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ket-is-dead · 3 months ago

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Title: And, all your blood in the water Chapter wordcount: 2,742 Chapter: 2/2 Notes: Thank you for all the lovely feedback about Ch 1! This is, I think the longest single fic I've written in a while and I've kind of enjoyed it. If you squint, I suppose this could be a prequel of sorts to Soloveiko has Landed.

A big thank you to @daria-autumn-girl who read various iterations of this and provided some pointers and ideas before it finished up as it is now. ♡

There is light suddenly, noise too - not just the endless, pounding rain. There are voices that sound faintly familiar - he recognises Oleksandr vaguely, a few others. There's someone beside him, it could be one of his team members or even a stranger; Maks can't tell. Whoever it is takes the weight from him. He tries to keep hold but his hands are numb and then, suddenly - it's enough; he is weightless, sinking down into the earth, his knees submerged into the mud. He is stopped by someone else's gentle hands, their strength.

His own is gone now, drained away. He did what he needed to - got them to safety. Got Vova to safety.

He sags forward into the loose embrace, allows whoever it is to lift him up.

“Maks?”

“President-” the words feel like grit in his mouth, his teeth chattering, breaking the syllables down into shards.

That was the weight.

Пане Президент. Volodymyr Oleksandrovych.

Vova.

His stomach flips.

“Need to-”

He needs to say something else but can't speak; his whole self is numb with shuddering cold, as though there is ice in his veins.

“Maks? It's alright. We've got him. Let's see to you, hm?”

“No-” the dull, blunted part of his brain that provides speech still somehow recognises that - he is collateral to all this, his job is to protect the President; he is the priority. That's what he needs to say.

“Don't. Not me. Him.”

It feels like some strange reversal of the words he has screamed in his nightmares.

Don't. Not him. Me.

This can't be a nightmare then. It's real.

The voice in his ear has endless reserves of patience.

“Listen to me; he's alright. We've got him. We've got the both of you now. Bogdan will look after Volodymyr- I will look after you. That's how this is going to work.”

His mind is too slow, too heavy, too cold to reply save for a faint hum of assent. He rests his head against the anonymous individual’s shoulder- listening vaguely.

“We'll take your vitals, then get you somewhere warm and safe where we can check you over properly.”

He's fine though. Just cold. Tired. Nauseous. His joints are painful in an oddly unspecific way. Everything aches. His back is sore and his ribs feel bruised, his ankle throbs uncomfortably, his knee too, just out of time with his heartbeat - a wholly disorientating situation; his body feels strangely disconnected.

He tries to say something but the words won't come, his face numb with cold. What does he need to say - what does he need to tell them?

Vova’s height, his weight, his blood type, that he’s hurt - you need to help him. Leave me.

“Can you stand up for me?”

Wasn't he already standing? Maks tries to think, to re-engage with his body despite the roaring in his ears, the blurred world around him that seems to swing toward him and then away again. Oleksandr watches with a pang of distress as Maks struggles to pull away from his gentle grip and stand unaided. After a little while, he manages it, swaying dangerously, his face pinched and exhausted. His eyes are glassy as Oleksandr glances quickly over him. Aside from the dirt, his knuckles scraped raw; there are no obvious injuries. His gaze flickers briefly over the dark, sodden material of his combat trousers, his sweatshirt - it would be impossible to tell if he was bleeding.

“Maks? Are you bleeding?”

Numbly, he shakes his head.

“N-no. Vova- h-”

His words are lost, drowned out by the rain.

“Okay. Good. Thank you. You're upright and breathing - that's a good sign.”

As though he'd heard the words and felt somehow especially contrary, Maks takes one more swaying step and his knees go from under him, his muscles screaming in protest. He can't move any further, can't go on. He doesn’t know how to. Oleksandr holds him upright.

“Well. You're breathing. That's- something I suppose. What were you doing out here?”

He doesn't really anticipate a reply as he drapes Maksym's arm around his shoulders, one arm around his waist and half drags, half carries him to a waiting vehicle. The journey passes in a haze; his tiredness dragging him down and before he can ask about Volodymyr - the world flickers away from him, having managed only a slurred hum as an approximation of a syllable - not even a word. He sits slumped against Oleksandr’s shoulder, motionless, his breath a quiet wheeze. Someone wakes him once they stop moving, and he limps wherever he is gently guided - stumbling through a door, down a corridor; everything faceless somehow, white - bright. He doesn’t know where they are - only that it's safe. He doesn’t have to think now, and he is glad of it. All he knows is that his hands feel strange, utterly empty. Again and again he flexes his fist, nails digging into his palm.

