The Shared Den (Standing Stones & IndoWriter)

[Novellasaurus]

It was a dark and stormy night, as it usually was.



By this point, he could barely distinguish any patter or pitter from any water formations falling from the heavens, but he could very clearly feel the infinite assault of the rain on the ground around him. Given how long he'd been sitting here, it was easy for him to run through various ways of describing the rain or what it made the night look like to his all too tired eyes. He could recall several days that began with a dark and stormy night and went on forever or so just to describe the storm itself. The area he was in must have been in the midst of a monsoon, being consistently drowned in rain for who knew how long.

It was raining fairly hard to compensate for the heat of the summer, so hard that it was difficult to see more than a few feet out past the dark shadows and describe anything in perfect detail. Or maybe that was because of the trees surrounding him; the tall pillars of redwood oak silently kissing the clouds. He could just imagine seeing tiny rivers and rivulets slithering down the branch riddling the exterior of the tree trunk making water drop from the upper tips of the tree branches. When the constant waterfall fell to the lower panes it created the softest sound above the white noise of the raindrops that fell away from the castle. A never-ending wet splatter against a nuddy base, that sounded like someone pouring water onto a floor made of metal.

The raindrops alone were like static to his restless ears by now, though they would twitch occasionally if thunder boomed just close enough to him and the tree he was sheltering underneath. The floor vibrated from the noise and as a result of the air clapping back together. The lightning brightened the world, but it never added color with it's presence. Such was a side effect of the rain's soothing down fall--it turned the horribly colorful world around him into a realm of grey and white. It was almost painful to look at, let alone experience as he did now


Pain was not a foreign thing to him. Pain was his entire life--every second of it. The moment he was born had been a blinding mess of pain and foreign voices ranting about ‘success’ and ‘a boy'. He still had scars of the pain he'd endured in high school. It was all nothing compared to the hunger pains when he ran out of food in the small hut he'd recently come to call a home and then promptly found nothing in the following days. It started with gurgles in his belly, then muffled crackles that sounded like a moaning animal in the final stages of death. He could fully describe the pain of just living in a makeshift hut, bones feeling cramped and misshapen from having to position himself in such tiny quarters. His decision to move from the barren town he was in felt like the best choice he'd ever made; being able to walk and stretch his lithe body gave him new energy somehow.

But the energy had long since run out by now and was surely dying now.

Landon had propped himself against a thick tree trunk, and he allowed his heavy bag of clothing to sit lifelessly beside him. His moppy head of hair was littered with evidence of having stumbled into the dirt, a little while before the rain drops started to fall down. His consciousness came and went in brief spurts, and his breathing began to lengthen out. He didn't fight against the losing battle, didn't try to fight more. Slipping away in such a beautiful storm was a privilege that very few could have.

It was best to just close his eyes and–

Landon opened his eyes sharply.

At first, he was sure he'd died and the hazy ceiling of dark grey was his first glimpse of…well, whatever was next for him. His body felt weightless, after all… did it?

He was surprised to discover a little pain when he tried to flex his left arm; he was pretty sure if he was dead, he wasn't supposed to be feeling anything. Like the feeling of cushiony leather on his back–that felt very familiar, like he was laying on something he owned once before. A couch? No, that couldn't be right. Landon had died against a mighty tree, surrounded by mighty lightning and rain…but there was no storm here. He could hear rain, but it all sounded muffled and far away.

Despite the aching of his neck muscles, Landon raised his head slowly enough to try to make more sense of his surroundings. Directly across from his upturned feet was a familiar looking square…thing. A cube shaped thing made of paper, with smaller cubes drawn inside of it. He knew what this was, if he could only force himself to recall the name. His brow furrowed as he squinted further and his blurry focused more on the little squares. It was a calenders?

Two days.

According to the markings on the calendar and what he could remember, it had been two whole days since he lost consciousness. He must have been in a mild coma of some kind.

But how did he get here?

 

[Stone Cradle]

"Enough."



