Not Like You (The Simian Forest Saga: Vol. I)

The Map [XIX]

'Did you hear me?' Sparrow signed. Slate sat in the medicine tree's main room and staring blankly at the ground. His eyes drifted downward. His hands-- his hands were sticky, the skin coated thoroughly with tacky claret. One could only compare it to a thick molasses-like syrup. The colour of death. The chinobo's eyes slowly roamed upward, meeting Sparrow's small features. Her face was taut with concern, emerald pools soft for the first time in a while. Everything outside was still dripping, the leftover beads of moisture from the storm the night before showering the top of the fan-tree's ceiling each time the wind stirred its branches. Somewhere off in the distance, a lone cardinal chipped harshly out into the early dawn.

The female chimp grunted, attempting to draw him back out of his state of shock. 'We managed to stop the bleeding.' Slate felt his body give no changes, no response. He simply allowed his lips to part and he continued to look up at her, stupefied. One of the elder simian's fingers curled and graced along the edge of his face, which in turn the chinobo shied away from, uncomfortable with the contact. He could feel his throat beginning to tighten, eyes beginning to burn and grow moist. Slate's insides were reacting in a manner that he could not control. Why was he getting so emotional? Halfheartedly, he reached up and brushed her grasp away from his face. He didn't like being touched in the first place, so why did Sparrow feel the need to bother him with her grimy fingers? Slate's belly stirred and became sour.

The male's eyes returned to the floor, then followed up to her grey hands. 'How... how is she?' he signed, his movements aloof.

Sparrow shifted in the blue light of morning. 'She has lost a lot of blood. We don't know whether she'll make it through today.'

His chest tightened and his eyes squeezed shut. Respiration hitching in his chest, he finally brought his attention up to the shaman. Slate's heart fluttered. "Can I--"

'See her?' she signed, easily predicting his next question and finishing his sentence. The outcross dipped his head in confirmation. Sparrow could see right through any soul with those piercing oculars of her's. It was no wonder that her children had grown up to be so observant. Shifting where he sat, he allowed the chimp to reach for his wrists and haul him to his feet. Swaying with his ape-limp, he followed after the shaman in silence, being taken into a rather small compartment in the back of the tree. It was dimly-lit, lichen having been placed over the the entrance to keep it cool and still.

Slowly, he allowed his eyes to fall upon her sleeping form. Her face was pale, dark lashes motionless as she did not dream. Her slender neck was swaddled in lamb's ear, the wound thankfully sealed and the blood-flow ceasing. The acrid smell of copper filled his nose and his belly turned. This was nothing like the evening after Twig's death. Slate's large chest ached and he could hardly move his body, as if his joints were seizing up with each little twitch of his bones. His long fingers curled inward, nails digging deep into his palm, leaving shallow divots in the flesh. The warrior's head turned to look upon the smaller body beside him. She swayed.

'I'll leave you be for a while...' she suggested, then took her leave, the dangling shield swaying out behind her.

Moving closer, the male looked around the room, spotting something odd resting up against the wall. He recognized it as the human. Nic was leaning back, his arms crossed over his bare form, bloodied garments in his lap. The man's eyes were shut, similar in stature to the ravenette, in a dreamless daze of black. He couldn't help but feel his lip curl slightly at the sight of him. Quietly, Slate returned his attention back to Krissa's stagnant form, pushed through the invisible barrier he had set and crossed the short distance between them, coming to all fours at her bed-side. At first he hesitated, watching her chest rise and fall ever so slowly. Her breathing was shallow and he found himself subconsciously mimicking the brief ellipses of apnea, struggling to keep a steady rhythm. Finally, Slate slipped his hand up to her cheek, his body rising ever so slightly so he could hover over her. Guilt washed over him as his eyes explored the stains on her lips, listening to her raspy breaths of oxygen as they passed through her windpipe. His disgrace grew and grew. He had become too comfortable and too trusting of others; if he had been more diligent, more aware of his brother and his allies, perhaps he would have caught him in the act. Perhaps he could have killed Pine before this had happened.