Someone unlaces his boots, helps him out of his soaking wet clothes, mumbling vague apologies as the material scrapes across his over-sensitive skin and he flinches. He doesn't care, hasn't the energy to. All he can think of is;

Where's Vova? Why aren't you helping him? Why are you here, with me?

He stands in a scalding hot shower, feeling the water sluice over his raw skin, his breath catching sharply in his throat. The nausea has gone now at least, but his legs ache, every movement sending a dull shard of pain into him that drags through his trembling muscles. The bruises circling his ankle, snaking upward to his knee have already coalesced into a multitude of different shades of purple. He leans out a hand, presses a palm against the cold tiles to steady himself, his eyelids heavy. As he closes his eyes, he sees Vova before him; deathly pale, the jagged edges of the wound in his side, the blood. His stomach turns, his hands shaking against the tiles as he fights to steady his breathing, to stem the panic, the dread that rears its head again. Maksym stands in the shower for as long as he can bear to, until his legs almost give way, his skin red raw. Eventually his heart stops pounding, his hands stop shaking.

What feels like hours later, but could be minutes - his sense of time utterly skewed, he sits mutely in a blank, tired treatment room, clad in a borrowed pair of loose jogging bottoms, a t-shirt. He picks anxiously at the hem of it, fiddling with a loose thread, tugging at it until the thread snaps. He hears the door open, and glances up, feeling briefly as though he’s missed a step on the stairs. It is not who he had hoped for, instead, it’s Oleksandr, followed by a young man in a doctor’s uniform who gives his name as Vasyl.

He talks quietly to Maks, narrating his actions in a low, almost soothing tone. He applies salve to raw knuckles and blistered heels, takes his temperature and mumbles a quiet apology as he presses a cold, hard stethoscope against his chest, his back - listening to the slow rasp of his breathing. Oleksandr frowns vaguely as Maks bears being fussed at by Vasyl in silence. He looks warm at least, now he’s clad in dry clothes, even if they aren’t his own familiar uniform. Someone has found a blanket and draped it over his shoulders, and a ceramic mug of tea sits abandoned beside him, the steam forlornly curling into the air. He seems more himself, the colour back in his cheeks - which isn't saying much compared to the state they’d found him in. The warmth of the clinic, the chatter and movement seems to have given him a little more energy - his movements now are less jagged and strange as he responds quietly to any questions.

“Someone knew-” Maksym’s eyes are half closed and his voice is hoarse, ignoring the shushing noise from Vasyl who is crouched at his feet, gently manipulating his ankle to figure out if it's broken or just sprained.

“What?”

“Fuck- that hurt! You asked why we were there. It was a front line trip. Organised. Cleared. But they knew we were there-”

Even though his words are slow, each one of them requiring effort, Oleksandr's blood runs cold.

“You mean-”

“I don't kn- will you stop that!” He opens his eyes properly to scowl and rasp his displeasure at Vasyl who frowns back.

“Your right knee and ankle-”

“Sprained. Could have figured that out by the delightful array of swollen, technicolour bruising without needing to wrench my foot off-” Maks glares down at his tormentor who slinks away, muttering about a knee support, some painkillers. He rubs a hand through his hair, wincing as the movement drags at his shoulder. He sits for a moment, frowning.

Everything aches terribly and he'd very much like to lie down. His head throbs. He sighs.

“I don't know how. Or who. But they knew we'd be there. The trips are always-” Maks hops off the treatment table, not bothering to hide a rush of swear words as the movement sends a shuddering spike of pain up his leg. He waves away a helping hand from Oleksandr and limps to where his trousers are folded, now clean and dry. He retrieves his phone, stabbing irritatedly at the broken screen before he drops it back from where he’d gathered it.

“Fucks sake. Look, the trips are always- kept quiet. Just me, a handful of others from the team know when and where we're going-”

He looks carefully at Oleksandr who blinks back.

“So- you think someone-”

“Ratted us out. Or there's a mole. Someone. It wasn't dumb luck that they got us. I don’t think.”

