Page 13 of Survivor (A Space Pearl’s Treat #2)
Lucy
I had a physician tell me once—as he was jabbing a needle into my spine—that the first minute was the worst part of anything.
Up until now, I thought that was true. And while there had been moments when I felt like a fish out of water—I honestly couldn't say there wasn't a time when I didn't love it on Eden.
The jungle was hard work. Everything we did, even the smallest task, contributed to our survival. Yet I had never felt more alive, as if every fiber of my being was perfectly aligned with the world around me. Happiness radiated through my veins like warm sunlight on a crisp morning.
The jungle was a vibrant quilt of blue and purple foliage, with an abundance of beautiful plants that seemed to paint the landscape with blossoms in every bright color imaginable.
The air was thick and rich, infused with the earthy aroma of damp soil and the sweet scent of blooming flowers. I couldn't get enough of its beauty.
Although I hadn't fully grasped the intricacies of the Peecha language, my fear of the creatures had dissipated. Once they discovered my fondness for the sweet, juicy kipawa fruit, not a single day passed without a basket brimming with the vibrant bounty being delivered to the treehouse.
My responsibilities mostly revolved around domestic chores.
Although we hadn’t yet encountered any dangerous predators, Vysar assured us they lurked in the shadows, and neither he nor Vraxxan let me venture far from the safety of the treehouse alone.
Most days, I worked in the small, flourishing garden that Vysar cultivated nearby.
He was also teaching me the art of foraging, an essential skill in the untamed wilderness.
The bow he made me I wore slung across my back with a quiver of arrows nearby.
Vysar insisted that I needed a means to hunt and protect myself.
Vraxxan hadn't readily agreed to my being armed but capitulated to my excitement and his father's wisdom.
Vysar reminded me of my grandfather, the perfect combination of wisdom, patience, and a playful spirit.
I suspected he had been a wonderful father to Vraxxan, though their time together had been woefully short.
It gave me a sharp pang of longing for my own dad.
He'd been a good man, but my illness weighed heavily on him.
He tirelessly worked day and night to cover the mounting medical bills, making each moment we spent together a cherished memory.
Vraxxan was... wonderful. Despite the lingering feelings of inadequacy instilled in him by his mother, he'd more than proven himself as a protector, warrior, and hunter.
When he finally relented about the bow and arrows, Vraxxan insisted upon being the one to teach me to use them.
While my distance shots were still shit—a strength thing—my aim at closer objects hit the mark most every time thanks to his tutelage.
I'd even been able to contribute to the dinner table, nabbing several plump, thankfully slow creatures with my bow.
I wished Vraxxan could see himself the way I saw him—a steadfast guardian, fiercely loyal, undeniably handsome, and charming to boot.
As darkness enveloped the landscape, we would huddle around a warm, crackling fire, savoring simple, flavorful meals that rivaled the fare at Space Pearl's .
After dinner came story time. Last night, I finished the Chronicles of Narnia series.
It was cute to see how Vraxxan and his father fretted over the Pevensie children.
Tonight, I planned to begin the Lord of the Rings saga.
On nights it was Vysar's turn for story time, he regaled us with tales of the history and folklore of the Zarpazians.
His stories painted them as a remarkable people, full of courage and spirit, making it all the more heartbreaking to know how most were treated by the queen.
My heart ached with the hope that the Alliance would succeed in dethroning her, allowing Vysar to reclaim his rightful place as king.
Until then, the threat of being discovered by Seibring or the queen hovered like storm clouds on the horizon.
To guard against a shapeshifter slipping into our midst, we’d devised a hand signal for ourselves and the Peecha to use as a greeting.
I taught them to flip the middle finger.
Granted, it was a bit juvenile and bratty, but it guaranteed I would always greet Vysar, Vraxxan, and the monkey-like beings I was beginning to consider friends with a smile.
Despite all the fun I shared with Vysar and the Peecha, my most cherished time of day came late at night.
