Arc 16: An Empty Road
“There is no lonelier thing than a road without end, save for one walked alone.”
* Royah Proverb
- - -
We only travel at night, walking the empty road with lake-sound in our ears and our eyes searching the night for the steady glow of lanterns or the flickering gleam of torches. Once the sun starts rising we drag ourselves, shiver-cold and weary, into the shadow of the forest to sleep. The sunset wakes one of us, usually Clarke, who rouses the other. We watch the road and wait for dark, only setting off once it's fallen in truth. There's little water to be found, and less food. We don't speak. It hurts Clarke's head and I just don't want to.
At the end of the third night, with dawn turning the sky to a bruise-ugly purple, this silence is broken. We lay in a bower of evergreen branches, the thick blanket of needles further blocking the sun's light and multiplying the warmth of our bodies. Her chin presses against the crown of my head, the tip of my nose brushes the hollow of her throat, and our joined hands are curled between us. She breathes into my hair and, hoarsely, asks, “What are we doing?”
“Running,” I mumble, voice as much as croak as hers.
Somewhere above our bower, a squirrel-chase rattles the treetops. It's not loud; Clarke winces anyway. She's healing, recovering, but it's slow. The stress our flight puts on her body has no doubt slowed it further, but on she walks. What else can she do?
“...where?” she asks, now a rasping whisper. Sleep almost has her.
“Away,” I answer, not far behind.
She hums.
It's not good enough, I know, but it's all I have: run, as far and fast as we can. I feel it when sleep takes her; her breathing slows and settles into a deep rhythm, as does her heart. It's dry in our bower, warm and comfortable. I snuggle closer and sigh, long and slow. Not long after, I follow her into slumber.
What feels like only moments later, I'm once more awake. There's a hand on my shoulder, gently shaking, and a whisper in my ear, “Wake up,” Clarke's nose brushes my temple, “it's time to go.”
So it is. I can feel the cold creeping in, the first of the accursed moon's nightly cruelties. Will You partner it with wind this time? What of snow, sleet, or even hail? Why not really earn Your title, and do it all at once?
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I grunt. Clarke's lips twitch against my cheek, and she kisses me there before crawling backwards out of the bower. Before I do the same, I take a moment to stretch out the stiff, aching muscles in my legs. One of my feet's gone numb, and once I'm out in the cold I stamp it until it stops tingling.
The answer is wind; strong and steady, cold and wet; come in off the lake, just for us.
How kind.
We're some distance from the road and hidden well amid the trees. There's little chance of someone finding the bower, even less of them connecting it to us. Just another traveler, they'd think to themselves, hiding from the chill. They'd probably use it for themselves, benefiting from its warmth and safety as we did.
It collapses after I put my heel to it, now nothing but a pile of branches. I'm in no mood for chance. Clarke watches me, her eyes all-but hidden by shadow, and nods when I meet them. She understands. She's brilliant, of course she does. I take her hand when I reach her, twining her fingers with mine and holding tight; taking comfort.
The wind is awful, but the sky is clear. Stars wheel overhead, shining down their silver-soft light. We reach the road and search it in both directions for the steady glow of lanterns or the flickering gleam of torches, finding neither.
Why would we? Who would look for us?
Juliana.
She'd turn the Timberlands on end until it spilled us out, alive or not. She wouldn't rest until we were brought home, or our killer brought to justice. Anyone that tried to stop suffer would suffer for it. They'd deserve it.
If she were here, she'd know what to do.
- - -
Another day of rest, another night of walking, and the dark, endless road. Tonight's curse will be the first snow of autumn, I should think. It hasn't begun to fall yet, but it will. I can smell it: crisp, cold, and evergreen-sharp. Shivers course through me, curling my arms into my chest and hunching me around them. I can't feel my feet; it sets me off-balance in a way I can't seem to make right. So I stagger and I stumble until the inevitable occurs, and I fall.
The ground that catches me is rutted and rock-laden, hardened by years of travel. I land on my side and roll, ending with my face pressed into the road's edge; where bared earth changes to yellowed grass. What if I didn't get back up? What if I laid here until the grass grew over me and the ground swallowed me up? I'd be warm, then. I'd be safe.
I roll over onto my back and look up at Clarke, worry in her eyes and utter exhaustion everywhere else. She started coughing in her sleep yesterday; wet, raspy things from deeper and deeper in her chest. “Are you alright?” she asks hoarsely.
I hurt everywhere I can feel, every joint, bone, and muscle. My feet are numb, disobedient blocks at the end of my legs. I'm scared and lost and I don't know what to do. “No,” I groan, and wave away her offered hand. Standing takes so much effort that my head spins and I almost fall again.
Clarke takes my arm and holds me until it stops. I blink the last of the dizziness from my eyes and find her worry sharpening. She presses her palm to my brow, and it becomes fear. “You're burning up,” she rasps. I push her hand away, another tremble running through me.
“Your hand's ice,” I say, “I'm fine.”
Her fear catches fire, turns to anger. “Don't lie to me!” she snaps, “You're not, neither of us are! We –” The cold air betrays her, sparks a fit of coughing, and leaves her spitting a wad of phlegmy snot on the ground. She waves me off like I did her. “We can't keep doing this,” she says, voice thin, “it'll kill us.”
It starts snowing, little flakes falling lightly to melt on rutted earth, yellowed grass, and two lost, hopeless girls. I tremble again, this one starting from somewhere in my chest. It's not from the cold. I don't feel the cold, save for my feet and hands. When it stops, I ask, “What do we do, then?”
“We get warm,” she answers, “light a fire, get some rest, and then...figure it out.”
“How?” I ask.
“Magic,” she says hoarsely, her smile small and worn.
Magic. I snort a laugh. “Alright, then.”
Why not?