“I blame you, Mama, for making me believe I need to chase my dreams. Got me out here as if I’m an extra onGame of Thrones. Newsflash, I despise roughing it,” I grumble to myself. Knowing my mother, she’d probably laugh at me, roll her eyes, and call me a drama queen. Which may be true, but if I’m the drama queen, she’s the drama goddess. That woman perfected drama, and I simply retained what I learned. She has no one to blame but herself.
Again, I splash water onto my face, finding the shocking cold calms me. Now that I’ve run away from the strange green person and the woman, I’m unsure where to go next. I can’t stay out here alone much longer. It’s dangerous, and the only modicum of heat comes from the sun. The moment it sets, the chill will be unbearable, and I’ll be lucky not to freeze to death. I’m not made for this cold weather.
Okay, admittedly, maybe it wasn’t the best move to run away from the two people who seemed like they wanted to help me. Perhaps I should find them again. But in my defense, I’ve been running on pure adrenaline and fear, unable to think rationally. All things considered, I reacted how any normal person would when fighting a monstrous creature after beingleft in a strange world. We can’t all be girl bosses. Some of us just want to make it until dinner. Alive, preferably.
A low moan pulls me out of my thoughts, and my body freezes. A moment of silence ticks by, and then I hear it again. A little louder this time. The moan is one of distress, of pain, and my head swivels around, trying to locate where the sound’s coming from.
“Hello? Is someone there?” Great. Now I sound like those dumb people in horror movies who ask the killer if they are there. The answer is always a resounding yes.
Then a voice in the darkness calls out, “Help. Please.” The voice is weak, almost inaudible, and impossible to tell if they’re old or young. Man or woman. It doesn’t matter, because I take a tentative step forward like a dumbass, but something compels me to help this stranger.
The mystery person groans again, and this time I make out their silhouette between the trees. Not a large person, but not small enough to be a child, either. Their body lies in a heap on the ground, curled up in itself. I approach slowly, like one would approach a wounded animal. It’s not until I pass the wayward branches that blocked my view that I really see the state of the person below me.
They have the same pointed ears I saw earlier, only this one is dressed in what looks like armor. Their features lean more masculine in body and stature, with cropped brown hair and skin pale as snow. At least I assume it once was.
Deadly black tendrils that look like veins cover his body,spanning every visible surface before disappearing under his clothes. There are no visible wounds or blood, so his sickness must be coming from the darkness in his veins. His eyes are open and glassy, but it’s as if he’s staring through everything, like he’s not really seeing at all. He’s so still that, for a moment, I think he’s already dead. Until he whimpers.
“Help,” he murmurs, body convulsing as if saying those two words cost him all his strength.
I cautiously crouch down next to him and truly see how weak and small his body is. His skin is stretched tight, revealing the sharp outlines of his bones. I’ve only seen a few people as skinny as him, but none of them had the same black veins. This man is extremely malnourished, and my chef’s heart yearns to cook him a meal. Except there’s nothing out here. Only us.
Even if I could, I don’t think this man would survive long enough for me to cook it and feed him.
So, I do the only thing I can. I reach for his hand. It’s cold, and I feel like if I squeeze too tightly, it’ll break like glass. “You’re okay. You’re not alone,” I whisper, providing the only comfort I can. It’s not much comfort at all, but no one should be alone when they're at death’s door. This is somebody’s loved one. If it were someone important to me, I wouldn’t want them to be alone.
The man shivers and ever so faintly squeezes my hand back.
“What’s your name?” I ask gently, hoping he’s lucid enough to tell me that much.
The man opens and closes his mouth several times. Only a grunt of pain leaves his lips. But finally, after great effort, I hear himwhisper, “Florian.”
“Florian, that’s a lovely name. My name is Evangeline.” The man—Florian—deserves to know who stands over him for what might be his final moments.
What does one say to a dying man they’ve never met? How do I comfort him when I know nothing of what’s wrong? I remember sitting next to my parents when they were in the hospital. Sometimes we talked, but the majority of the time, we sat in silence, just knowing the other was there. It brought both of us peace.
So that’s what I do now. I sit with Florian, helpless to do anything but hold his hand. I’m not sure how long we sit like this. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Time blurs together when someone is close to death. I no longer feel the frigid air, just the warmth of holding hands.
For a moment, there’s clarity in Florian’s eyes as he looks up at me. “Eva…ngeline…” he says my name through short gasps. “Thank…you…”
“Shh now. No need to thank me. Save your strength,” I whisper, gently placing my free hand over our joined ones.
We stay like that for another minute until Florian gasps, eyes widening. His lips move, but no sound comes out. I see the moment his soul leaves his body—an all too familiar feeling. Florian jolts, and then he goes lax. His hand unclasps from mine, and the final breath leaves his lips.
Florian passes, but I don’t know if it was peaceful. Despite not knowing this man, a life was just lost. A wave of grief washes over me, saddened Florian had no family or loved ones by his side. I take comfort in the factthat he didn’t die alone here in the woods, but only a little.
“Oh, dear girl,” a voice speaks from behind me, startling me such that I fall on my ass. I quickly scramble to my feet, turning in time to see a woman. It’s the same woman from earlier, and I rack my mind to remember what she calls herself. Lady Thalia, or something like that.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” She stops a few feet away, her gaze dropping to the dead man on the ground. Pain and grief cross her features, and she murmurs something in a language I don’t understand or recognize. It sounds like a prayer, though.
“Thank you for being there for him during his last minutes,” she says.
“Did you know him?”
Lady Thalia shakes her head. “No, I fear I did not. But he’s fae, a warrior, part of our kingdom, which makes him kin. He must have been struck with Nephilim magic. A life lost, especially one so young, is cause for grief.”
“What happened to him?” I take a step forward before looking back at the black veins on the fae man. “What’s in his body?”
“A great sickness brought upon by a curse, dear girl. One that kills with pain and without mercy. We can be at peace knowing he’s not suffering any longer.”
