Badlands

7

I awoke with a start, the sound of movement jolting me from the scant comfort of restless slumber. I could discern shapes shifting in the cramped space in the dim light seeping through wooden cracks.

I tried to shove away the creeping thoughts that threatened to drag me back into the abyss of last night's horrors.

My heart beat a frantic rhythm, desperate to drown out the memories of Alberon's lifeless eyes and the grotesque creature that had sang from the shadows. 

I pressed my palms into the wooden floor, feeling the grit under my fingernails, grounding myself in the present. My breath formed small clouds in the chill air as I fought to keep the images at bay—the crimson spray, Alberon's final choked gasp, and the way the malice creature had seemed to leer with a thousand unseen eyes.

Theana was methodically stuffing a ragged bag. I watched as she folded medical supplies—a roll of bandages—into the heart of the bundle with mechanical precision. Hooks and line followed.

Her movements were stiff, stifled, as if each item she touched reminded her of what she had lost. On her shoulders lay the coat I'd placed beside her last night, its fabric now bearing the weight of sorrow. It hung on her slightly too large, the way clothing borrowed in haste often does, but it brought an odd sense of normalcy to see her enveloped in its warmth.

In the natural light, I saw her pause for a breath, her hands momentarily still before resuming their busy work. The bandages wound too tightly, the gear stowed with more force than necessary.

I remained where I was in the corner.

My throat tightened, a knot of unshed tears and unsaid words forming a blockade. Theana's back was turned to me, I watched the subtle tension in her shoulders, the way her hands trembled ever so slightly before she mastered them again.

The urge to speak clawed at my lips, to offer some solace, however feeble, but what could I say? Any attempt at comfort seemed like it would crumble under the weight of her loss. My own pain paled in comparison, and I knew better than to voice it. 

With deft fingers, she wound a bandage around her thigh, the fabric biting into the flesh with each twist. A deliberate pause, and then she secured it with a knot so tight that it seemed to merge with her skin, becoming part of her.

She slipped the dagger into the bandage, its blade smeared with a crust of darkened blood—both the monster's demise and Alberon's last, desperate claim.

I felt the weight of her gaze before I saw it. Her eyes, restless and wide, betrayed a night devoid of sleep, shadows etched beneath them like smudges of soot. There, amidst the grime and exhaustion, was Alberon's handprint—a stark reminder painted in blood upon her face. 

With a flick of her wrist, Theana sent the ragged bag skidding across the floor to where I knelt. My hands reached out instinctively, catching it before it could collide with my knees. She opened the door, not shutting it behind her.

I hoisted the bag onto my shoulder as I followed. 

Ahead, Theana's form was a blur, her pace was unyielding, each step a battle against the mud that sucked at her white buckle shoes. I quickened my own pace, determined not to lose sight of her.

The relentless barrage of rain matted my hair to my face, a cold sheath that clung with every shivering movement. My flats, heavy with moisture, trudged through the sodden earth, mirroring Theana's steadfast trek. We had been walking for what felt like hours, the silence between us as thick and suffocating as the fog that rolled in with the storm.

"Where are we going?" The words escaped in a rush, half-drowned out by a particularly spiteful gust of wind.

Theana didn't stop; her steps never faltered.