Maks rubs a hand over his face. All of a sudden, the thought of it is sickeningly insurmountable; as though, no matter what he does, how hard he tries - there might be a day when his best is not enough. Or maybe it was just that- dumb luck? They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time; the one thing he could never predict. His mind flickers, stutters over the idea until it coalesces into something too large, too all-encompassing.

He looks tired again, wan, his gaze faded to the middle distance.

“Why don't you get some rest? I'll get you back to your digs.”

“No. I need to see-”

Vasyl bustles back in.

“Right. Your own clothes which I’m sure you’ll be glad of. Then we’ll find a brace for your knee and get you some painkillers. You'd do well to stay off your right leg for now, get some rest, keep-”

“Where's the President?” Maksym snaps the question, ignoring how it scrapes against his raw throat as he towers over Vasyl in a manner that would have been mildly alarming were he not currently clad in a t-shirt a size too small. Unperturbed at being interrupted, he hands Maksym his own t-shirt and sweatshirt - watching with a raised eyebrow as Maks pulls them on, wincing slightly before emerging a little ruffled but certainly warmer.

“Where's Volodymyr?” he feels like an oddly stuck record, as though no-one is actually listening to what he’s asking.

“He’s fine.”

“Not what I asked. Where is he?”

“Getting the treatment he ne-”

Maksym recognises evasion when he hears it and his stomach drops.

“Fine. If you won’t tell me that, how is he at least?”

The young man blinks, pushing his glasses up his nose. Maksym resists the urge to shake him.

“He’ll be fine. Just a little-”

Frustrated with the lack of discernible information, Maks can't bear to hear much more, limping heavily out of the room and down the faceless corridor. It isn’t panic in his stomach, or at least that’s what he tells himself; it’s the same, dull, driving need that kept him going before that drags him onward now. He needs to see Volodymyr. Every room he tries does not yield what he wants - there are storerooms, empty treatment areas, doctor's offices with mildly bemused occupants as Maks slams the door closed. It becomes a sisyphean effort as desperation floods his tired movements; his steps growing slower as the hurt grows more savage, threatening to engulf him entirely, each door he closes whittling away at the hope he cradles in his heart.

The last room down the corridor has a window beside it, the blinds half drawn - just open enough to see inside. Maksym stops short, his heart thumping in his throat, his hand reaching out to rest against the wall, to shore himself up against the pain in his leg, the nerves clenched, his breath unsteady. He takes a quiet breath in and chances a look. The lights are dim at least, nothing horribly clinical about it, instead it’s almost gentle. Vova sits facing the window, his features in shadow, hands folded in his lap. There’s a pad of clean, white dressing taped against his ribs, moving slightly with the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. That one simple movement, quiet and insistent is the most beautiful thing Maksym has ever seen.

“Maks?” Oleksandr’s voice is soft, gentle almost, a hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

He doesn’t, can’t move - his heart stuck somewhere in his throat. He is torn between going inside the room; to fill the gaping void in his chest, to fill the emptiness of his hands, and leaving Vova be; giving him a moment of quiet.

“Mate? Let's get you home, eh?”

How can he explain, to Oleksandr, to anyone - that home isn’t a place for him now? It’s wherever Volodymyr is; in the depths of a rain drenched forest, his exhausted muscles screaming for relief - in the back of a car, bouncing over potholes, watching as the sun hits Vova’s eyes and turns them gold. Even just watching the early morning sunrise with him over Khreschatyk street, palms warmed by a cup of coffee, heart warmed by a quiet, genuine smile that he likes to think, to hope, is just for him.

He sighs quietly and turns away. This time, he lets himself lean against Oleksandr as they make the slow journey back out to the car. They drive back to Kyiv in silence.

Maksym has left his heart behind him.

A week later, in the gloom of his office, Vova watches Maks carefully; his tired, drawn face, the uneven limping gait that dogs his steps.

He looks drained.

“Maks?”

“Sir?”

“I think- you should go-”

He doesn't have a chance to explain himself, to say anything further before Maks cuts in.

“Sir, I-” He sounds stricken. “I don't- I didn't-”

He stumbles over his words as they come out faster than he meant them to, not quite thinking properly. Nights of broken sleep from either his aching bones or the whine of the sirens; the throbbing hurt of his knee and ankle, and the driving miserable slog of their awful journey through the trees have left him off kilter. Every time he closes his eyes, he can feel the rain on his skin, Vova’s blood under his fingernails.

His brain feels as though it's full of fog.

Why does Volodymyr want him gone? Does he think- surely not?

