Deepwood Weald [m] lxix. love, hunt me down

@Kjalarr

 

The season before, Lótë hadn't known what to expect nor had she been prepared when her fever struck. 

This spring was different, she would not be lost in the roil of unfamiliar sensation. When her skin grew tight and uncomfortable, crawling with the fire that licked at her skin from within, she recognized it for what it was. As unlikely as it was, the doe had hoped to avoid it entirely. Even so, she had tucked a hide of supplies away in secret -- dried meat mainly. She'd be hard pressed to fell a deer on her own and the hunter did not yet trust that the illness had passed through the Wilderness. 

The cloudberry flitted from the Spine before her scent could affect any of the men in her village. Despite Kukutux's hopes, she would not lie with her sister's love. Nor did she wish to tempt Inutsuk or the feral Makan. 

She feared that the glade of conifers that had become a second home would be too close, that the others might still sniff her out at such a proximity. Thus, the artist loped to the woodland of aspens to the northwest with her bundle clasped tightly in her jaws -- wracked with nerves as her verdant gaze swept the hazy forest for lurking monsters, flinching at every sudden movement and snap of a branch. 

Aiwë hunkered down amongst the saplings, her back pressed against the spindly trunk of a tree lest she be taken by surprise by a male with nefarious intentions.