if you and I can make it through the night

WAKER

She notices.

Were you less exhausted, you might've been embarrassed at being caught watching; though, were you less exhausted, it is doubtful you would've stared in the first place. While curious, you're not known to be rude, or pushy. You're prepared write it off as simply being so tired you're incapable of moving the focus of your gaze—but you're not the kind to make excuses, either. The truth of it is, you're watching her. The whys and the hows doesn't really matter. You find peace in the flicker of light across her face. That's enough, for now.

You are somewhat embarrassed to be watched in return, though. Perhaps because you are so gracelessly laid out on your side, a useless, cold piece of flesh—darkly, you realize that even if you had reached the southern rampart, you wouldn't have been able to help them much. Perhaps less a shock-freeze you would've been in better shape, but not by much. The guilt stings. You were all they had—the only pitiful relief they could send their beleaguered warriors.

And you couldn't even make it.

You try not to imagine what fate has befallen them. You try to not lose hope, to think that all is lost anyway, your friends, your Mama, slain by the wailers, but in a dark, foreign world, it is difficult to hold on to hope.

"I am Taivas," the girl says, and one of your ears point weakly in her direction. Taivas? You let the name sink in for a moment, rolling it around your mind. It isn't like any name you've ever heard before, but you think it suits her. It's soft and mysterious—just like her. You feel like you could float away in her eyes.

"Waker," you manage weakly. Your lungs ache, though you're pretty sure it's a phantom pain, a memory of how the cold air had seared them. You draw a deeper breath. It tastes of fire and memory and smoke, but the only blood and sweat you're smelling is drying. There's no danger here. Desperately, you hope it's true. "I'm Waker," you say as you exhale, a bit more firmly this time.

Good. You decide that you'll live. Frankly, you weren't sure before now—partially because of your state, and partially because you're stranded in a foreign world. You're not sure you want to deal with that. The idea of coming to terms with it is daunting.

You debate asking where you are, but you decide against it. The bliss of not knowing, of not existing beyond the flickering firelight upon her face, is fading, stolen by the life-giving warmth lapping against your skin. Desperately, you wish for it to return, but it doesn't.