I hope he knows that.
I hope he realises what I’m saying with the shake and the look his way, where I only see darkness.
I’m frugal with it now, just one breath from the inhaler before I hand it back to him with a whisper, so soft and quiet, but I’m sure it travels to fae ears in the dark, “Almost empty.”
He snatches it from my hand.
No words come from him.
No answer.
The inhaler is just another way he keeps me with him, keeps me from running off. That should reassure me, at least a little, that he’ll replace it, find another for me to suck more life out of.
Just another tether.
But even if he didn’t keep it with him, the inhaler on his person, in his pocket, I wouldn’t run.
Not out here.
I’m not taking on these national parks, drenched in pure blackness,alone. That’s a horror movie, just the thought of it.
Now I’m going to have nightmares about being lost in the dark again. Those are some of the worst kinds. Wake up drenched in a cold sweat, and the grogginess lingers for hours.
The nightmare hangover.
I can’t afford to be groggy out here.
One boot in front of the other, over and over and over—and really, these boots are not for the snow. The seams are fastened tight, but there must be a gap or two, a thread that’s coming undone, because there’s a slight wet patch starting to spread over my sock.
That’s… not good.
That’s a problem.
I lift my chin, as if to look at the warrior on the other side of my tether.
The hard muscle of his arm occasionally brushes my shoulder, but that’s from my own misstep, or the moments he’s guiding me around objects I can’t see.
I could speak, tell him my sock is getting wet.
Out in the snow, in this weather, that’s something that needs fixing.
But I don’t find the courage, thefoolishness, to speak. I risked too much already by telling him about the inhaler running out.
If he knows that I’m looking at him, searching the blackout for any hint of his features, he doesn’t acknowledge it. He could be staring back at me right now, those glacier eyes angled down at my frown, and I wouldn’t know.
I hate that.
I hate the blindness.
I hate the quiet.
I hate the fae.
I hate the trek.
I really fucking hate the wet sock.
The frustration in me is rising. And it is ice.
