WE BECOME THOUGHTLESS

nineteen | tooth and claw

Alistair watched Cole's long figure recede into the darkness. He sat with himself, surrounded by the inhale and exhale of Emer's breathing and the pop of the fire.

Had he done something wrong? Cole's face had flushed with panic, eyes shuttering, before he disappeared off through the trees. Alistair blinked and stared into the space the dark haired boy had been. He needed air? They were outside already, what more air could he possibly need?

Maybe he had said too much. Maybe he was getting too comfortable around the big Welish warrior. But it didn't warrant a reaction like that.

Emer huddled in on herself, and he could see her hair shake against her sleepy breaths, the strands pulling in and then out. Her words had shocked him – still shocked him now. He had never expected Emer, out of all people, to confront him with something he hadn't ever considered himself.

You're pathetic.

He was – he really, really was. But people changed all the time, and so could he.

Brushing invisible dust from his knees and standing up after a few long moments of his own company, Alistair decided that he would have to go after Cole. It was only the polite thing to do. What if he was mauled by a bear? Alistair, again, would have to rescue him. Out of politeness.

He followed his path in the snow, big boot prints outlined against the white. His eyes strained to see as the firelight faded out behind him, and then he was in the darkness, squinting down and relying only on the track marks in front of him.

The muffled crunch of his boots in the snow filled the quiet. Around him, trees tilted and waved in the wind. The sky, usually soiled by Chrysos' light pollution, was bright and clear and its stars freckled the expanse of black. Alistair got the eerie feeling that he was trekking into some empty subliminal space.

Lifting his hands to his face, he blew plumes of hot breath into his cupped palms. His fingers were red-tipped. The fire was still visibly burning behind him – the only lantern in a dark tunnel. "Cole!"

No response.

Alistair grumbled irritably and carried on. "Come on, Cole!"

What did he say to disturb him so much? He replayed the conversation in his mind over and over again, listened for any semblance or cruelty in his tone, his words. He came up blank. Nothing went beyond his anger, his deserved amount of bitterness toward his general.

Oh, the general.

He was always doing something wrong, wasn't he?

No one called back to him in the shadows, which he swore moved when he wasn't looking. He couldn't help but imagine bodily shapes move in the dark, silhouettes reaching out to stroke slimy hands across his skin. Alistair shivered. His mind was playing tricks.

And then it started to rain.

A pit-pat on his shoulder, he lifted his head up and peered into the darkening sky. When had clouds gathered? The stars were suddenly gone, covered over in a veil of bloated, rain-full clouds. Alistair audibly groaned into the sleeve of his coat.

He continued through the snow, rubbing his hands together. His hands weren't rough like Cole's, whose calloused palms made a muted shh sound when he rubbed them together, and he found himself thinking about it a bit too much. The shh of rough skin on skin whispered in his mind.

Focus, he reminded himself. The rain pelted his clothes. Then, like a steel knife, the cutting shock of realisation tore through his mind. The fire.

Alistair turned on his heels and whirled around to spot the lantern in the dark, but the fire was gone. Not even a spark remained. He swore coldly beneath his breath and worried his way through the darkness.