Chương 75: Ch 41b – Depression

Her room measures nine and a half of her feet widthways, and twelve and one third of her feet lengthways. The room contains: One bed. One square table. One floor to ceiling set of shelves. One mirror attached to the wall near the door. One chair. A horizontal window set centrally in the outside wall, spreading about two thirds of its width. The window doesn't open. Her possessions are: One Trisec thermal jumper. One thin cadet jumper. Two unworn cadet tops. Three worn cadet tops. Two pairs of cadet trousers.

One pair of cadet shorts. Five pairs of underwear. Five pairs of long socks. One pair of boots. One hairbrush. Two hair ties. It is ink black outside. Only the roar of the wind and the faint sound of the waves that can be heard between gusts, assure her that the outside world has not disappeared completely. She had been hopeful that after two lengthy shard training sessions out in the fresh air and Crathsun's gruelling instruction in the gym, her body would find sleep easily. It had, for maybe an hour or two.

Then, as if Wyndeer had bellowed an order at her, her eyes had snapped open, signalling her mind's intention to ban any further sleep that night. She had let herself succumb to the tears, thinking that she might cry herself back to sleep. But the tears have flowed and dried up. Her eyes remain insistently staring. Her mind turns over and over and over and over, in a relentless assessment of her losses and fears. She cannot think about her past, there is no comfort in reminding herself of what has been.

She cannot think about her present, an abandonment of her autonomy to a group of strangers. Whilst they are not unkind, they have no investment or attachment to her beyond this outpost, this assignment. She cannot think about her future, all roads lead back to Vheece. She finds herself dangerously close to finding comfort in giving up. It is a thought still unpalatable enough for her to force herself off the bed and to start pacing the room. Measuring. Cataloguing. Re-organising.

Now she finds herself standing in the middle of the room. Eyes still wide. Mind still racing. Body heavy with the weight of physical and mental exhaustion. In the dark window, a semi translucent, withered Cara looks back at her. Perhaps it is a more accurate reflection than the one she finds in the mirror, which is still doleful enough. An annoyance of pain stabs into her thoughts. Looking down at her hands she sees she has picked away the skin around her thumbnail, creating a weak bloom of blood.

She watches with detachment as her nail returns to pick again at the small gash, tearing it wider with each tug.

"Stop it!" she whispers angrily to herself, pulling her hands apart and thrusting the wounded thumb into her mouth. She sucks away the blood. Her teeth clamp down hard on her thumb, detecting bone under the flesh. Initially the bite is a punishment. But then she finds herself pressing harder, leaning into the pain, encouraging the pain to jostle for space amongst the sorrow and fear swelling in her mind. She lets out a muffled yelp as her bite breaks the skin.

Not bothering to check her new injury, she crosses quickly to the door, desperate to escape her spiralling decay before it consumes her. ….. The rec room is dark and empty. As soon as she walks in she knows staying in the room will not give her respite. She can't go outside. Even if the weather had been mild or the sun had risen, to go outside without anyone knowing is break one of Wyndeer's rules. She tries the hall instead. The lights are on. The hangar doors firmly closed. The gym area empty.

She takes a few tentative steps towards the storage area, unsure who she wants to discover amongst the shelves and crates.

"Need something?" Draig's voice calls out. She looks around the empty space, the empty gym, the silent storage area.

"Cara?" he calls out again. She wonders if his voice is in her head. Perhaps she has missed the telltale pings that announce a forced intrusion.

"Look up," he instructs, "the ropes." He is descending slowly, his feet not touching the rope. His movements are entirely an upper body demonstration of strength and control that he makes look so easy it gives the illusion that he is simply passing a slack rope between his hands. It is not the grunting effort of a workout but the graceful movement of a dance. She tracks him all the way down, admiring the beauty and accomplishment of his bare muscled torso making the descent with effortless precision.

"Are you ok?" he frowns as soon as his feet touch the ground. He strides up to her, unbothered by the transition from the insulated mats to the cold, hard, unswept hall floor. His hand lifts, hesitates, then reaches to give her upper arm a comforting squeeze.