“I wanted- I wanted to stay with you till- I don't understand-” to his horror, his voice quivers on the last syllable - almost pathetically wounded.

“I know, Maks. I know.”

Vova’s voice is full of nothing but endless patience.

“You're exhausted.”

“But-”

He tries to shore himself up; to argue that he doesn't need rest - that he's fine as long as Volodymyr is - but a sudden change in topic renders him mute.

“You held me - didn't you?”

“What-” He fumbles with the sudden change of pace, blinking owlishly.

“All those miles. All that way in the rain and the mud and not once did you let go-”

He strides forward, takes Vova's face in his hands

"as if I'd have done anything else. I love you."

He is rooted to the floor, does not move to touch Volodymyr. Instead Maks nods mutely, shoving his shaking hands into his pockets, not sure where this will lead, his heart thumping. He watches silently as Volodymyr presses a hand briefly against his ribs and the image lingers behind his eyes, burnt onto his retinas, bloodied gauze, the slack weight of Vova in his arms and his stomach turns.

Both of them are silent, until -

“You've- you've carried me through so much-”

Vova's voice shakes. They both ignore it.

“You've more than earned a break. Please, Maks. Go. Rest.”

“I dont want to be-”

“I just ask one thing of you. Come back to me- when you're better. Promise?”

Maksym looks at those wide brown eyes, soft and gentle - beseeching - and knows he would do anything this man asked him without question. The words that he longs to say sit dormant in his mouth.

I love you-

What he says is;

“I promise.”

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ket-is-dead · 3 months ago

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Title: And, all your blood in the water Chapter wordcount: 2,300 Chapter: 1/2

Notes: Apologies for the transparent lack of anything actually resembling a plot. I tried, but it's mostly just… three bundles of vibes, angst and yearning stacked on top of one another in a trenchcoat pretending to be a plot; but we move.

It hadn't started this way, grim and cold and silent, the rasp of his breath too loud in his own head. It had begun ordinarily, with coffee and a glance over the schedule - or as ordinary as one's day can be, when living somewhere bordered by an egomaniacal neighbour hellbent on the destruction of your country.

It was meant to be a bog-standard frontline trip; a chance to give medals - to talk, to see what their defenders really needed, to look them in the eye. Maks had watched Vova’s growing enthusiasm, unable to hide his own smile as they neared the checkpoint on the outer edge of the forest, chattering happily. There was more planned for the day, but this had felt like a nice moment to begin - somewhere outside in the fresh air; it always gave Volodymyr something he so missed; those moments of connection that were so absent in the endless meetings, the reports and briefings.

The morning had ended with a yelled curse as everything descended rapidly into a nightmare, his hand grasping, yanking Volodymyr away from the epicentre of chaos by his hand; all the rage, gunfire, shrapnel - the two of them keeping pace with one another as they fled deeper into the woods. Too stunned to really engage with what had just happened, Volodymyr's snarky commentary had been consistent enough- surely by now they ought to have perfected their aim, they’ve had long enough, no? It was there really to disguise his worry, and had continued apace until a few hours ago.

First the bitter sarcasm had drained away, and then eventually any attempt at conversation too.

“Maks–” Vova’s voice is almost ripped away by the wind as it howls through the trees. The only noise for the last hour has been the weather; the two of them struggling on in grim silence.

“What-?” The usual grace, his quiet adherence to protocol - always ‘sir' never ‘Volodymyr’, much less ‘Vova’ - is gone. Instead, his voice is hoarse, his temper short. The wind and the rain have sapped his energy, his drive - but they have to keep going. They can’t stop. It repeats in his head like a mantra.

A stationary target is easier to hit than a moving one.

They shouldn’t even be in this position. Stupid fucking russians and their incessant inability to let them just live in peace. He could kill the lot of them with his bare hands right now, down to the last worthless specimen. The inherent rage rears its head again and he has to take a deep breath, to push it back down, else he expend his limited energy on something so unproductive as anger. After a moment’s quiet, a steadying breath, he repeats the question, louder this time - pinning a small shred of politeness to his tone. This isn’t Vova’s fault - it isn’t fair. He didn’t sign up for this. His heart aches.

“What is it?”

