𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐃𝐃𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐄𝐗𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 pumping through her blood, her hands remained steady, even precise, where they tore strips of warm, brown fabric. After everything that happened, it remained almost clean next to her sleeves, frayed and tattered by their frantic escape through the woods. Perhaps it was foolish to hold the robes in so high regard ——- but they kept the younglings warm at night. And Cere would want them back when she returned.
Right now, though, Matias needed them more. After cleaning his burn as best she could, Trilla set about wrapping it. “You were lucky,” she said, curiously absent of relief. As far as blaster wounds went, it was as near a miss as could be, not even truly grazing him. Winding the makeshift bandage round his arm, she yanked once, twice, before tying it off.
“But it was close. Too close.” A little bit to the left, and it would have been through his heart. All it took was for the clones to get lucky instead. Struck with a new sense of urgency, her hand shifted to his shoulder, demanding his full attention with its grip. “You can’t hesitate like that. Do you understand? You can’t look back.” Eventually luck wouldn’t be enough. 𝚂𝙷𝙴 𝙼𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝙱𝙴 𝙴𝙽𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷. “We have to keep going until Master Junda can find us again.”
@faceruined
THE DAYS AND NIGHTS BECOME ONE. / TIME ITSELF IS FLEETING. he could no longer count by the number of days passing, he relied on the number of those that were left. and as of today? counting himself, two. he remembers when that number was bigger, he remembers it growing smaller and smaller like a countdown. but that’s all he remembers now -- he cannot remember names, faces. he doesn’t remember who died today ( whoever it was, it was enough to make him stop. make him turn, make him look back, break a rule. it was enough to almost get him killed. ) maybe it helps that he can’t remember, because he cannot mourn numbers.
he winces when she calls him lucky -- he doesn’t know why, he certainly doesn’t feel lucky, he only feels a sting -- as if he expected her to yell at him. but trilla doesn’t yell, she just has rules: listen to her, don’t go first / wait for her, and don’t look back. simple rules. and yet, he broke one anyways. he should be yelled at, he should be dead. but instead, there’s just quietness. quietness, and a ringing in his ears that no matter how many times he plugs them, never goes away. ❝ i’m sorry. ❞
it’s barely above a whisper. but for what it’s worth, he does mean it.
when her hand reaches his shoulder, he gazes up at her with full attention. he nods along understandingly, with full intent to follow her every word. he won’t do that again, he wants to promise. he won’t, because it’s only the two of them now. there’s no one else to look back to. he wonders if when master junda finds them, she will be disappointed. he hopes not, trilla did her best. he hopes when this is over, he’ll get the chance to tell master junda how smart and how brave trilla was. smarter and braver than him.
❝ do we ... ❞ he starts, stops. hesitates. he shouldn’t ask, let alone complain. but beneath the makeshift bandages there is the residual sting, and the muscles of his legs ache as though they’ve been twisted in knots. he’s so hungry he swears he could eat tear the bark from trees or fistfuls of dirt if it meant the promise of a worm. amidst the debate, he chews on his bottom lip before blurting out; ❝ do we still have to keep going today? can we rest someplace now? ❞
