THE LONG NIGHT
POV: Elodie Fray
Location:The Abandoned Cabin (Deep Woods)
Track:Wait– M83 (Slowed/Dark Edit)
Sensory:The bone-deep chill of a fireless room, the sticky warmth of drying blood, the rattling wheeze of a collapsing lung.
Mood:Desperation & The Shift (Midpoint).
The cabin is a mouth. Dark. Cold. Smelling of rot and abandonment.
I shove the door shut with my shoulder, the rusty hinges screaming in protest, and throw the heavy wooden latch. It’s a flimsy barrier against the world, but it’s all we have. I drop to my knees beside Alaric. It’s too dark to see the extent of the damage, but I can feel it. My hands are slick with him. The floorboards beneath us are already becoming tacky with the blood pooling from his shoulder.
"Alaric?" I whisper, my voice shaking so hard it fragments in the freezing air. "Alaric, stay with me."
He doesn't answer. His breathing is a wet, jagged sound—a rasp that rattles deep in his chest.Shock.He’s going into hypovolemic shock. I need light. I need heat. I scramble up, fumbling in the pockets of his leather jacket. My fingers brush against the cold metal of the spare magazine, the keys, and finally... a lighter. A silver Zippo.
I flick it open. The flame flares to life, a tiny, dancing orange hope in the abyss. I hold it up.
The cabin is small. One room. A stone hearth dominates the far wall, choked with old ash and debris. A broken table. A rotting mattress in the corner. And Alaric.
I look down at him and I have to bite my knuckle to keep from screaming. He looks dead. His skin is the color of parchment. His lips are blue. The towel I pressed to his shoulder is saturated, heavy and black with blood. The bullet didn't just graze him; it tore through something vital. He is bleeding out on a dirty floor in the middle of a blizzard, and I am the only thing standing between him and the void.
“I’m not a doctor,”my mind screams.“I play piano. I play scales.”“No,”a darker voice counters. It sounds like him.“You are a survivor. Improvisation is just composition in real-time. Fix him.”
I move. I crawl to the hearth. I grab handfuls of old, dry moss and twigs from a rat's nest in the corner. I shove them into the fireplace. I sacrifice the Zippo flame to the kindling. It catches. Smoke billows out, stinging my eyes, but then the draft catches, and the fire roars to life. Light floods the room. Shadows dance on the walls like specters.
I run back to Alaric. I drag the rotting mattress closer to the fire. "I have to move you," I grit out, grabbing him under the arms. He is dead weight. He groans—a low, pained sound—as I haul him onto the mattress. I strip off his leather jacket. Then his soaked shirt. The wound is a hole in his front deltoid, jagged and angry. There is no exit wound. The bullet is still inside. Whatever artery it hit, it’s leaking fast.
I need to stop the flow. I don't have the med kit. It’s in the car.The car.The G-Wagon is parked outside in the snow. The med kit is in the back. But if I go out there... if the SUVs followed our tracks... I look at Alaric’s face. His eyes are rolled back, showing the whites. I have no choice.
I grab the SIG Sauer from the floor where I dropped it. "Don't die," I command him. "I'll be right back. Do not die."
I unlatch the door. The wind howls, trying to push me back inside. I slip out. The cold is a physical blow, stripping the heat from my body instantly. The snow is waist-deep in drifts. The G-Wagon sits steaming in the snowbank, its front end crumpled against a tree. I scan the tree line. Nothing but swaying pines and darkness. No headlights. Yet.
I run to the car. I wrench the back door open. I grab the tactical medical bag. I see a flare gun in the emergency compartment. I grab that too. I run back to the cabin. I slam the door. I lock it.
I slide to the floor beside Alaric, ripping the medical bag open. Gauze. Tourniquet. Celox granules (clotting agent). "Okay," I whisper, my hands shaking uncontrollably. "Okay, think. Structure. Rhythm."
I pack the wound with the clotting gauze. Alaric screams. His eyes snap open, wide and unseeing. He tries to thrash, his back arching off the mattress. "No!" I yell, throwing my body weighton top of him to pin him down. "Alaric, stop! You're bleeding out!"
"Ambush..." he raves, his voice thick with delirium. "Get the girl out... secure the Asset..." He grabs my arm with his good hand. His grip is bruising, hysterical. "Don't let them take her!"
"I'm here!" I sob, pressing down on the wound with both hands. "I'm right here, Alaric! Look at me!"
He blinks, the silver irises trying to focus on my face. "Elodie?" "Yes. It's me." "Run," he wheezes. blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. "Run,petite. Before they breach."
"I'm not leaving you." "Stupid," he coughs. "So stupid. I ruined you... and you stay?"
"You didn't ruin me," I say fierce, pressing harder until the blood seeps through my fingers. "You tuned me. Now shut up and let me work."
I apply the pressure dressing. I wrap his shoulder tight. The bleeding slows. The clotting agent is working. But he is freezing. I pile the blankets from the car (I grabbed those too) on top of him. It’s not enough. He is shivering so violently his teeth are clicking together—a macabre percussion in the quiet room.
I know what I have to do. I did it last night. But this is different. Last night was care. This is desperation. I strip off my riding coat. My boots. My blood-stained shirt. My breeches. I am naked in the firelight. I climb under the blankets with him. I wrap myself around him like a vine. My skin against his icy flesh. I press my chest to his, sharing my heat, my heartbeat, my life force.
"Warm me," he murmurs, drifting in and out of consciousness. "I am," I whisper. "I've got you."