“Maks. I don't feel–”

He turns awkwardly into the driving rain and stops short. He hadn't realised how far Vova had lagged behind and his stomach drops. Vova is pale, more than usual, horribly so - the dark circles under his eyes are black, even in the waning light - and there is a strange grey cast to his face. He lists heavily against a tree, the rain streaming down his face as he grips onto his left arm as though to hold himself together. His knees look as though they’re about to buckle.

“Don’t feel well.”

Retracing his steps, trying desperately not to think of progress undone, he moves to Vova’s side.

“You’re alright. I promise. Just a bit further.”

“No. Maks. I’m tired. Can’t we just- stay here- just for a minute. Catch our breath. I’m sure I’ve got a protein bar in my back pocket, we could share-” his voice is almost slurred, something rambling about his speech that sends alarm bells ringing in Maksym’s head.

“You’re alright. Come on, we need to keep going.”

Who is he trying to convince? Vova, or himself?

He takes a breath in, grabs hold of Vova’s arm to encourage him onwards - only to be the recipient of an earful of half-uttered curses and he yanks his hand back.

“What’s the matter?”

He can hear the irritated desperation in his own voice and he tries to swallow it down.

“Feel– strange–”

Maksym frowns, rubbing a hand over his face to try and clear his vision, blurred by the rain. There's the looming sense now that - he’s missed something– there’s something wrong.. He reaches out a hand, less abrupt this time, moving slowly in the way one might with a wounded animal, his palm flat, out and open.

“Strange, hm?” He smiles faintly at the description, a kernel of affection buffeting up against his annoyance. Of course, he’s not unwell, or tired or sick, just.. strange. “Can I see?”

He doesn’t wait for permission, grasping hold of Vova’s hand, intending to pull him closer; both their palms slick with rain. Vova shivers, his teeth chattering as he tries to pull away, pain blanching his features to an unhealthy grey.

“S fine leave it. Need to go-”

His words are slurred now, unfocused.

Maksym ignores him, letting go of his hand. He positions himself as close as possible to shield Vova from the rain and pushes aside the ripped material of his jacket. His heart thumping in his ears, he hurriedly shoves up his sweatshirt and the henley beneath, ignoring Vova’s feeble attempts to get him to stop. It's a slow, awful reveal; a clumsily applied field dressing pressed haphazardly against his ribs. It's soaked through, the weight of it thick and heavy; a strangely pulsing parasite that shifts with every breath Vova takes. Maks carefully prises the bandages away. As he does so, a familiar smell hits him in the face, a coppery sharpness above the old scent of decaying leaves, wet vegetation. The torn skin beneath the gauze is red and angry, the ragged edges of the wound are swollen.

He swears under his breath. How had he missed this? In all the chaos - this ever unfolding nightmare - he hadn’t noticed this - hadn’t seen the impact from the initial explosion, the only thought in his head had been to get them away from it, from any chance they could be found. He hadn’t noticed the hastily applied first-aid job, done in a brief moment when he had not glanced back. He hadn’t seen the way Volodymyr lagged behind, his step becoming less sure as the hours dragged on. Hadn’t seen either, the slow drip of blood across the forest floor. Shit.

Vova shouldn't be bleeding this much. Hastily, he replaces the dressing with one from his own kit, pressing the edges down firmly, feeling Vova shudder under his hand. Maks watches with a growing sense of alarm as the snow-white linen is dappled with crimson.

“Why didn’t you say-” the words are mostly for himself, shot through with fear, frustration. Even if he had said, what difference would it have made to all this? The light in the sky is starting to fade now, the wind growing louder, the rain colder. He wonders if they will ever leave here, briefly - a darkness fluttering at the edges of his thoughts. Of course they will. They just have to keep going. They’ll have been missed long before, and he trusts his colleagues implicitly - trusts in every plan they have for escape, for evacuation.

“S’ matter?”

Volodymyr blinks at Maks innocently, as though he hadn’t just been hiding a gaping wound in his chest.

“Nothing. You’re alright. You're doing so well-”

Carefully, he pulls Vova’s sweatshirt back down, filled with the gnawing realisation that the material isn't wet with rain - it's bloody. He glances down at his hands, the dark red slowly washed away by the pounding rain. He wipes his hands shakily on his combat trousers, the stain barely visible - as though it hadn't been there in the first place, something dreamlike about all this; a ghastly nightmare he doesn't know how to wake up from.

A strange little laugh fills the air between them and Maks feels his chest go tight.

“Mm. Not sure about that- ‘vreyone’s tired Maks. I’m tired.”

You are. I promise. You're doing so well.

