"Am I interrupting?"
Evening had pressed around them, the sun setting as the Wives and the Sand Women-folk milling about to intermingle and set up camp for the night. They seemed mostly disinterested in him, and he was alright with that. The Bloodbag was taking watch, and Capable had joined in with the others to discuss... he supposed whatever it was they were supposed to do next.
The Green Place was a lie. Valhalla didn’t want him. He could feel his mates press deep into his throat, the edges of panic he had been swallowing all this time desperately trying to crawl it’s way out of him. If they kept going, he was fairly sure he wouldn’t make the journey. More supplies for the women, yes, but what was he supposed to tell Capable? He was dying, and he knew it.
His hands knit in their salute against his chest as he sat against the tire of the Rig, staring at the sunset as he tried to keep himself calm. “V8 give me strength,” He whispered, “Immortan guide my...” No, the old prayers didn’t sit right. The Immortan wanted nothing from him but blood. If he found him, he’d be tried for treason along with Furiosa, tried and found guilty and made a bloody, painful example of.
The panic was back, and his hands lifted up to his head, rocking slightly as he scrambled to find words that fit right.
Cheedo’s voice tore him from the downward spiral in his head, glancing toward the source like a cornered wild dog. Yes, he was inclined to say, but maybe it was better to talk to someone. She wasn’t Capable, but they were brothers- sisters- she might understand. “No,” He corrected himself. “Was just... just... thinking.” More or less, anyway.