The arrow flew silently through the air, like death itself upon the chill of a winter's night.
Released softly from her bowstring, it shattered rain drops as it sought out her mark, sinking cleanly, neatly in between the ribs with a soft knock against flesh. As if it had always belonged there.
The deer's hoarse shriek echoed as far as the trees would allow, before taking off through the shrubs with the desperation only a wounded animal knows. She tore herself from the undergrowth, a flash of red hair against the night, pursuing like a faithful shadow.
The low hanging branches whipped her cheeks viciously, damp roots like knots threatening to snare fumbling feet. She could not allow herself that mistake. Not tonight. No room for forgiveness when the smallest lapse of judgement meant risking losing her precious quarry within the thick ink of the wood.

No, not mine. Not yet.

Ahead, the din of hooves against the ground echoed her own beating heart. So deafening as the blood and adrenaline rushed through her veins, that she could no longer hear the raging rainfall. Natures' show of strength reduced to a mere inconvenience as her shoes fought to maintain purchase against the mulch of wet leaves.
It was proving harder to breathe with each passing second, leaping through trees and shrubbery, as if each breath carried its weight and was slowing her down. Just a little more. She needed to keep it in her line of sight!

Fifty yards!
Twenty!

Any moment now. Any-

Thunder cracked like a whip overhead, its counterpart breaking through the thick treetops and blinding her.
The soles of her feet hit the sopping litterfall at just the wrong angle. Too late. She hadn't the time to reposition. Her outstretched hand grasping at air as the slippery surface acted like black ice beneath her. The weight of her already off-kilter body bore down upon her ankle, snapping it brutally into an unnatural position and sending the young woman careening into the rough bark on the nearest redwood. For a fraction of a second, all seemed to freeze upon impact. Her warm breath painted the cold air as the wind was knocked out of her lungs, vision blurring as her eyes watered.
Freya shakily hissed in a breath through her teeth, biting down on her pliant tongue as she desperately withheld a scream. Later. She could scream later. But for now…

The grime of waterlogged bark coated her under nail as she clumsily threw herself forwards in a last ditch attempt. Her wide eyes wildly searched between the great trees for where she'd last seen it. In the distance a flash of movement snapped her to attention. The stag had gotten ahead, but she could see it was slowing, its movements becoming sloppy as its body gave in to punctured lungs. There was still a chance. She could still make it. She just needed to keep up a little longer.

Thud. Thud. Thud.​

Tongues of fire licked at her ankle with every step, igniting a searing pulse in her neck as sweat mixed with rain and dripped down her face, stinging her eyes and leaving the taste of salt on her lips. Pushing herself off a protruding rock to gain momentum, the thought flitted through her mind that her lungs would give out at any moment. That was fine by her. They just needed to give out last.

Thud. Thud. Thud.​

The woods stood still, watching on whilst the two figures dove between the growing giants. Cracks of thunder illuminating them as the distance grew shorter with every second. One hand on her baldric feeling the hilt of her worn blade, the other extended in front, fingertips reaching, able to only just graze wet fur.
She felt its body heat in the passing air, water droplets sliding off its back, the ripple of powerful muscle hidden beneath its skin flexing with each stride. Another moment and it would be within her reach.
And then it was.

Freya threw herself upon it savagely, wrapping one hand around the beasts' neck, digging her nails as far as they would go into the rough hide. The other blindly grabbed for the knife to issue the coup de grace as she was dragged along. So close. Its slippery metal shaft evaded her and their bodies collided in the struggle, trying in vain to concentrate amid the chaos.
Until she managed to curl her fingers around it's hilt, raising the knife-
The stag lurched its head around. Its full weight hitting her square in the face. Behind her eyelids bloomed something white and hot. Freya recoiled, her fingers loosening just enough for the hilt to slip between them, her only weapon knocking against her leg and skidding into the forest, but where, for the life of her, she could not see as her vision swam. She had more important things to worry about.

Freya clenched her jaw, blood steadily oozing from her nose.
She had to do something fast, her arm was losing feeling. Then, as if guided, her eyes caught the glint of water shone off the feather of her arrow.
Her shaking grip on the stag waning, she reached over, curling her fingers around the jutting stump. With one great movement, letting out a desperate cry, she wrenched it from its bed of muscle and organ, taking pieces as it went. Blood erupted from the opening, covering her fingers, as she mindlessly stabbed the beasts' neck in quick shallow motions, the hapless animal bucking as hard as its last vestiges of strength allowed. It was in vain.

It swayed from side to side as it slowed, dragging the young woman along with it like a limp marionette for another two agonising metres until with a whine it toppled upon her.
Their bodies skidded to a halt in the dirt, hers trapped beneath its weight as sharp twigs tore through the fabric of her shirt and cut at her exposed back.