The air was cooler, and the sounds of the jungle softened to a gentle whisper.
Vraxxan insisted I take the single bed in our cozy shared room, but he was always nearby, resting on his fur pallet.
We talked late into the night, careful not to disturb Vysar's snores that echoed through the treehouse like distant thunder.
We spoke of everything and nothing. I told him about Earth, and he taught me about Zarpazia.
I bared my soul to him, revealing every part of myself, except for one truth I kept hidden—my cancer.
The thought of him looking at me with pity was unbearable, a shadow of death that I refused to let touch our precious midnight conversations.
I never had a boyfriend. It was hard to plan for prom when you didn't know if you'd be alive that long.
I had sex once. A fellow cancer patient named Sean, simply because neither one of us wanted to die a virgin.
It proved a rather pathetic escapade. We'd slipped away to a dimly lit supply closet late one night, the sterile scent of disinfectant lingering in the air.
The experience lacked the tenderness and warmth one might hope for, feeling instead awkward and rushed.
It wasn't what I'd call pleasant, but it got the job done.
I liked to imagine that if I ever had a real boyfriend, he would be a lot like Vraxxan.
He would be strikingly handsome like Vraxxan, with features that seemed chiseled by an artist's hand.
His sweetness would be genuine like Vraxxan's, a kindness that radiated from his very soul.
He would be protective like Vraxxan, with the strength to back it up.
And his eyes would gaze at me as if I had hung the moon and stars in the night sky like Vraxxan sometimes did.
Most nights, I drifted off to sleep with visions of being tucked away in a supply closet with Vraxxan, the outside world forgotten, wrapped in a cocoon of dreams.
Today, Vysar and I foraged for a root plant that possessed a striking likeness to one of my favorites—sweet potatoes.
Vraxxan had gone out hunting maramount , something Vysar described as looking somewhat like a deer and apparently very delicious.
I'd wanted to go with Vraxxan, citing the need for real-time practice with my bow.
The truth was, I just liked being with him.
But apparently, maramount were quite skittish, and one must move silently to hunt them.
Something both Vysar and Vraxxan teased me mercilessly about not being able to do.
I shifted onto my knees, my fingers digging into the earth as I attempted to coax a particularly obstinate root from the soil.
We foraged just beyond the sightline of the treehouse, surrounded by the lush, low-growing foliage where the alien sweet potatoes thrived in the soft, damp earth that gave the air a rich, loamy scent.
The sun hung at its zenith, casting light down through the canopy of leaves in a kaleidoscope of colors, much like sunlight filtering through stained glass. It illuminated the array of Vysar's shimmering blue and gold scales, creating a dazzling, iridescent display, like a painting.
"Were you exiled simply because you couldn't shift your scales?" I asked. It seemed ridiculous to me that his beautiful coloring wasn't appreciated.
"No," Vysar chuckled, pulling out his broad, flat knife to use as a garden tool. The alien sweet potatoes clung stubbornly to the dirt. "Most Zarpazians cannot shift. To force a shift takes years of training and a particular cruelness of spirit."
"Then why did it become so important?" From the stories Vysar told, Zarpazians were easy-going people who appreciated beauty and culture. They thrived on tradition, and the gatherings he recalled were filled with laughter and warmth.
Vysar gave an aggravated grunt that I doubted was about wrestling an alien sweet potato from the dirt.
"Most Zarpazians want to live in peace, but the warrior faction, the clans that spawned the queen, wanted more.
" He gave a final yank, the long pale blue root emancipating from the soil, and sat back on his heels.
"Being able to shapeshift means not only can you shift your appearance into that of another, but you can make yourself bigger and stronger.
A Zarpazian who has shifted naturally is nearly unbeatable.
An army of forced shifters, while not as strong, is equally deadly. "
"The queen wanted more power, and you didn't?" I guessed. I wanted more power, too. This damn potato was stuck.