Badlands

11

Panic surged through me, a wild current that sent me thrashing on the medical bed, its linen sheets twisting with each desperate heave of my body. 

"Let go of me!" The words tore from my throat, raw and hoarse. I could feel the bruises blooming like unholy flowers beneath my flesh, reminders of the lake's icy embrace.

Yet, I refused to be still. Refused to be caged. My mind raced, searching for leverage and any edge I might use to gain my freedom. But the men were unyielding, their determined silence a fortress I couldn't breach.

"Maude, calm down," comes a stern, directive voice, as familiar as the relentless thrumming of my own heart. The command doesn't bellow; it doesn't need to. It's Theana's voice, laced with an authority that brooks no argument, even from the tempest within me.

My head snaps toward her, the sudden movement igniting a fresh wave of pain. But it's not the agony that stills me — it's the sight of her. Gone is the nightmarish vision of Theana in her stained night dress, the fabric marred by blood and earth. Now she stands clad in a tight tank top that clings to her frame. Cargos hang loose around her hips, borrowed from a body larger than her own.

The grip on my limbs loosens, but it isn't their release that slackens my resistance — it's the silent communication in Theana's unwavering gaze. 

She moves closer, and I can't help but notice the sharp contrast of darkened violet splotches marring her pale skin — a brutal artist's palette of pain painted across her arms and face.

"Stop squirming," she hisses under her breath, though her voice carries an undertone of concern that belies the harshness of her words. My gaze follows the line of her injuries, traveling down to where her right arm rests immobilized against her chest, cradled by the stark white of the sling that encases it. 

I fall still, the fight draining out of me as much from the shock of seeing Theana's battered state as from the realization that if she's standing here, commanding and enduring despite her own wounds. 

The men seem to take their cue from Theana, their grips relaxing, as if they too recognize the silent authority she wields.

Gulping down the heavy air that clung to my lungs, I managed to rasp out a question between breaths. "Where are we, Theana?" My voice, hoarse from shouting and strain, barely pierced the tense atmosphere of the tent.

Theana, her gaze fixed on the men who lingered with their hands poised as if they might need to pin me down again, simply nodded towards them. She seemed to be waiting for something. As the realization dawned on me that she wouldn't speak freely until we were alone.

As if obeying an unspoken command from Theana, the men finally began to shuffle out of the tent, their boots scuffing against the dirt floor. Only when the last man had ducked out, letting the canvas flap fall closed behind him, did Theana move closer. 

She eased herself onto the edge of the wooden bed, the boards creaking softly under her weight. It was then that I noticed how she favoured her good arm, how meticulously she kept her injured one still, as though even the slightest jostle would cause her unbearable pain. Even so, she made sure to sit where I could see her clearly, a silent reassurance that she was here, that we were together in whatever strange place this was.

"We're at a refuge," she said, her voice a low whisper meant only for me. "It's not our final stop. We'll stay just long enough to regain our strength."

I frowned, confusion knitting my brows together. "But if we're safe here, why do we need to leave?" The words stumbled out, laced with a mix of relief and scepticism.

Her eyes held mine, steady and unflinching. "Maude," she began, the steel in her tone softening ever so slightly. "Nowhere is truly safe anymore. but a better refuge to the south is where we should head, it can offer us more." Her certainty was a cold splash of reality against the brief warmth of hope I had felt.