For a moment, she feared the animal would rear up again.
However, as the beasts' final attempted breaths weakened, its shaking slowed until it was nothing more than a gentle push against the palms of her hands.
Dark pupils dilated as they stared into hers.
Dead.

The sound of rain came again, reclaiming the redwood.
Freya couldn't make a sound. So exhausted was she as she laid there, pinned, letting the raindrops fall against her face, gulping in air. Gods, she felt like she'd almost drowned.
It took all her willpower, her hands pressed into the still warm fur, to not let herself fall asleep. It was deliciously tempting and she was so tired. So sore. But, she was all too well aware that it would be her last mistake. The rain and dirt would leech her warmth and hypothermia was an unforgiving bitch.

The young woman began to heave, overexerted muscles shaking violently and she crawled feebly out from under the carcass, turning to look back at the empty eyes.
No death was instant. No kill painless.
She'd wished she felt sympathy for the creature. In the back of her mind, she felt like her intentions should have been to spare the thing any more suffering. Truth be told, Freya knew otherwise. It was not love nor kindness that she screamed in her head. It was but one word.

"Enough."

She'd changed.
Then again the world had, hand't it?


Had she been asked years ago, by those well-to-do gentlemen who relished the idea, rather than the practice, of a hunt, whether she'd ever entertained the thought of putting her skills as an archer to use, Freya would have been mortified. Of course, she couldn't hold it against them, not truly. Not now.

Admittedly, they had surely envisioned hunting much in the same way young children envisage the wild west whilst playing cowboys and Indians with their toy swords and headdresses. All glory and pomp. Fancying themselves great hunters of the forests, stalking the woods, but not for too long mind you, as such skilled trackers such as themselves, bred from only the good stock, would certainly come upon their prey within mere moments. Oh no, none of that dilly dallying common folk call tracking nor dirty dung examining for them!
They would stroll in with their pristine slacks and shining pocket watches, cigar in mouth and be happened upon by only the most glorious of Stags. Then, they'd shoot it dead on the first try and spend a night feasting beneath the stars as the surrounding forest leaned in to partake in the revelry. What they didn't take into account was the blood. The struggle, the shrieks, the desperate attempts to flee. Looking another creature in the eye as you sunk your blade into their throat and watched that light be snuffed out.
The dirty, gritty nature of killing.

Freya didn't care for glory. She cared for survival, for food. She would eat tonight, and that was enough. She'd needed to drag the carcass back to her home. Skin it and preserve it before it began to smell and attracted a bear. Or worse. Except, her bloody knife was somewhere in the woods…

"Where'd that fucking useless thing go…"
She swore hoarsely, her hands digging into the mud as she pushed herself off the ground, "It can't be far. God, I hope it didn't fall into a burrow."

Taking a furtive glance around the forested floor, there was no glimmer of cold metal in the rain muffled moonlight. Freya clicked her tongue as she raised a shaking hand to wipe away some of the blood coagulating on her upper lip. She didn't have time for this. She needed to be home before sunrise, before the light of day made her more visible to… well anyone.

As if anybody would be around here anyways…
She pushed the intrusive thought from her mind.
Not now.

"How far did you drag me?" She questioned, turning from glancing at the lifeless stag back to the murky depths from which they emerged, It all happened so fast. Guess there's nothing for it but to retrace my steps."

As it would turn out, finding it wouldn't take long.
She'd only trudged a few metres, clumsily trying keep as much pressure as she could off her twisted ankle, a difficult feat when walking in slippery mud. Yet, following the muddy hoofprints back up the path, she heard the distinct 'tink!' of water on metal. Off to her left, a slight glimmer contrasted against the dull brown of rotting leaves and growing clumps of moss in the shadows of the trees. Her knife, a little muddy but none the worse for wear, lay in a small opening in the forest.

Freya beamed, eyebrows raised, her body visibly relaxing as she stumbled over. She couldn't believe her luck! Perhaps it was on her side after all.
"Got'cha you gorgeous little bastard! I swear I'll never let you go ag-"

Her words got caught in her mouth.
As she drew closer, her eyes adjusting to the darkness beneath the tree, the clump of 'moss' came into view. Except it wasn't moss, for moss didn't have feet.
She felt her stomach drop.

