WE BECOME THOUGHTLESS

six | stubborn ass

seven devils // florence + the machine

Cole had never been so close to a mindrenderer before, and now the boy's hand was pressed to his head, the skin coarse and cold and warming with what he was guessed was pure, undistilled magic.

And now he was asking to work with him?

Cole laughed bitterly. His knowledge on the Chrysosian language was limited, but he had picked up enough words along the way to be able to form coherent – hopefully intelligent – sentences. But he could barely form intelligent sentences in his own language, and so it would be no surprise if he ended up sounding like a fool.

"I thought mindrenderers were smart," he breathed thinly under the weight of the boy's knee, chest hurting. Then, considering his words, "But you're not very smart, are you?"

"I'm doing this out of my own goodwill. I could just as quickly turn your thoughts against you, then you would have to work with me."

Cole wasn't used to this type of anger. He had only ever seen it as a hot, devouring thing that made you say things you sometimes didn't mean to say, red-faced and open-mouthed. But his was like cool stone, hard-edged, a terrible weight to find yourself under – it felt like the boy was struggling under the burden of it.

"Then do it." Cole dared, hoping desperately that the mindrenderer couldn't feel the raw fear sending his heart into overdrive. Why would you say that?

The mindrenderer blinked. Something crossed his face – something that looked a lot like shock, maybe doubt – and then his features hardened and that cold, hard-edged fear returned. "That's your choice to make. You obviously can't walk, and I'm going to need someone to help me with my shoulder. Do you want to come with your mind fully intact, or will you let your little rebellion go without its fearless leader?"

Cole felt his throat tighten and his chest hurt. "How did you—"

"I pick up on things," his eyelids looked heavy. "What do you say?"

Cole blinked, felt the painful throbbing in his ankle, and exhaled. The angry Weles warrior in him wanted him to say no, kill me instead, but what good would that do? The boy would use the information in his mind for his own benefit. He would prefer to have his mind to himself, at least that way he could find a way back to his group and (hopefully) return unscathed.

This was a matter of survival. His mother always prioritised survival above all else, even at the expense of dignity – because if you were dead, what good were you for Weles and her future freedom?

Not many people understood this in Weles. A warrior was supposed to die honourably, still stubborn, to discard any sense of self-preservation. But Cole didn't have that luxury when there were people dying and he could do something about it.

Through gritted teeth, Cole responded. "Fine, now get off me."

The two gasped as they sunk on either side of each other. Cole's throat was scraped dry and hurt when he breathed, the cool morning air was like swallowing rusty nails. The bones in his chest felt knocked loose after the pressure was released, and his lip was bleeding from where he had gnawed at the dry skin. He glanced down at his ankle.

Although Cole couldn't see the wound from beneath his boot, the ankle was twisted and gnarled. He turned his chin and looked away, hiding his wince. The pain spread up towards his leg and ended at his knee, pulsing wildly, hot with fresh blood.

The mindrenderer turned his whole body away. His shoulders lifted and fell with every breath. There was a patch of dried blood on the side of his head, incrusted into his pale hair. The boy looked smaller now – in the hall the night before, he held himself like a man two heads taller, but that was gone now. No one to show off to anymore.

Cole went to stand. The cold was only now hitting him, a force that made the fine hairs along the back of his neck stand on end, and he needed to move. But his ankle seized and went white-hot with pain, forcing him face-forward back into the snow. He cried out, much to his own surprise.

"Stay down, you oaf, or you'll hurt yourself even more," the boy huffed and felt for his dislocated shoulder. "I'll go search the wreckage – you stay put."

Cole looked up and breathed heavily into the snow, eyes red-rimmed as he tracked the mindrenderer's movements. The boy heaved himself to his feet and grimaced. His fingers went to knead at the sore on his head and felt the crust of the unwashed blood.

"You can't..." Cole searched for the right words. Why couldn't they speak in Welish? "You can't go in there without me."

The mindrenderer glanced down, eyes narrowed, thin-lipped. "You think I'll find another survivor and turn on you?"

Very observant, he thought. Too observant.

But no, that hadn't been what Cole was worried about. In fact he was very confident that the only potential survivor out there would be Emer. But he was afraid that if she were out there, alive but unmoving, the mindrenderer would kill her if he found her lying somewhere in the snow, buried under the wreckage.

"Just take me with you," he grunted angrily, still a burning body of rage. He struggled to keep his pulse steady – his ankle hurt more when his heartbeat sped. "Bring me."

"It'll be quicker if I go alone." The boy rolled his good shoulder and stared into the debris ahead.

Cole soundlessly lifted himself to his feet and half-heartedly brushed the snow from his pants, balancing on one foot and attempting another step. He limped and reared his chin forward. The mindrenderer watched him, face blank.

"I'm coming." Cole seethed.