I notice that in the pattern.
Their boots are louder on the road, murmurs rippling through air when the torches are raised.
But then the torches come down, and the noise drops with it.
I am the noise that isn’t welcome in the dark.
And it’s botheringhim, too.
I hand back the waterskin, and he swipes it, harsh enough that I flinch.
Blackness shields the glower I aim at him—and it lasts a fraction of a moment before the inhaler is swiped from my grip.
A wince is sharp through the bite of my teeth.
I hold my hand up in the air in front of my face, but there’s no light to see the scratch he’s torn down the meat of my palm.
Intentional, no doubt about it.
Guess I forgot he can see in the dark just fine, can see the looks I shoot at him.
Maybe I didn’t forget and it’s just that I have no control over my instincts that are definitely going to get me killed.
Now, I’m left with the consequence.
The trickle of warm blood that falls from my palm to the sleeve of my jacket.
The sting burns into the flesh, but it was just a nick, a warning, one that cut through the material of my thick glove.
Fingers curling, I make a fist then hug my stinging hand to my chest.
That hoarse, dusty sensation of coughs stirring in my chest lingers.
I keep my breaths short, controlled, like my steps in the dark.
This journey is too long.
The constant walking is getting to me.
Not just hours, it feels like days, nights too, all meshed together in clumps of uncountable time.
Honestly, don’t know how the other humans are doing it. Keeping up with the long strides of the fae, a unit that walks and walks and walks, seems impossible. It’s not like the captives are fed well. Like me, they live on scraps, leftovers.
Maybe it’s the will to survive that has them pushing through exhaustion and hunger.
I would crumble if I were them.
Because they don’t have Bee to keep them going, promises and hopes of a second chance beyond this shitstorm of a life.
But if I’m struggling, then the captives must be on death’s door.
I’m a bit of a hiker, or at least I was, and I guess that is what’s getting me through this hell. But we’ve walked for so long now that I suspect we’ve crossed provinces, but northbound because we seem to be chasing the winter.
The weather shouldn’t be as cold as it is anymore, the snow shouldn’t still be sticking to the ground, but it is, even if it’s only thick about an inch or two.
All this walking, all this time—
Time I can’t count, but I know in my bones it’s been weeks since I’ve seen Bee, weeks since we ran right into that trap on the street.