"Holy shit."


---


It was amazing how two days could feel like a lifetime.
Two days since she'd dragged them both home through the rain- A feat which had taken her hours considering she'd been worse for wear. Not to mention cramming them both into this tight little space. It hadn't exactly been intended for more than one.

The den, as she liked to call it, was barely three metres squared. And of that, half of it sprang leaks during storms.
Naturally, on the dryer half, she'd put together a makeshift bed, primarily made up of couch cushions, pillows and blankets she'd found back when she'd dared venture into town. It wasn't fancy, but it was soft, comforting and warm. Besides, she hadn't been trying to impress anybody now had she? Until now.
To the side was a small tree stump and rudimentary log table. Beneath were some plastic boxes, some with stacks of books inside to keep them dry, others with tupperware.
The other half of the room was pretty barren, with a wood plank floor except for one square dirt patch containing a campfire. A few pots and pans littered the area, hanging from rope along with a few dried herbs and a singular large cauldron in the centre on the fire from which the distinct smell of game broth wafted. It was a very modest abode by any standard, nestled in between a tree hollow and a hill. But it was her home and she was glad to be here.

Especially since it had been a hard few days.
Having to go back into the storm and find the Stag again had been the worst of it. She'd felt like a pack mule, bruised and scraped to hell and back. In fact, it had been somewhat of a blessing that he hadn't woken up sooner. Freya doubted she could have handled anything beyond recuperating the next day. Even now, her back was littered with the cuts and bruises from her hunt.


She'd thought herself rested enough now. Thought she'd be up to handling… well this mess! But when his eyes had opened, Freya forgot all about her aches and plans. Rather, she felt her throat tighten and her body go stiff. Two days of rehearsing, out the window. She'd gone over what she would say god knows how many times. Demand answers. Be firm! Be fierce! Yet now, looking at him, she felt so overcome with emotion. What was she feeling? If the sensation in her stomach was anything to go off of, she'd have answered hornets.

Freya cleared her throat, trying to both gain his attention and regain what little composure she had previously, or fake if it came to it.
"Take it easy. Don't try to move around too much."
Her voice felt foreign, not her own. It came out too tentatively. Firmer, damnit. Fiercer!

"Two days you've been out." she continued nervously, kneeling down by the fire as stirred the steaming broth on the far side of the den so her hands had something to keep them busy, "I was beginning to think you'd never wake."

No answer. Had she said something wrong?
The silence felt uncomfortable for the first time in so long. She'd shuffled in her place, amber eyes still firmly focused on her task. She pursed her lips, bit on her lower one lightly, she didn't want to look at him. It felt too awkward. Certainly she'd spent hours unabashedly staring at him when she'd first brought him home. His features were so delicate, his hair so unlike hers. Seas and stars, she couldn't remember when she'd seen any face that wasn't her own in the reflection of ponds! But looking at him, making eye contact? A knot formed in her stomach at the thought.

"Hypothermia's a bitch. You are lucky I found you." She muttered on filling the silence with the first things that came to her mind, "Had to help you drink and eat, though even then you seemed more akin to a corpse. You really are lucky. If you had appeared only a day or two earlier, I'd not have had enough food to spare."

She waited, breath caught in her throat for an answer.
What would he sound like? Would his voice be higher than hers? Lower? What did men sound like again? Her memories were so fuzzy. He didn't look very big, but appearances could be deceiving. Men were known for being stronger than women, but by just how much? She'd not had any experience fighting one. At least, not in a very long time since the city raids.

The silence drew on.
Could he not hear her? Was he Mute? Maybe he'd fallen back asleep?
Clicking her tongue, she turned abruptly, a flurry of red hair whipping around. Finally she was meeting his eyes. Seas and stars, they were darker than she'd expected.

"W-well come on!" She croaked, eyes darting from his eyes to the floor and back again, Say something! Something… Something about yourself I couldn't possibly know."

"You, she paused, eyebrows furrowing as she measured her words, You're not- I'm not going batty am I? You're real, aren't you?"

