished her thought. She wasn't a fan of that. It made her feel vulnerable, exposed. Like her skeleton was bared out to him, begging him to read her like his scripture. Even from behind him, he could feel her gaze. It was sharp like the feeling of rain on his bandages. He'd loved the rain so much when he was a child. Now he cowered away from it, avoided it like it was the plagues God had sent down upon the Pharaoh. "I know all about your time with them." He commented, venom in his tone. "Hard to not hear about the savior of the NCR. Especially when it's all you tell Follows-Chalk about. Seems you're just as bad as the Legion at recruiting."

Her arms crossed over her chest as a scowl settled in her aged features. She was too damn old to be playing these games. He was trying to intimidate her. It wasn't fucking working. She was unshakeable. Getting shot in the head and left for dead would do that to you. Doc Mitchell theorized that maybe he accidentally snipped whatever part that fuels her self-preservation the last time she'd dropped by. It had become a habit of hers, dropping by to see the old doctor, just to prove that she was still alive and kicking. She liked to think he enjoyed it, liked to have the company, voices filling the empty halls. The night would be filled with stories of his wife and of her own family that she'd left behind. His weathered face held no judgement. Unlike Arcade, who'd had to pry it out of her, these stories fell from her lips voluntarily with Doc Mitchell. Happy stories, at that. Not even the usual heartbreaking ones that drove her away. Ones of joy that almost made her want to crawl back on her hands and knees, begging for forgiveness. But that was a pointless thought because she'd rather be the one to put a bullet in her own brain than beg for anything.

The two walked a good two miles before he slowed his steps, letting her walk by his side. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her taking in the landscape with wide eyes. It was her first time seeing anything so beautiful, so expansive. The Mojave had some pretty scenery. Jacobstown came to mind. The snow-covered mountains, the lively trees that reminded her of Oasis. She smiled to herself at the memory of Marcus and his blunt nature or the mutant guards who would make broken conversation with her. They'd tell her interesting things they'd seen that day, usually just mantises or the occasional Bighorner that got loose. But it made her happy to talk to - people? - those who didn't care who she was. But then her mind began to float back to Oasis and Harold. He was so funny. Maybe she'd tried to model her humor after his, his sardonic and dark humor, the kind that made light of his situation. His situation as in him being stuck as a living tree that was being worshipped like a god. Maybe that's why she didn't believe in God. And if there was one, did He even want to be one? Or was He just saddled with the gig, stuck with devout followers He didn't even want? Maybe if Joshua's god could make her laugh like Harold had, she might be more open to his faith.

Her hands reached up and rubbed her face. As if that would undo decades worth of exhaustion. "Where are we going? I can't imagine you'd drag me all the way out here to kill me." Her frown deepened as she looked over at the man. His gaze remained forward as did his steps. And he didn't humor her with a response. "If you wanted to kill me, you would've done it in the cave. I think only Follows-Chalk would've been upset."

"You talk about observing fear," he started, his voice rough and gravelly, "yet you do not see what you strike in the tribespeople. They know all about the NCR's failures, their slaughters. Especially that of Bitter Springs."

"I'm sorry," she cut him off, halting her steps to glare at him incredulously, "you want to lecture me on slaughter? The same man who implemented crucifixions in his slave-owning army? The same man who still haunts Caesar's nightmares? The same man who wiped tribes and towns and cities off of the map?" The hatred in her voice was pure, unrelenting. Spoken like true NCR. "Do not speak to me of atrocities when you have mass graves at your feet." This anger, it came from somewhere deep, somewhere raw and stinging. Even she wasn't sure where this defense came from. But she couldn't help her mind drifting to Boone and the sorrowful look hidden behind his sunglasses when they'd arrived at Bitter Springs. It was the most she'd ever seen from him. The closest she'd ever seen him to crying. The closest she'd ever come to crying in his presence. The children that wandered the camp in search of their parents that they secretly knew were never coming back. It broke her heart into a million pieces. But her sorrow quickly dissolved to anger, rage. She was so angry at the NCR for so long after that. It almost swayed her, told her to run far from them, burn all of the good deeds she'd done for them. But when she'd spoken to Cass, to Boone, to Arcade, they'd all shared similar sentiments. Was an independent Vegas even possible? In the grand scheme of things, was the NCR really their best option? Most signs pointed to yes on the latter.

His jaw clenched even tighter under the thin fabric. This wouldn't work. If the two couldn't even go on a simple walk without their opinions giving way to these petty arguments, there was little hope in the two leading a war together. He'd stopped in his own tracks, just a few feet ahead of her. Dark eyes met his bright ones, bright ones that held something deeper behind them. Thinking back, he wondered who had technically gotten them to where they are now. Ah, yes, it was her. It would always be her. The silver-tongued lapdog of the two-headed bear. They said jump and she simply asked how high. A frown grew on his own lips, hidden behind the bandages. Was he looking at his equal opposite? The NCR's first legate? Where he had brute force, she had quick wit and charisma. Would she, too, meet the same fate as he? "We need to keep walking." He simply spoke, feeling his anger slowly dissipating the longer he stared at her. He didn't enjoy to dwell on such things. With that, he turned away from her to continue walking up the path by the river. He didn't care if she followed him, but he knew she would. Always followed orders like the good little solider she was. That they both were.

