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IMMORTAL CHRONICLES : BOOK ONE : beck dedrick
. . .
There was nothing but the bleary, undefined darkness that consumed Beck Dedrick. His partial consciousness dragged over him, pulling at the heaviness of his limbs, and the way the world seemed to crush on his lungs. He tasted nothing except the distinct metalline tang scouring all corners of his mouth, and the disgusting skin that peeled the inside of his cheeks, and the foul ridges of his dry lips. Bloody saliva leaked from the corner of his mouth as he moved his head, and realized he had function of his arms once more.
He spat blood from his mouth, only to have his stomach heave and his lungs ache again. Bile erupted from the depths of his stomach, and burned on its way up his fiery esophagus. It ended in a series of violent coughs that echoed back to him.
In the quiet that followed, he attempted to steady his harsh, ragged breath and listen—everything was dark, and all he could manage to understand was the twitter of birds, the rustling of leaves, and the crunch of twigs and pine needles under his hands. Every part of his body ached and yearned to stay as still as possible.
He collapsed to his side, grunting in the effort and sneering out a string of curses that sounded like the raspy growl of a feral animal. His voice was shot. He needed water. Water.
He listened for it, but there was no hope in finding a stream here, not in this infernal darkness. Normally he loved the nighttime, but this cold that cloaked him was something he did not favor. The nighttime was meant for a bed warmed by the generous body of some gorgeous woman.
His mind instantly flashed to Vene Aminoff, and his chest seemed to react in such a way to cause a coughing fit. He wanted to scream her name in unadulterated vehemence, and curse it under the name of every god he knew.
In the midst of his inner turmoil, he was quick to pick up on the sound of something in the distance—footsteps, perhaps? He struggled to rise, and only managed to get as far as searching for something to hold onto. His hand grasped the bark of a tree trunk, and he clawed at it in an attempt to stand. His legs wanted no part in his plans when all his body wanted was to collapse again. Every muscle, every bone, screamed and shuddered under the weight of the world wanting to shove him back down.
"Hello? Is someone there?" It's a girl, he mused, and almost lost his hold on the tree. The girl kept calling out, progressively getting closer, and just when he thought he'd be able to avoid her, his lungs convulsed and he was coughing again. It tore up his throat, and he spat blood to the ground.
Footsteps were abruptly skidding, scrambling, and right before him now. "Good gracious—sir, what are you doing out here on your own?" Her voice suddenly sounded miles from him, and his mind struggled to clarify her words. Even when he tried to talk, he couldn't—it came out in painful rasps.
Her voice was shaky, and her arms were just as so when she pulled him from the tree and let him rest against her. "I-It's okay, it's okay—I'll help you. My house isn't too far from here. Can you walk?"
It was like treading through water the first step he took, unsure of where the ground was. She was quivering under his weight, but her determination gave her enough strength for the both of them. She jostled at his side, and suddenly his shins hit something hard. "Can't you see the trunk?"
Can you? It's pitch black h— Beck stopped himself, sliding from the girl's shoulder with his hands reaching down to the tree trunk. His hands hit the surface, but his eyes stared into black nothingness. No, I can't see it. I can't see a goddamn thing.