 

[Novellasaurus]

The more Landon felt his conscious mind return to him, the more he began to have the dreaded and horribly disappointing feeling that he wasn't actually dead. He supposed that he should be glad to find that his heart was indeed still pounding away in his chest, but that exact same heart held the slightest twinge of unhappiness with his current fate. At least death would be a certainty; remaining alive in a cruel shell of a world with unpredictable storms and diseases was just uncertainty after uncertainty. For example, there was the uncertainty of whether he'd lost his hearing altogether in that blasted storm or not. The faint ringing that he woke up to made it tough to discern anything. He had the notion that someone was speaking to him, but the voice was so indecipherable to him that he might as well have been listening to static noise.

His blurred vision was clearing up, thankfully enough. He could confirm that he wasn't in an odd hospital, or even a well-sculpted living space in someone's house. He saw signs of makeshift patching and construction where the edges of walls and the cieling met, the craftsmanship of which seemed remarkably sturdy enough to stand whatever mild rainstorm was raging outside. He didn't have the luxury of building his own place to crash in, as memory was cruel enough to remind him; his luck landed him a rather long year in a half sub-merged county diner with hungry bacterial mold causing the integrity of the place more and more instability until it eventually came to a crashing demise. It wasn't like he was fond of the place (always pancakes, too many boxes of pancake mix), but after putting the time and care into making it a habitable environment, he wished he could have made it last longer. He was forced to leave without supplies after the collapse of the building, and the days of travel after left him severely malnourished. It was from that point after, as his disbelieving mind pointed out, that he was sure he would be very dead. So who was it that rescued him, and why were they not visible?

Likely because he still felt paralyzed by stiff muscles.

While his hearing began to improve slightly, muffling the voice of what appeared to belong to a female owner, he tested the ability of his limbs once more. It felt as though someone had cut him open and filled his bones with with quick drying cement; he could practically hear the crackling of solidified concrete as he tried to get his muscles back into functioning order. When a stray crackle of thunder zipped somewhere over-head, he had a brief flash of ill-timed humor erupt at the back of his conscious; Was this how Frankenstein's Monster felt when it was resurrected by Victor on that fateful night? Did it feel stuffed full of mud with little sense of hearing or sight after being allowed the touch of life by that mad scientist? No, surely the monster that Frankenstein bred would feel more comfortable with this than he did.

Landon's arm spasmed a little. But not enough to be noticeable from a distance. Yes! Progress! He just needed to focus more Will upon the fibers of his neck muscles and he could at least get himself halfway upright on the couch cushions. He ignored the fact that he wasn't even on a couch at all, instead silently gritting his teeth in concentration. It took nearly all the strength he had in him to shove his elbows backwards and try to prop himself up slightly. And just in time too; his vision was permanently clearing up and he could behold his current physical state a little better. He was a bit scrawnier than usual, but not nearly as bad as he'd been apparently days earlier. His jacket had been she'd, leaving him in only the equally grey sweater and sweatpants he was content to die in. With a second wind in his lungs, he angled his leaning head to look across the short distance at his human savior.

For a moment, the sight of her was enough to fool him into thinking he was dead again–It couldn't have been possible for an Angel to exist in human form, could it?

Tangled hair, glowing like a reddish fire flowing from her scalp, seemed more precious than all the gold in the world. Her alabaster face mimicked a cloudless night by hypnotizing him with an array of starry freckles he couldn't begin to count. It seemed as though two thick ballet slippers pressed firmly against each other to form her lips, frozen in place to present her expression. But different blemishes attempted to tarnish this grandiose face, lashed out against such beautiful features in what had to be an act of childish jealously. Fading purplish bruises kissed her left cheek, her left temple and her right jaw. The lower of the two ballet slippers had a healing cut and her pulchritudinous nose showed signs of recent fracturing. But the worst of it was her eyes; two orbs of turquoise starting to fade into grey with untold tales of hardship and struggles, terrible experiences that had long since hardened her gaze. And yet…

And yet there was a measure of hopefulness in her eyes, as they met his own intensely. He had no way of being sure, but Landon felt that her hope was that he wasn't just another sign of her growing madness; that he was not a figment of her imagination.

…Then again, she literally asked if he was real, so maybe that's how he knew.

Landon's attempt to respond to this mortal Angel was met with a fierce slash at his throat, as if his body was disgusted that he would dare attempt to communicate with someone clearly higher than him. He sputtered at first, then clawed at his throat when air came up in loud hacking convulsions. His body stumbled painlessly off of the makeshift bedding, incidentally rolling the young man onto his stomach and elbows so he could cough even harder.

