Badlands

6

Theana's ragged breaths are harmonized with mine. Our feet pound against the damp earth, slipping occasionally on the wet leaves and hidden roots as we push our bodies past the brink of exhaustion.

The sounds—the guttural growls of the creatures and the distant, unintelligible voices—once sharp and close, now fade into the background, swallowed by the dense foliage that envelops us. 

The forest thins, and suddenly, we're at the edge of an embankment. Gravel skids beneath my feet as I halt, panting, beside a heavy-flowing river that cuts through the landscape with relentless force. The water roars, its spray chilling the sweat on my brow.

Theana stands motionless beside me, her chest rising and falling in silent heaving breaths. 

I follow her line of sight, and there, nestled on the opposite bank, is salvation in the form of weathered wood and a sloped roof.

We navigate rocks at the water's edge, each step precarious as we angle toward the rickety bridge further down, a mere collection of planks daring the rush below. Reaching it feels like an eternity, but soon enough, we're stumbling across, hands gripping the shaky handrail, until finally, we're before the shed.

The door to the shed looms, ajar and inviting despite its dilapidation. Theana reaches it first, her movements mechanical, driven by instinct rather than thought.

She pushes the door open wider, and we slip inside.

I take in our refuge—a shed no larger than a prison cell, cluttered with rusted fish gear and tangled lines that smell faintly of river and decay. Rods lean haphazardly against the wall, their hooks ominous in the dim light that struggles through the maelstrom outside. Nets lay sprawled across the wooden floor, intertwined with empty bait containers.

As she secures the door behind us, shutting out the relentless downpour, I can't help but feel the walls closing in, the safety oppressive and heavy. 

Theana nearly trips over a coiled rope, her movements shaky and imprecise. 

Hugging my knees to my chest, I press my back against the cold, damp wall of the shed, the rough wood snagging at my drenched uniformed dress . 

I steal a glance at Theana, who's huddled on the opposite side. Her arm, marred by the deep gash, oozes lifeblood that blends with the rainwater and dirt smeared on her skin, a stark contrast to her pale complexion. She wraps her arms around herself, but not to stanch the flow; it's a futile attempt to contain the tremors that threaten to unmake her.

The crimson trail snakes down her forearm, dripping onto the floor, staining the aged wood between us. 

My gaze lingers on the wound, on the slow seep of her vitality, she gives it no heed, as if her blood were nothing more than rainwater trickling from a leaky roof.

Her stillness a fortress I dare not besiege. My gut twists, urging me to reach out, to bridge the gap with words. But the raw, quivering air between us warns of the peril in such an attempt. 

In the quiet of the shed, even the smallest sound seems a transgression. I chew on the inside of my cheek, fighting the instinct to speak, to fill the silence with something other than the harsh rasp of our breaths and the steady beat of rain on the roof.

The cold sneaks into the shed like a thief, spiriting away the remnants of warmth clinging to my damp clothes. I'm shivering—a relentless, uncontrollable quaking that seems to originate from my very core. 

Alberon would have built a fire by now, his hands deftly coaxing flames from the stingiest of twigs and embers. The thought of him ignites a different kind of shiver within me, one that has nothing to do with the temperature.