A bitter satisfaction was painted across her pale lips. That she'd gotten the last word in that argument, that she had the upper hand. Joan one, Joshua zero. You shouldn't keep scores of your arguments, Arcade had scolded her once. But she'd raised a middle finger at him, told him to get off her back. The two were the same age yet he seemed determined to be the adult in their dynamic. Someone had to do it, she supposed. She wondered how Arcade would react to the man in front of her. He'd probably curse the man out, call him a fascist and probably use whatever Latin curse words he refused to teach her. How him and Boone put up with her, she wasn't sure. But she was glad they did because she wasn't sure she'd be alive if they weren't watching her back. That's why this trip was making her uneasy. At least the usual eyes on the back of her head were one of them, now they were invisible ghosts, secret snipers that only the bandaged man knew about. They'd never let their leader out with some stranger like this, not without backup.

The man in front of her stopped as he neared the edge of a cliff. She stopped next to him, looking out over a canyon. A river sat at the bottom, still and calm. Unlike whatever was going on here. She still hadn't gotten the bigger picture. Who the fuck were these White Legs guys? Where'd they come from? She was sure she'd know if she spoke to Joshua, but, frankly, she didn't want to do that. If she could get out of here with as little contact as possible, that would be the best. To be honest, the idea of of speaking to Caesar's right hand man sent shivers up her spine. But that's exactly what she would have to do up here, on this cliff, unless he put a bullet in her brain now. That might have been preferable to whatever he could have to say to her. "Have you ever had a family? A home?" He asked, breaking the silence between them. Part of her wondered if his voice had always been this deep, this gravelly. Or if the fires that baptized him had also burnt his vocal cords. Maybe the smoke that consumed him did the job.

Her jaw clenched at the question. She saw visions of the man she had once called her husband. By the old world laws, they were still technically married. But none of that mattered to them anymore. He might be dead for all she knew or cared. That was harsh, she frowned. She did love him, at some point. But all of that love she had for him just... vanished. Dried up like the well in the town they'd lived in. Biting her bottom lip, she sighed silently. "No." If her response was surprising to him, he didn't show it.

"Then you'll fail to understand why the Dead Horses mean so much to me, why Zion means so much to me." His response was blunt, coarse and rude. Part of her contemplated arguing with him, dropping the bomb that she'd had a family, but that it was all in pieces because of her. Maybe that would show him. But she knew it wouldn't. It would only make her look worse in his eyes. And for some reason, she didn't want that. Call it vanity or whatever you wanted, but she refused to be seen as a worse person than the man who crucified innocents. "But these people are a family to me now. I'll do anything for them. When I had nothing, I had them. The Lord has a way of making sure you have exactly what you need, when you need it."

It took all of her might not to scoff. Where was his Lord when she woke up to find her baby not breathing? Where was his Lord when raiders slaughtered half of her hometown? Where was his Lord when he was slaughtering families? Her jaw clenched tighter as anger filled her bones. What a fucking hypocrite. "Mhm." She simply hummed, staring out at the scenery in front of them because she knew that if she so much as glanced at him, she might lash out.

"This place is sacred, it must be protected at all costs." He continued, his own eyes refusing to budge from the canyon. Places like this always brought his mind back to that day. The day his best friend had betrayed him. The day he was born anew. The skin under his bandages hummed and tingled under the thoughts, the memories that he'd worked so hard to push down. They were stubborn like that, resurfacing every morning and every night. There wasn't a night that went by that he didn't relive that day. This was his punishment and he would take it in earnest. It's what the Lord would want. It's what the Lord had planned. He finally forced himself to look at her out of the corner of his eye. She was older than he had pictured, or maybe she just looked older. The Mojave had a tendency to do that, age you beyond your years. Her short black hair with graying streaks barely reached her shoulders, sticking out in the back and falling in her face. A small part of him remembered his own hair, a chocolatey brown that was always kept short and neat, a habit from his childhood. Some days he missed his hair. Some used to comment that it was his best feature. But that was a vain wish, he frowned. "Is the NCR not your family?"

What a stupid question, she thought. "Was the Legion your family? Or just a group of men you commanded?" There was no venom behind her words like before. Just a simple curiosity, like she was comparing the two of them. She wasn't a fan of the idea that the two of them were comparable. But maybe there was something there that she wasn't willing to recognize. Something deep and animalistic. She'd killed people before too. But never like him. She'd never tortured anyone either. Even that asshole Centurion at Camp McCarran. She wondered what guys like Silus would think if they found out that the Joshua Graham was still alive. The man they were compared to every day in training, the man they wanted to be better than, the man they hoped never to become. She pictures the way the smug smirk that had been permanently etched onto his lips would fall the second she utters his name. It's almost too sweet that she vows to see it for herself.

He furrowed his brows at her question, at her dodge of his own question. The Legion hadn't been his family; maybe he once considered Edward a brother, but those days were long gone, burnt up with his body. But he'd hated the rest and they'd hated him. That was fine with him. He didn't need them to like him. Even as they smirked while covering him in pitch, he didn't care. All he could do was stare back at Edward, wonder if the man knew he was making a mistake, if he regretted it at any moment. Some deeper part of him hoped that the man lied awake at night, regretting his decision. His mind fell back to the woman next to him, her words from earlier. The same man who still haunts Caesar's nightmares, she'd said. Was she being dramatic or did she know that? "Zion is a home to many, the White Legs are not part of that. They are a parasite, feeding on whatever they can get their hands on. If we do not root them out, they will burn everything in sight."

"If you're trying to convince me that the White Legs need to be put in their place, you can save your breath." She sighed, her hands rubbing her face again. "Though I'm not a huge fan of genocide, so if we could avoid that, that'd be beautiful." Knowing his track record, part of her had a feeling he wouldn't be too excited about the idea of her finding a truce between the tribes. But that was too damn bad. He was asking for her help. And that's how she planned on helping. "I think I'm gonna hang around here for a little. I'll head back to camp before dark."

His eyes lingered on her for a fleeting moment before silently nodding. He turned to leave her alone, still feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. None the looser, none the lighter.