“Just a little longer. For me?”

Please. I don't think I can carry you through this.

Again, quieter, fainter.

“‘M tired Maks-”

For a while, in the forest, beneath the pounding rain - it's unclear what either of them means; the here and now, or something larger, wider than the two of them.

Vova looks at him and smiles thinly, taking a shaky step forward. Blood drips steadily onto the dirt, great fat drops swallowed up by the earth. For a long moment he seems frozen in the pouring rain; something unbearably unearthly about him; the rain dripping down his pale face, his eyes dark, so dark they are almost black. He gets no further as his eyes roll back into his head and his knees give way. It happens instantaneously - there is no shock or surprise on his gaunt face, just a silent shuttering, an emptiness.

He moves without even thinking and in a millisecond - Maksym is the only thing stopping the President from collapsing in a heap on the wet floor. He staggers beneath the limp weight, one arm around Vova, the other supporting his head, cradling him against his chest. Despite the freezing rain, the back of his neck beneath Maksym's hand is warm.

This time, Maks swears aloud.

Clutched in his arms, Vova is a dead weight, gone utterly limp, his eyes rolled back in his head, face slack - Maks knows this is bad; knows he should keep talking to him, demand he stays awake, keep pestering him until he glares balefully and grunts something annoyed. But he can't. He doesn't have the energy to spare, or the breath as he drags in another lungful of cold, sharp air.

It's all he can do to hold onto Vova without fucking dropping him. He can just imagine the conversation now-

Donets, why does the President have a gaping wound in his chest and a bleeding gash on his forehead?

I dropped him in the middle of the bastarding forest because I was too tired to think straight, too exhausted to do my job. Sorry about that. Blame the russians for the chest wound though-

He winces at the thought of the conversation and then again as his foot lands awkwardly on the slope, the ground half giving way beneath his boot, his knee twisted. For a moment, he stands there, breathing harshly, forcing himself to stay still, to ignore the sudden throbbing pain of his ankle and knee, his muscles screaming in protest as he tenses up to keep his balance.

He swallows down a stream of curses that linger at the back of his raw throat.

You need to keep going, but don't throw yourself and the President down the bloody hill you utter moron.

Having the both of them collapse onto the damp, leafy floor is not the best course of action, though it would certainly be easier at this point. His arms hurt. For all Volodymyr has lost an alarming amount of weight lately, he is still a grown man, all limbs and edges and muscles - somehow unwieldy despite his compact size. The weight of Vova wedged against Maksym's chest presses hard against his sternum, every breath is a grating gasp for air, his lungs too constricted to expand properly. If he moves Vova from where he's clasped against his chest, he isn't sure if his grip will hold.

His knuckles are white, his biceps cramped.

His legs hurt with a dull, burning pain that comes from over exertion in too-cold temperatures. He wants to lie down.

The cold wind slices through him again and he squints into the pouring rain. . He just.. has to keep going; his sense of direction enough, the hope enough. It has to be.

He takes a shaky breath in and then another step. And another. His calf muscles howl in protest, stretched beyond endurance. His ribs ache savagely, the dull thump of a swelling bruise settling below his skin, far too familiar for comfort. Everything hurts, his back too. In his arms, Vova is slack, the white column of his throat exposed, horrifyingly vulnerable. It would be so easy to stop, to stay here, to collapse to the floor and wait for the rain to stop. To stay here and wait for the russians to find them. It isn't fear that drags at the edge of Maksym's thoughts but a blunt, grey tiredness.

Vova was right. He is tired. They all are.

He bites down on his tongue until he can taste iron and salt.

Move. You need to keep moving.

He takes one step. And then another. His mind empties slowly as he continues on. His thoughts are hazy, filled with the sound of the rain, the weight of Vova against his chest. Even the driving, gnawing pain of his own body flickers, fades into the background. There's nothing else for a long, long time. Just the rain, and the dull, burning weight of all that he carries. Hours have passed, his whole self utterly numb with cold, his fingers frozen. His steps are slow, every one of them a conscious effort through the howling void inside his head. It feels endless - there is nothing else now except the next step, the weight in his arms. All he knows is that he has to keep going, to continue because- he can't stop. There has to be an end - either he reaches the edge of the forest where surely - someone will know they are missing, will have come to find them; because there is always a plan for escape, for evasion, and then- then what?

There's a dull roaring sound in his ears. He looks up.

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