TW FOR SOME RACIST LANGUAGE/CONNOTATIONS

Both of them were silent for a long time as they stared into the trees, the weight of their earlier conversation heavy in the air. He should have let him finish, should have tried to explain himself better, but he was far too curious about what was in the trees. Regret joined the tension between them, but he didn’t dare address it. 

Spencer took a step towards the trees but Vincent put a hand on his arm to stop him. “We need to stay here. What are they going to think if they come back out and we’re gone?” he asked. 

“I thought you weren’t the kind of person to care about authority, Vince,” he snapped and shook his hand away. He stomped towards the trees, fists clenched tightly at his sides. It was strange to watch. Of the both of them, it was usually Vincent storming away in a huff, far too angry for his own good. It wasn’t supposed to be Spencer, but that was his fault.

With a sigh, he glanced back at the horses for a second before he followed. There were people everywhere who could keep an eye on them for the few minutes they would be in the trees. Charlotte and the others would be in the mine for a long time if they were lucky, more than enough time to have a look and get back before anyone noticed they were gone. 

Spencer was already halfway to the tree line by the time he started across the grassy field. The trees spread across the hills the mine ran down into, continuing into the distance. They cut off at the town, a sharp line sliced through them. It was an odd contrast to the dirty mine and ugly warehouse that he was walking away from, clean and peaceful. 

He hurried to catch up to Spencer and the pair walked in tense silence towards the trees. Vincent still wasn’t sure what he had seen. It had looked like fabric, painted with the familiar patterns of a native tribe’s art, but he could have been seeing things. Nicholas had said that some of the towns lived near tribes, but surely they weren’t so close. 

Vincent knew them to be nomadic people who never stayed in one place for very long, but maybe not all of them were. Or maybe the arrival of people from Nuran had forced them to stay and watch what was happening. He could never know for sure, he didn’t know their language and no one ever bothered to learn it. 

Once upon a time, things might have been good with the natives. He had no way to know for certain, but he’d heard whisperings of it from older folks, people who had arrived forty years ago. That they hadn’t known anyone else was there when they landed and tried to be respectful, but as the colonies grew, so did the anger of the native people. They’d started it, according to everyone he’d talked to, but Vincent couldn’t exactly blame them. 

Spencer spared a glance at him when they reached the tree line, as if he were surprised to see him there. Vincent was the one to point it out, he wasn’t just going to stand by and not find out what was going on, no matter what Spencer thought. Whatever it was he had seen was harder to spot once they were closer and he stopped for a second to scour the leaves. 

“There,” Spencer said, pointing through the branches and scrub. He stepped through the bushes before Vincent could find what he was pointing at, leaving him to stumble along behind. 

What they were looking for wasn’t too far away, but by the time Spencer stopped, he could barely see the mine through the trees behind them. A whispered curse ahead of him made him freeze, dread flooding his veins. He should have known what he would see when he followed Spencer away from the horses, but it still made him sick to his stomach. 

The tents that had been set up, made from dark fabric to camouflage with Ilsania’s terrain, had been torn down a long time ago, left to flap in the spring breeze and get caught on branches. Trapped against a tree was the piece of tan canvas Vincent had seen from the mine, long rips cut through the swirling red paint. The long-dead remains of a fire sat in the middle of it all, the wood and rocks scattered among the dirt. 

That wasn’t the worst of it. The stench made him gag, and the vireen he had smoked that morning only made it worse. It was new, unfamiliar, but he still somehow knew what it was. The bodies were hidden under the collapsed tents and behind bushes, but he could still see the dark reddish-brown of dried blood staining them.

It was disgusting. There couldn’t have been more than ten people living in the little space, they probably weren’t even staying that long, but for whatever reason, the people of Victoria River had murdered them. Hopefully, some had escaped, but he would never know for sure, all he could see was death and destruction. 

He’d known about the things that happened out in the outskirts of Nuran’s colonies, but had never seen it for himself. Who would want to? For the last seven years, he’d been able to avoid seeing it, but like everyone else, he knew about it and did nothing. Focusing on himself was easier than thinking about it, especially if he never saw it. 

“Spencer...” Vincent whispered, not sure what he was supposed to do or say. 

“What the fuck?” Spencer replied, hissing it into the suffocating air around them. “What the actual fuck?”

How long ago had it happened? It could have been days or weeks, it was hard to tell without seeing the bodies, and Vincent wasn’t going to go and look. They hadn’t even been buried, just killed and stashed under their tents as if that would do. Murdered like animals. 

There were telltale signs that it was a home, a place where a family or two had been raised. Tools lay scattered, bowls and what looked like children’s toys lay in the dirt, stained an awful red. Stepping any further into the camp felt wrong like he was walking on someone’s grave, so he kept himself planted next to the trees, next to a sick-looking Spencer.

The smell was getting too much and while a part of him begged to find something he could use to dig graves, he was scared of what he would find if he moved the destroyed tents. His body threatened to expel the food he had eaten that morning, but he held it back as best he could, stumbling backwards on shaking legs.