The girl does not know why the desire to keep moving has ebbed out of her so quickly. She does not understand. Through the dry and the sting of dust she was unquenchable. Through the sharp prick of the nettles that tangled her beautiful hair and shredded her dress down to tatters she only quickened her pace. As dull aches built up into terrible pains and shivering weakness she was a creature made of iron. She was invincible.

Until she wasn't. Was a tree full of fruit all it took to keep her from the finish line? Perhaps. 

She stops, and sits, and with the gesture calls for her party to rest. For a long time no one speaks. No complaints, nor thanks, nor witty remarks pass the lips of anybody assembled. The girl has eyes only for the apples on the tree. Their lustrous yellow skin holds its shine even in the fading light of the sky above. Their sour scent dances down her throat, and when one falls and bursts open the sensation is so shocking and refreshing that she gasps. It is the loudest noise she can remember making.

If there are treasures to be found, they should be kept. If there are wounds to be tended, then the best medicine is a feast. And if there is a feast to be had, then let everyone take part. Share the work and share the riches both, and never mind if you know how to cook or not. Everyone provides. And everyone eats. 

Now there is strength in her legs again. She rises to her feet with the grace of a ghost as she slides over to the great tree, grandest landmark she has found in many long weeks of travel. She climbs up into its branches and sets about the task of sniffing out all the most fragrant apples she can find. She gathers them in her skirt and drops down onto the opposite side of the trunk in the only concession to modesty she can or cares to make. There is work to do, and for some reason the idea of work always loosens her standards on this front.

She has little enough to work with without touching what's left of their supplies. But there is plenty here enough to create something special. She takes sugar cane in her hands and wrings it with enough force to kill a king, a gleam in her eyes as the sticky, glistening syrup spills like lifeblood into the bowls she's confiscated for her purposes. She has to clean her palms afterward before she can properly crack open her heating pellets, but so what? Her body is far greater than most any tool she could care to name. It does not bother her to use it this way. 

It's a long process to heat the sweet water into something crystalline and usable, but it's a pleasure to wait. It gives her time to hum; a tune like drum beats in her head and in her heart. It goes something like chan-barra-chan-barra-chan, though what that means she doesn't know. It lifts her heart, and that's enough. Once she has her crystals, she pauses. It does seem a waste to melt them again, but the process is essential. Without this extra step she'll never be able to make the thing she wants. 

Her claws slice through the apples with ease, filling her nose and coating her tongue with the delicious sour-sweet aroma of their flesh. Twigs and nettles are good enough as skewers. Nothing wasted that way, even the painful parts have their use. She lines up speared apple chunks and she gathers them between her knuckles before plunging them deep into her re-cooling syrup. They must be held, but not still. She must be moved, but not disturbed. Gather the sugar and let it remember the shapes she taught it. Be what you were made to be. 

Even carved, the apples are more beautiful than ever in their crystal cases. Like this, they will keep a long time. Like this, they can travel. Like this, there is enough for all to eat even while walking. They glitter, and to her eye it seems joyful. 

But she pauses before she rejoins her friends. The girl cocks her head and sniffs the air with caution and no small degree of importance. Feasts... Feasts belong to gods. There is at least one god in particular she is sure belongs at tables full of fresh things to eat and --

No. It should be two.

She gingerly lifts the very best of her work away from the pile and carries them away from everyone. A claw slices off an extra strip of her skirt to give her something to lay them on. Something in the back of her mind itches. Want of a candle she supposes, but where that urge comes from she does not know, and it flits away as soon as she realizes it's not for her to hold onto. She offers a bow to the sugared treats. 

"Apollo," she says, "Artemis. Siblings, the sun and moon. I have not forgotten your names. I offer you my treasure, what is mine to give. All I ask of you in exchange is that you do not forget mine."

The girl turns from her little shrine without waiting for an answer. She has many treasures to deliver, with a quiet nod and an anxious hope that what she's done will delight a single other soul. The smell of her work leaves her mouth watering. But in the end, she left none for herself.