but the cold's already in your bones

[hate_gettin_older]

There isn't much snow falling yet, just enough to give an extra stinging bite to the wind.

But the cloud cover is thick and getting thicker; it's not even noon yet, but the light is already failing, as though toward night.

This close to the building, the snow is pretty well trampled. A handful of trails lead off in different directions, one toward the stables.

Comments

[2goodarms]

He has no idea where to start. If he calls Edgar's name, it's just going to drive him further away.

The stables seem like as good a choice as any.

Curtis tucks his arms close and sets off.

[hate_gettin_older]

It's a dead end, though, as far as Curtis's search is confirmed. The track seems to have been that of somebody coming out to make sure the animals would be warm and fed during the storm, by now long gone.

The stable is warm, smelling of hay and grain and horse and stranger creatures, and it doesn't sound like anyone human is in there.

[2goodarms]

Curtis remembers the last time he wandered into the stables looking for Edgar; he'd thought they were empty then, too. If he's going to be anywhere, he's probably going to be with Nitwit.

Unless he deliberately went somewhere else to throw Curtis off his trail. God, please don't say Edgar was that stupid. This place would be the perfect shelter from the snow.

Puffing a breath into his hands to warm up his fingers, he heads for Nitwit's stall.

[hate_gettin_older]

The thoatling, already almost half as large again as she was when Edgar first brought her back from Barsoom, is curled against the heap of straw that serves as bedding -- and partway burrowed into it, against the cold.

She blinks up at Curtis as he approaches the stall, and blows out a breath at him.

[2goodarms]

No sign of Edgar in that stall, either. Goddammit.

Curtis lets out a loud sigh of his own, and leans both arms on the stable door. "Yeah, I know," he mumbles in response to Nitwit, hoping the Voice will carry enough contriteness for her to understand. "Hey. ...You, uh, haven't seen Edgar around here, have you?"

Hopefully the Voice will translate that bit, too. Otherwise he's going to feel like an idiot, trying to have a conversation with a thoat.

[hate_gettin_older]

Nitwit gives a faintly mournful whuffle, which -- if the Voice is working, if Curtis isn't imagining things -- comes along with a vague impression of Edgar, giving her a few yellow beetles and then leaving. And a chill wind blowing in as he leaves.

[2goodarms]

Maybe he's imagining the specifics, but Curtis knows he's not imagining the disappointment -- almost sorrow -- behind it: my person was here, and now he's not anymore.

He shivers a bit, mostly in sympathy. Are thoats any good at tracking? If Woola were here, he'd be a better choice by far, but maybe Curtis should work with what he's got. Except...Nitwit looks so miserably cold already, and he's seen Dejah start to turn blue in warmer weather than this.

It might get cold at night on Barsoom, but he bets it doesn't get this cold.

"I'll find him," he promises, low. "Don't worry."

[hate_gettin_older]

A wistful grumble, and Nitwit lowers her head to rest on her forefeet again.

At least it's warmer in here than it is outside.

[2goodarms]

Curtis turns away, shaking handfuls of snow off his boots with each stomp toward the door. Idiot, a part of him thinks furiously. You couldn't've fucking stayed here?

Where else on the grounds would he go? Is there anywhere else he can go?

Blowing out an explosive breath that steams in the air, he picks another trail. This one takes him to the lake before dead-ending in a scuffle of boots; probably somebody who'd gone skating earlier. None of the larger rocks around the lake have Edgar hiding behind them, out of the direct blast of the wind.

The snow's starting to pick up. The trails of footsteps begin to blur at the edges as fresh flakes accumulate.

[hate_gettin_older]

Nobody crouching in the lee of a fallen tree at the edge of the forest; nobody curled up under the evergreen bushes, which might have held off the snow for at least a while.

It's getting hard to see very far ahead, as the falling snow gets thicker.

[2goodarms]

Curtis fights down a shiver as he squints through the storm. The snow's up to his ankles, warded off by his boots -- but not for much longer.

He trudges on along the edge of the lake, shoving his right hand into his armpit to keep some of the cold at bay.



Is that a building?

[hate_gettin_older]

From this distance it looks like one, at least.

For a moment, before the driving snow cuts off his view of it.

[2goodarms]

That may be the best option he's got right now. Hunkering down against the wind, Curtis slogs on. His face has gone almost completely numb; distantly, he can feel the pelt and sting of snow striking his cheeks.

He's twenty yards away from the shape before he can confirm: yes, it's a building. But only half of it looks like it's standing -- it's missing a wall, a good chunk of its roof, and all of its windows.

Still: it's shelter.

He grits his teeth to cross the last twenty yards.

[hate_gettin_older]

The wind rises, as though trying to push him back -- and then it's gone, blocked by the walls, howling angrily overhead.

There's snow on the floor of the half-demolished building, heaped into drifts against one blackened wall; the perpendicular wall and a rectangular chunk of floor are missing completely, opening onto the lake. Bits of debris are everywhere, wood and metal in decaying fragments; sheets of some heavy fabric are lying about, canvas or similar, pinned down in crumpled heaps with ends flapping loose in the wind.

There doesn't seem to be anybody here.

Except, wait: there's one of those canvas-draped heaps in the corner furthest from the water, and there's something about the shape of it.

[2goodarms]

Something less disorganized than the rest of the building's remains. Something human.

His breath catches.

Saying Edgar's name aloud remains too big a risk. Shivering close to nonstop now, Curtis drops to his knees next to the bundle, untucks his right hand -- his arm moves stiffly, held in once place for too long -- and gives the person a shove.

[hate_gettin_older]

The figure flinches, although this close it's hard to tell; it's shivering even harder than Curtis is, clutching the heavy canvas around itself.

[2goodarms]

Shit.

Curtis gives him another shake. "Hey," he manages through chattering teeth. "Come on. Get up."

[hate_gettin_older]

A beat.

The figure twists around, lifting its head; a few bristles of reddish hair show under the canvas, and one eye, which fixes on Curtis for a moment and then shuts tight.

[2goodarms]

"Fuck's sake -- "

This time, it's not a shove: Curtis grabs Edgar's arm and hauls backward, trying to get him to move.

[hate_gettin_older]

"Get off --"

Edgar struggles, trying to shove Curtis away.

"The fuck are you doing here?"

[2goodarms]

"Getting your ugly ass out of the snow, dipshit," he snaps. "Come on."

[hate_gettin_older]

Abrupt hope surfaces in Edgar's face, struggles with the cold already there.

"Fine," he mutters, and starts to get to his feet, visibly limping.

He isn't wearing the old familiar boots Curtis knows as well as his own. On his feet are new canvas sneakers with thin rubber soles, light and flexible, currently soaked through.

-- Correction: one new canvas sneaker, on one foot. The other foot has only a sock, likewise soaked through, with a few stubborn patches of unmelted snow.

[2goodarms]

Curtis stares, even as he automatically adjusts his hold to take more of Edgar's weight.

"Where's your other shoe?" he asks, bluntly.

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar glares at him, and doesn't answer.

(His other shoe is under a snowdrift, stuck in some underbrush he didn't see until it was too late.)

[2goodarms]

Curtis rolls his eyes.

"Whatever," he mutters. "Come on. Arm around me, I can't carry you."

Edgar's just gonna have to do a one-footed hobble through the snow.