Work Text:
Gale was dumb. Of that, Star was sure.
The hunt was fun. To strike flint into sharp points in the low light of the fire when it was dark, to flake off bits of hard rock on the cave floor. Star found wood for a bow in the form of a pine branch and strung it. He found or pried off teeth and fixed them to sticks (sharp, too—both the teeth and the sticks).
Star liked to hunt. To be on the prowl and track their prey for days on end. To take a breath—in, out, soft—then to spring forth, bow drawn taut, and kill. The wait was the best part. Or the prey at his feet that stared with eyes that did not see. Their death meant he and Gale would live.
Now if Gale felt the same way.
Gale could hunt. Gale could fight. He was good with fire. He liked to hold a stick to it until the flames took and scare away beasts with the lit torch. But Gale liked some things more. The sky. He saw shapes in the clouds. Lines in the stars.
And paint.
The fire in their cave was small, with live, bright coals. Gale knelt. He hit the rocks he held in each hand. Red rocks, brown rocks, black rocks, rocks whose shade did not yet have a name. Star frowned. Paint would not feed or clothe them. But Gale liked this and he liked Gale so fine.
“Red rock?” Star asked.
“Red ochre.”
Star rolled his eyes. “Och-re is not a word.”
“It is now.”
Star ate a bite of their meal. Warm fat dripped from his thumbs. Gale was a good cook, at least. They shot the bear at first light and could not drag the whole thing home from the kill site. But it was cold and they might go back for it if the birds did not get there first.
On the way back from the hunt, Gale picked fruits and seeds, as hard as rocks, that wore down their teeth but soothed the ache in Star's gut. When they did not eat seeds and grass, they ate dhole and deer. Star did not know why Gale only ate the meat. The blood was rich and red and had clots in it. It was good for the health and good for his strength. Gale should drink some blood. That way, he would be strong. Stay strong.
And if Gale stayed strong, Star would not lose him.
Star died at one point. The wolf sank its claws in his back and ran the snow red. He had scars to show for it now, but there on the ground, he shut his eyes and lay in wait. He had not been strong. He was weak. He got caught. This was the price he had to pay.
It was Gale who found him.
Gale took him home. Fed him. Gave him pelts and cloaks made of skins to wear. He stuffed salves in his wounds, leaves and herbs chewed and mixed with spit. It made no sense. Those were Gale’s things. If he shared, he would have less.
Gale was kind to him. Star could not say why. When he came to, Gale sat next to him. He had a warm face, brown eyes, and a scar high up on his chest. Not out of place.
Gale put his hand on his own chest. “My name is Gale.” His brow scrunched. “You look pale. Are you well?”
“I am.”
"Pale or well?"
"Both." Star tapped his own chest. He did not have the strength to do much else. “Star.”
A smile. “Like the small lights in the night sky?”
A nod. “Like that.” Star tried to sit up. It hurt. “Gale. Like the wind?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Gale like the wind.” Star breathed through his nose. Strange words sat on the tip of his tongue. But he would say them, as much as it pained him to. “Thank you.”
As soon as he could move, Star tried to give back. He had to earn his place. He could hunt, fight, spin wool, and mend clothes. He was a good bed mate. The best, in fact. He could give that, too.
But Gale saw him for more. He called him kin. The snow passed. The sun came out. The days grew long, then short once more. He called him friend. (A new word.)
Then, mate. Then, yours. Mine.
So it had been for some moons now.
Star heard Gale laugh by the wall of the cave. He looked up. “What?”
“Watch.”
Gale showed off a tube made of bone and the red rock, now in the form of fine dust. He tried to pour the dust into the hole and it fell on the floor.
Star smirked. “Oops.”
Gale packed the red dust into the hole and brought it to his lips. He placed his hand on the wall and blew as hard as he could. Red dust shot from the end and sprayed his skin and the wall. When Gale drew his hand back, it left its shape.
“Come here.” Gale held out his hand. “Give me your hand.”
Star let Gale press his palm to the wall. The sound of rough spit from the tube and a cloud of red dust hit him. Star wrung out his hand but with some awe, he saw that the shape stayed. There were now two hands, side by side.
“Weird spell,” Star said.
“Weird but good, yes?” Gale thought for a bit. “We should try it on parts that are not hands.”
“Cock?”
“Sure.”
“Ass?”
“Hm. Will need more red rock.”
They stood and watched the shapes of their hands on the wall. The flames glowed. The hands did not fade and the red dust did not fall. Star could tell Gale would have said a word or two that would move him, but he did not have the right words right now. Star shook his head. Words did not have to mean so much.
Gale’s voice was hushed. “Do you think they will know?”
Star turned. They who? Know what?
“Why?”
As soon as he said it, he knew.
Men die. It is what they do. They would die, too, and soon. They were old. Gale had strands of grey in his hair. Star could feel the lines of age on each side of his mouth, small and faint, but there. Star did not know how he would die. A knife to the heart would be quick. One stab, then he would be gone. It was the best fate he could hope for.
He would not think about how Gale would go.
When they woke the next day, the hands were still there, ringed in red.
More men would dig them up. It would take more moons, but they would come with their spades and tools on a hunch. They would find the ash in the fire pit and their hands on the wall.
If luck would have it, they would find their bones there, too.