Lost Creek Hollow the light was weak and carnivorous

It is the sound of the waterfall that draws Baal’s attention. He trudges through the snow with a shiver slithering down his spine. His winter coat has grown in: coarse and heavy but he’s rawboned from travel and a coat is no good without proper insulation. What he can catch are morsels and when he doesn’t he steals from half frozen corpses that are mostly already all picked apart. He is debased and in his sister’s continued absence his anxiety, at times, causes what little bit of food he manages to scrounge up to slither back up his throat and expel from his body as if it is poison. To this day, Baal’s not sure what came over him that night: the night of the fight. He’s an omega …he’s been an omega his whole life and that was where he was most content. A shadow. His mind is so loud and outside of the spotlight, in the deep and dark shadows is where he thrives. They quiet the noise of his head: quiet the guilt and the desires and his empathetic nature. It is a rare gift to see all sides, all points of view impartially. Raising his voice at his sister: refusing her commands is the boldest thing Baal’s ever done in his life. It was utterly out of character for him. He could say it was grief from losing Hann but he’s not even sure it’s true. Losing Hann affected him in more ways than he’ll ever admit to anyone: they were the closest of the les enfants terrible. Born seconds apart and mirrors of one another: as a different species they would have been twins.

As he comes upon the waterfall: droplets of cold water from the spray peppering his muzzle as he nears the bank, his steps cease and he looks up at it. He sees it but he doesn’t. The bits of frozen rib meat he’d eaten from a half frozen mountain cat corpse half an hour ago causes his stomach to clench and roil with abrupt nausea. Baal swallows, fighting it. He knows what his stomach wants: but he fights that, too. He hadn’t wanted to kill and …eat. He hadn’t wanted to eat the dead during the famine that stole through Kipkark Cove either. He regrets fighting with his sister. He is lost without her, without a leader. He lives barely because survival is too strong an instinct to ignore.

Baal’s fight is futile as he vomits up his meager and pathetic meal: his sides heaving as he empties the small contents of his stomach and is filled with an aching pain. It wants fresh meat, warm meat. Any would do for the moment but he knows that in the end he will always crave the forbidden and that he will forever be affected by that desperate choice. The choice to survive because Hann had wanted him to survive and Baal had never been able to tell him no. Baal lets out a pitiful whimper, salmon pink tongue drawing across his muzzle stained crimson from blood from the few fresh kill’s he’s been able to make over his travels to clean the sick off of his whiskers. If he does not do something soon he becomes painfully aware that this place will be his grave.

There were some things that Mary couldn't pray away; some things were meant to stay with her. When Kathleen, the youngest of her deceased, was born, what should have been inside of the poor babe was made outside. She would try to nurse while resting on her father's nose so that the tender bits exposed on her belly wouldn't scrape against the dirt, but everything that she managed to take in was coughed up within minutes. Mary remembered the sound of her dying daughter's coughs; the hacking and heaving, the soft scraping of fragile claws scraping against whatever they could reach. She remembered it and heard it over and over again every single day no matter how many times she asked God to take it away. 

The thickly furred hare fought its hardest to get from between Mary's jaws, but its fate had already been determined. She was only just beginning to pluck away the white fur when she heard a familiar cough not too far off. It took a moment for her to decide if she really wanted to risk a meal for what could easily be nothing, but she knew what was right. Mary picked up the rabbit by the scruff, allowing the limp body to dangle as she began to trot over to a nearby bush. She made sure to bury it as best as she could before going after the seemingly ill stranger.

Hello? she called out as she approached. Mary scanned the area once or twice before her eyes finally settled on the twisted form of a yearling, if even that. A gasp and a moment of panic before her instincts kicked in and she rushed over.

Baal sucks in a greedy breath as his stomach churns violently once more and he dry heaves, vomiting nothing but spittle this time. There is nothing left in his stomach and he does not understand what is causing it. Is it the hunger? Is it the nausea that the thought brings about? Is it his anxiety over his fight with his sister? There are too many possibilities and the safest conclusion ends up being a bit of everything. He has no time and no patience to attempt to diagnose himself. He’s losing himself in the eye of the storm; disassociating that the eye of the storm is he. This is his own creation. He has chosen his path and this is his punishment for it. There is the sound of footfalls rushing towards him: heard over the pounding of his own heart as he begins to panic. Baal blinks furiously and avoids looking at her the moment he realizes that she is not his sister, taking a few deep breaths to ease the swell of anxiety. His submissive nature fights with his instinct to flee: and thus he settles for an on-edge tail tuck and splay of ears flat against his skull.

