Vanishing Grace

Part III - Chapter 1

The road rolls on and on and on and the world beyond is laid to waste.

Above them the sky is grey as a plume of cigar smoke, the clouds not yet laden enough to rain but threatening and impenetrable nonetheless. When he stares long enough, he can just about make out the sun hidden behind them, a misty disk of barely there light obscured in swirls of steel and slate. It had been like this when they'd first left the hotel and had remained as such for days after, but for the last week the sun had been punishing, so the sudden spark of a storm in the air is promising. It traps the heat between heaven and earth, until everything is humid and sleepy, electricity crackling along the skin.

Perhaps though, that's just the low dosage of painkillers that War is still running on. Either way, he's drifting in and out of sleep in the backseat of the jeep, head propped against the window frame and jostling with every bump in the road. His hair has blown wild with the speed they're going but he doesn't care, he's too focused on the scent of the air and the soothing rumble of the engine. In the front seat Mark and Tutor make conversation, too quiet to listen in on but slowly it's replaced by the static crackle of the radio, until the white noise of it rattles War from his rest.

He cracks his eyes open and looks up at the sky, in a silent prayer for rain. In his periphery he can make out the trees as they pass, the green of them hypnotically deep and lovely in the gloom of the day. They promise an escape and he half wishes he could vault from the car and run through them, find a new life. They've been trapped in the car for so long now it's driving him insane.

They pass road signs every so often. They're rusty, far from their former glossy green, the bright yellow letters turned to a scrape of bare and decaying metal, but they're still clear enough that it tells him that they're not far from Ayutthaya anymore. Still, he's surprised they're still on highway 32.

War frowns, annoyed and drowsy, as the voices in the front of the car grow loud enough to be impossible to ignore.

"Hey phi."

War hums in response as Fighter gives his thigh a squeeze.

They both smile at each other when their eyes meet. His injured leg is propped up in Fighter's lap. Initially it was meant to elevate the leg, offer some comfort, but at this stage there's hardly a position in which he can arrange his limbs that doesn't feel uncomfortable. There's still a dull throb pulsing through it with every pothole, a constant reminder of the bullet that had ripped through him.

But it's been ten days, the tissue having knitted back together and the stitches were removed two days ago, so there's no longer that awful pull. They'd spent half a week in the hotel after everything had happened. War had slept in regular intervals, under constant watch to make sure the infection had passed enough for him to be stable. It was hard for him to stay awake for too long but eventually he managed to sit up and with a little help took his first steps since Mark had made him bedbound. The minute they were sure he could hold himself up though, they were on the road and they've been driving ever since. They're trying to reach the south but the journey is long and exhausting and War hardly has the patience.

He'll have an ugly scar for the rest of his life ‒ however short that might be ‒ that will forever tell the story of how the man he loved shot him. He's stuck with a group of people that don't trust him and probably wouldn't give a damn if he just disappeared (Fighter excluded). He's entirely sure they'll be ripped to shreds before they ever reach Bangkok, but hey, he'll live and that's something right?

War's not so sure how much that's worth.

War sighs, shifting a bit and sits up a little further. Thankfully their usual midday stop should be coming around soon.