"Wat…eh…" He retched between moments taken to swallow elusive mouthful of oxygen, his eyes doing a better job of pleading than his voice could. "...W…Water…! Wat…er!"

 

[Stone Cradle]

The seconds felt like an eternity.
Freya could feel the anticipation thicken in the air, enough so that she swore she could have cut it with a knife. She’d not dared take another breath since her last words fell heavily between them in the stillness of the den. The bubbling of the broth and crackling of the fire licking at the pot felt more like thunder to her. And with each intrusive sound she felt herself flinch a little.

Did it usually take this long for people to respond? Or perhaps, was he truly mute after all? The thought, as selfish as it might have been, suddenly left her distraught. After so long, so very long, she ached for the sound of a voice which wasn't hers. More so than she could, herself, put into words. She found that ever more often as of late, in the dark hours of the nights, she tried to imitate what she thought others might have sounded like and had conversations with herself. If only to fill the void. Hell, she’d even argued with hers- Oh. Oh stars.
And, for just a moment, a fear began to creep in the recesses of her mind. What if she truly had gone mad? It wasn’t unheard of, was it? She could have sworn she’d once read a book of a man trapped on an island, completely isolated, who ultimately began to talk to a ball of some sorts? The thought left a sinking feeling, replacing her previous nervousness. Her throat became dry and Freya feared she might be sick. There was far more riding on his proving his existence than just the hopes of mere companionship now.

But then, he spoke.
Or at least she thought he tried to. What came out was no more than the whistle of dry air and brittle rasps. Freya instinctively jumped back as he lurched, the stool she sat on clattering to the floor. His body seemed to fight against him as he found himself falling from where he’d layn for the last two days. Luckily for him there were blankets and pillows covering the surface he’d rolled onto. Freya hadn’t been quick enough to catch him- she’d been far too busy hanging on the edge of her proverbial seat and then thrown off guard by the sudden turn of events, not to mention the sound. It hurt. She’d involuntarily let out a gasp, eyes squinting as if she could have shut out the grating sounds coming from the coiled, shivering shape before her.

For a split second, survivalism set in and she wanted nothing more than to be away from there. What was wrong with him? Seas and stars, when she’d found animals like this, she put them down on the spot. They were usually sick- dying. Could he be contagious? What difference did it make that he was human?
Impulse guided her hand as she reached for the pommel of the dagger at her side. She couldn’t believe her own stupidity. After all these years, to still be alive only to be this naive. Had she even done him a favour by keeping him alive? Or had she simply selfishly prolonged his existence, only to watch him die? The pit in her stomach grew.
All it would take was a quick cut to the throat. It would be fast, clean, merciful even, he wouldn’t feel-

“Wat…eh”
Freya stopped in her tracks that she’d not even noticed she was taking towards him. What had he just… Had she imagined that?

“Wat…eh”
A shiver ran down the length of her body, fingers now at most only weakly resting against metal. He’d spoken. A voice. A real voice. She didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry.

Finally, he looked at her and it was as if everything else around them had vanished.
Whereas his body was indeed weak and battered, his voice was an outright death rattle. His dark hair was a knotted, matted mess, the underside of his fingernails grimey and black- there was so much to repulse. Oh, but his eyes.
They were nothing like hers. They were the darkest colour she’d ever seen, blacker still than the moonless nights’ sky, piercing with the intensity of his gaze. Enough even to make her want to look away.
And they were pleading for life.

Something inside her softened. He’d seemed so weak, so tired- nothing like the visions of a man she’d imagined in her most secret of fantasies. How long had he gone without food? Without water?
Oh stars. Water- of course.
She hadn’t even fully comprehended what he’d been asking for, so terribly had she been overcome with emotion.

With a new-found swiftness, her aches and doubts long forgotten, she rushed over to the makeshift door and peeled back the cover of a leather satchel which had been dangling from its latch on the wall. Something audibly sloshed inside a metallic cylindrical container which as she turned around, and upon closer inspection, seemed to be an old canteen. What had once been a pastel pink bunny print was now reduced to an almost entirely silver surface with but a few splatters of colour left to it.