"I couldn't sleep," she says, a summary of the hours of agony alone in her room. His frown deepens, "You're in pain?" YES! Her mind screams at him. I am in an eternal nightmare of pain, and I have been since you picked me up on Xiatt.

"No, I-," words struggle to clear the lump in her throat, "I'm- just awake." His attention is caught by something between them. She looks down to see her hands clasped firmly together, her fingers intertwined and shaking violently. His hand slowly moves over hers, its warmth immediately revealing, despite her thermal jumper, how cold her fingers are. Gently he eases her fingers apart and takes hold of her hand in his.

"Come," he says softly, a light tug of her hand.

"Sit down over here, keep me company." Her legs, frozen solid in place, fall into a stumbling walk as he pulls her gently towards the gym area.

"Sit here," he leads her to a bench by the wall, sandwiched between a stack of spare mats and racks of weights. He sits down next to her. His thigh rests against hers despite there being enough space on the bench.

"Do you," he hesitates, "would you like to talk about something?" The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. The unexpected tenderness of his approach is almost her undoing. Yet she hesitates, the tenderness is just another of his rollercoaster moods. At the second shard training yesterday he had been aloof, falling back into his habit of lounging, uninterested, at the back of the group.

Crathsun had wanted to test how the strong winds affected her ability to control the speed and direction of the light floats. Over the group conduction comms, Crathsun and Wyndeer had openly discussed the results, surprised by the lack of effect the wind had. Draig had stayed largely silent, speaking only to suggest an early end to the session. Concern had arisen in the group about something on the other side of the fence. Cara, squinting against the strong wind, had seen nothing.

From the glances between the three men and the silent moving of their lips, she understood that they were having a private discussion in a separate comms connection. Then she was being encouraged back onto the rider. Wyndeer and Crathsun had remained to collect the floats while Draig took her back to the outpost. She had held on, her arms around his waist, but she'd tried not to lean against his back. A difficult undertaking.

"Cara?" he prompts.

"Um," is the only noise she manages. Her desire to tell him, her need to tell him, brings the words to the back of her mouth. Her anxiety, her despair, her fear, her need for comfort and reassurance, her need to be heard. It all sits on the back of her tongue, weighing it down, pulling it back into her throat, unable to push the words out of her mouth. He waits patiently by her side. His hands rest casually on his knees. His stare is not directed at her but out across the mats. She wants to scream at him.

She wants to tell him to force it out of her. To demand answers in Wyndeer's cold and unforgiving way. She wants him to understand she cannot release the words without his help.

"Um," she says again, squeezing her thumb hard in her fist.

"I looked up some facts about fish," he says into the silence. When she doesn't respond, doesn't move, barely breathes, he continues.

"We have approximately 30, 000 species of fish. That number has declined over the past few centuries due to the cooling of our seas." He pauses, allowing space for her to acknowledge or reject his meaningless conversation. She says nothing, but her thoughts stall. Unflustered by her silence he continues, "The most common fish found off the coast here on the Garetrice Peninsular is the Black Finned Yarneid. I looked, but I couldn't find it in any of the food supplies in the cold store." She blinks.

Surprised by his effort. Grateful for the hijacking effect his thoughtfulness has on her spiralling mind.

"That's- They are some great facts." Her voice sounds slow and cautious, as if unsure it is letting the right sounds out.

"Thanks," he says, a lightness entering his voice, "I'd hoped you'd be impressed."

"Yes." Unable to express her need she instead pushes herself into his offer of light conversation, "I'm always impressed when someone knows their fish. How big are these Black Finned Yarbieds?"

"Yarnieds," he corrects.

"Well," he shifts, his arm brushing hers, "they are about this big." He waves his hands out in front of him, about two feet apart.

"Oh, not as big as I expected," she says in pretend disappointment.

"Well, that's just the juveniles of course." He makes no attempt to hide that he is making it up on the spot.

