Predator (DWT x OC)

74

I wake to the sounds of piercing bird calls, the poignant melodies that carry in the air, lifting high above shadowed trees, drifting through dawn-blue sky. The sun hasn't come up yet, just the faintest hazy glow warming the horizon. I look around, at Niki beside me with rosy cheeks from sleep, and crease lines on her arm, and blonde hair that's escaped from the plait she had it in to go to sleep. 

I look down and see Tommy, curled up on the floor next to us, draped in a heavy wooden blanket. He must have come up during the night, after we both fell asleep. I smile as I tip toe past him, trying not to wake either of them, still deep in sleep. 

It's a gift, to be able to still be asleep, still unaware of the horrors you will have to face, prolonging the inevitable awfulness of remembering those that have been. I almost couldn't bare having to watch them realise that Quackity is dead. It's hard enough having to do it myself. 

I follow the staircase down, ignoring the stabbing pain in my hip, spiralling around jagged cobblestone and lit by lamps affixed to the wall. It leads down to a huge cavern, and I can now see why they didn't want me down here. It's completely enclosed, no natural light, no air, just encased in thick stone and lit by the orange light of lanterns strung around. 

They've built bridges, and farms, and even workspaces, but there is no escaping the undeniable fact that this is underground. 

I would feel trapped. 

I'm too tired to care anymore. 

Not after Quackity, not after the festival, not after every stupid little thing in this whole goddamn world, not now. 

And I'm not naive enough to believe I'm cured, float around with invulnerable numbness and that armour of delusion invincibility that comes from not caring at all, nerve endings scorched with grief and heartbreak, old love and new loss. I am however, grateful enough to let it be. 

It's cold down here, despite the warm light, and the open, still smouldering fire pits. I guess that those rock walls will always be frozen at their core, impenetrable in every sense of the word. It's why I hate it so much. It's why I would probably rather be anywhere but here.

If it wasn't for my family. 

Straggled breaths, amplified by the stone cocoon we are buried in, ricochet through the cave, and I follow the noise, filled with desperation and pain, of restless discomfort. 

The sound leads me to Tubbo, covered in bandages and weeping sores, bloodstained burnt clothes, the white shirt, or what's left of it rather, a brown and black mess, burn marks and congealed blood, straggled pieces of hair plastered to his almost unrecognisable face with sweat. 

"Ro-sie." He croaks out, voice cracking. 

"Tubbo." The words falls from my mouth with a gasp, and I rush toward him, shaking on a half-cobbled cot, creaky wood and threadbare blankets, twisted face aghast in shivering orange glow. "I'm here."

I sink to my knees beside the bed, clutching his hand, the left one, left untouched by the blazing ruin that has destroyed half of his body, stolen his face, and sight, taken peace and rest and humanity from him in a brilliant, beautiful, horrible burst. 

His hand squeezes mine, fingers tightening painfully, but neither of us want to let go. I look over him, the hastily strewn bandages, the blisters and red boiled skin, tight and swollen, unnaturally shiny against the lamp light, the way his brow dips in pain.

"I'm gonna fix this okay?" I murmur, giving his hand another squeeze. "I'm not going anywhere, I just need supplies."

The medical supplies are stored in a chest I find near the bed, and I pull out everything I can, fresh bandages, topical ointments, antiseptics. It's not what I need, it's not what he needs, and staring at this threadbare collection of medical supplies in making me fucking nervous.