Any and all thoughts of contagion and sickness far from her thoughts, Freya knelt down next to the stranger and placed the canteen upon the uneven flooring. The poor thing could hardly sit up, let alone try and drink. Moreover, water was precious and tired or not, she couldn’t risk it being wasted so liberally. Tentatively, she wrapped her arms around the frame of his torso and pulled him back up ‘til he was leaning against her chest for support, head propped up with her shoulder and held tilted up softly by her hand. Gingerly she pressed the opening to his mouth, enough to let a small trickle flow out.

“Slowly.” she instructed, using her free hand to hold the canteen and ensure he didn’t grab for it.
It might have seemed cruel- seemed that she was denying him to quench his thirst. But Freya knew better than to let him drink too quickly. It would harm him, cause him to throw it all back up and be worse off than he’d started off. Too many times had she made that mistake and she’d hope to spare him learning the hard way if she could.
So, when he inevitably began to press for more she pulled the canteen away.

“Don’t, she cautioned sternly, the hand cupping his head gently guiding him back, Take your time, there’s plenty of water. If you drink too fast you’ll make yourself sick.”

Returning the steady stream of water to his dry lips, she couldn’t help but feel a certain sense of pride. Certainly she wasn’t living in luxury, but she was in far better shape than he.
Was she truly doing so well for herself? How had he survived this long only to turn up like this? How had she not seen him, or anybody else, around here until now? Did he know of, or god forbid, had he been part of that group of survivors? When she could bear it no longer, the canteen was slowly taken away. There were questions that needed answering. And one way or another, she would get them.

“Now, be still, and tell me- Who are you and what is your name?”

 

[Novellasaurus]

He coughed more; wretched with a throat as dry as the desert. His body waged war with itself, torn between wanting to breathe and between wanting to hack feverishly for want of some kind of liquid. He could hardly move from his fallen position on the ground partly due to his weakened state and partly due to the blankets that had apparently been on him. His throat felt as though it were tearing itself apart and that his body might give way underneath the incontrollable stress he was causing himself. Before he had a chance to simply pass out or away from lack of oxygen, he felt the arm of an unseen person work its way around his upper body and roll him halfway over with some effort.

Again he was taken aback by the fiery orange hair, and the presence of countless freckles–but even more surprise came to him by the voice that spoke to him from such a face. It was like the warmth of a cup of coffee, infused with a rich undertone of vanilla-esque concern. He only registered the cold metal rim of the canteen against his lips for a moment before hungry need and instinct took over and he was guzzling away at the cold, familiar liquid. The slashing pain in his throat was almost immediately destroyed, as his parched insides finally knew the kiss of water once more. The intense relief of inner cold and his thirst being quenched made him shudder and close his eyes in ecstasy. It was like meeting an old friend after a lifetime apart. He'd never realized just how much he truly missed freshwater until this moment, when it was all that he could feel in his mouth and throat. He could have started trying to inhale it instead of the air he missed it so much; but as he was trying to double the intake of water he was already nursing away at, the canteen angled itself away and a somewhat stern voice cautioned him to keep from drinking too fast.

His body was cooling down more thanks to the water and his gut was feeling at least somewhat content now that he'd had something to put into it. His eyes groggily blinked up at the woman he was only just now remembering, taking stock of himself and his surroundings. They appeared to be in a room of sorts, though it could have been more of a well-fortified hut; his vision was ever so slightly blurred beyond a certain point. Not to mention, it was hard to keep his attention from returning the woman–this angel in human form. His head was angled against her ribs, one of her arms propping his weak form up some and then the other managing the flow of the canteen. One of his hands, in a failed attempt to reach for the canteen he was drinking from, rested limp against her chest. Even with the thick material of her clothing(a sweater, perhaps) his hand could detect a heart beating as fast as he was gulping down water. He could imagine that suddenly trying to keep a person away from death's embrace could lead to a fast heartbeat.

Still, it was personally quite calming to him. It let him know that the "angel" here with him was real and actually here with him. A legitimate person, at long last.

"...I…L-Lan…don…Landon Bro…Brock," He answered groggily, his voice sounding like he was gargling marbles. Even from the ground, he felt incredibly dizzy and a steadily increasing wave of drowsiness was starting to come over him. His hand remained against her chest, as though her very heartbeat was something he needed to hold on to. "...I was…I would–wouldnt have…th…than
k you…"