"The mature adults easily get to this size." He doubles the width between his hands, his arm crossing in front of her, pressing gently against her as he does so.

"Ah, that's more impressive." She feels a smile test the corners of her mouth. The press of his body against hers thaws the numb edges of her cold, hollow frame.

"And how heavy do they get?"

"Oh," he hesitates, openly emphasising his scramble to make up his next lie.

"At least as heavy as-." His arms drop in comic defeat as he lets out a sigh.

"I have no idea. I really don't care about fish." He turns to her with a sheepish grimace on his face. Her smile manages to crack the corners of her mouth.

"I don't care about fish either." He returns her smile, but his smile isn't big enough to remove the worried look from his eyes.

"You don't want to try to get some sleep?" She shakes her head. The idea of returning to her room sparks a flurry of panic in her chest.

"Fine," he says quickly, reaching over to give her hand a brief, reassuring squeeze. The touch of his skin on hers ripples comfort up her arm that flutters across the cavity of loss in her chest.

"Can I interest you in some rope climbing?"

"I don't think my arms can lift more than a cup of water after Crathsun's session," she replies. Ok then," he says standing up abruptly. His fingers drag a long goodbye as he releases her hand.

"If you don't mind me continuing, we can talk while I finish my session. He walks over to the nearest rope and grasps it high above his head. With what looks like no effort he pulls himself up with one hand.

"Can I interest you in some facts about the Chunzere Mountains?"

"You can try." ….. Raised voices and clomping boots rouse her from sleep. An expanse of mats and the tail end of the ropes stretch out before her. Beyond them sits Draig, his legs stretched out in front of him, his boots resting just off the end of the mats. He is looking over to the far end of the hall where the hangar doors have clanged shut. From her angle Cara cannot see what he is looking at, nor locate the source of the noise which could been the same thing.

Her body groans with stiffness as she stirs her sleepy muscles. She pushes up on one arm to look about her. Her suspicions are confirmed. She doesn't remember falling asleep. She doesn't remember assembling the makeshift bed she has slept on. Beneath her is a short stack of additional mats. Where her head had lain is a rolled-up towel. Draped over her is a blanket similar to the one in her room. The sound of the boots and the voices grows louder.

Wyndeer is complaining about something, his agitation coming across clearer than his words. She sits fully upright. Caught between an urge to stand up and an urge to hide, she stays frozen in place.

"The shot was clear but the wind is so strong it must have caught the arc. It won't survive long, it was still a solid shot to its flank." Erro's voice sounds out.

"The fence should hold for now, but Magse will need to check it as soon as the storm dies down," Wyndeer says gruffly.

"I'll go back out with her. They are getting more persistent; she might need cover." Erro suggests.

"Draig," Wyndeer calls across in greeting as he stalks through the hall.

"Why are you sitting here? All the chairs taken in the rec room?" He carries on, not expecting a response.

"We're limited on time with that fence. We should talk about options." She watches Draig jump to his feet in a smooth movement.

"Certainly Wyndeer. Perhaps in your office." He is moving forward to intercept just as Wyndeer catches sight of her.

"Are you sleeping on the mats?" he demands.

"No. I mean-" she mumbles in panic.

"We were talking, it got late." Draig rescues her from more blundering, "I think I might have bored her into sleep."

"Then you should have woken her up and sent her upstairs."

"Yes, I probably should have. But she looked quite comfortable-""She doesn't look comfortable at all. Cara, get up," he snaps.

"You have a room to sleep in." Scrambling to her feet she throws an anxious glance at Draig before gathering up the blanket. Her hands tremble as she tries to fold it, the benefits of her sleep already feeling like they were drifting away.

"The sun's almost up, perhaps Cara could get some breakfast while we talk Wyndeer?" Draig moves as he speaks, casually walking into Wyndeer's line of sight, blocking Cara from his view.

"Cara, stay in the rec room," Wyndeer barks irritably, side stepping Draig so that he can watch her leave.