She wants this. And I live for her.
I stop pulling away. I nod. A single, short movement.
For her.
I stand. The searing pain in my leg is a scream. I ignore it.
We dress. We gather our meager things. I eat the last of the dried meat from her pack. It tastes like nothing.
I help her through the crack in the rock.
The cold of the mountain is a slap. The world is too bright, too white.
We move.
She stumbles. The running, the cold, the lack of food... she is weak. So weak. I will hunt for her later but the animals have been scarce. She can’t live on winter fruits and dried meat alone.
I stop. I look at her, shivering and pale, her face tight with resolve.
Fragile.
I grunt. "No."
Before she can ask, I lift her.
She cries out, her arms flailing as I scoop her up. I settle her against my chest, my arm hooked under her legs. She is a leaf. Nothing.
"Threk! Your leg! You can't!" she protests, her hands pushing against my shoulder.
"I can," I growl.
And I walk.
The pain is immediate. It is blinding. Every step sends a spike of agony up my leg, through my hip, into my spine. My wounds burn and ache.
I do not stop.
I follow the pull. West. Up.
My world narrows to two things: the burning fire in my leg, and the warm, light weight of Betty in my arms.
I focus on her. The scent of her hair, clean from the spring. The way her body trusts me, curling into my chest for warmth.
One more step. For Betty.
One more. For mine.
I do not know how long I walk. The sun moves across the sky.
The pull grows stronger.
The humming is not just in my bones anymore. I can hear it in the air. It is a low, deep note, like a giant singing far away.
The air changes. It smells different. Ozone. Damp earth. Power.
We come around a bend of rock.
And we stop.