“I — I’m fine.” He lacks the grace of articulation that Hann harbored: there is no silver spoon in Baal’s mouth and he stumbles over his words: over the twist of his tongue. He can speak without stumbling over himself but it’s hard to form coherent words when he’s so busy in his mind. His lack of proper nourishment has slowed his brain function: it makes him groggy on top of making him gaunt. “This is normal.” He hears himself offer to her in assurance: but he suspects they both know the truth. It most certainly was not normal. Still Baal feebly makes the effort nevertheless.

Mary drew in her lips and allowed her face to fall with pity. Generally speaking, vomiting wasn't meant to be a normal part of everyday life, save for the expecting and the ill. Seeing as this boy was indeed a boy, it must've been the latter, which gave a direct hit to her heart. All four of her children had lost their lives to unexplained defects and ailments, and Mary would have hated to see another mother go through what she had. Have you eaten? she asked after a moment's silence. He needed that hare more than she did, and she was beyond willing to give it. 

Mary took a cautious step forward with her head down low and her eyes constantly checking for any change in demeanor. She wanted to examine him for any wounds but she wouldn't overstep if he didn't want her to. Nursing was what she was good at, aside from preaching Douglas's old sermons from memory. I wanna help you, hon. Can I help you?

Baal can tell that she doesn’t believe him; it’s not something he has to see to suspect. He can practically feel it as if it were a palpable presence in the space between them. At first, her question is warbled and he cannot make out the words as she speaks them. He has to concentrate, has to focus his attention towards deciphering her words which might as well have been in a different language. Eventually, Baal is able to piece together ‘have’ and ‘eaten’ and concludes that she had been asking him if he’s eaten. “Yes,” He snorts bitterly and makes a weak gesture to the pile of sick at his paws. Chunks from a half frozen carcass hardly constituted a hearty meal but it’s kept him going for this long. Stupid, stupid, stupid he chides himself over and over. You knew better. You know you’ve never been strong enough. You should not have left Cupun. If he hadn’t he would not be in this predicament. It was an easy connection to make, easy to trail his mistakes back to that fight: the genesis of all of this.

Baal is vaguely aware that she draws nearer, but focuses primarily upon his breathing and not dry heaving anymore. He has to calm down, he has to regain control. He shivers as if he is with fever but it is merely a symptom of the anxiety that wreaks havoc on his mind as he wallows in so much regret and his state knowing that it’s all his fault. He’d unknowingly signed a life long contract in his blood with his choice during the famine. He’s bound to the nightmare he’s become for life, possibly for eternity. He doubts even death will grant him the reprieve he seeks. Even that seems too easy if only because he’s too willing to live.

It takes Baal a long moment to realize she’s speaking to him again and he focuses his thoughts towards the words she offers him. Help. She wants to help him, she’s asking if she can help him. No, not if she can but if he will let her, he realizes. He wants to tell her that there is nothing she or anyone else can do to help him because he’s not ill. Not physically, at least. Yet, a desperate part of Baal was to eagerly believe that it’s as simply as a few herbs, as a few good, fresh meals. He wants to believe that her determination to help him will be enough. He knows it’s not, that it will never be.

Baal’s silence is his permission. He’s tired and even a temporarily heal will be enough to get him to the next step: to try to find a pack to take him in. For now, he knows he has to focus on one thing at a time, to try to cut down all the noise in his mind and zero his energy in on the present which is more important than anything else at the moment.

If he couldn't keep down food, then perhaps he would be able to take water? It would be important to keep him hydrated if he was to be vomiting the way he was. Mary thought that maybe after getting him to a fresh water source (or rather, getting the water to him) she could try with the hare. Even better, she could try and feed him like a pup with regurgitated meat, but that was a personal affair that she would need more explicit permission for. Take a deep breath for me, she whispered as she drew in close and began to run her nose along the length of his abdomen, pressing into the area of his stomach and diaphragm only slightly. 

Mary hadn't had a chance to really search out the area just yet, but she knew from listening that there was plenty of water nearby. She stood high and tall while she tracked the source of the rushing, then carefully made her way over. Most of the leaves in the area had since succumbed to the cold weather, having wilted from their places in the canopy; the idea of a boat wasn't very likely to work. Mary scooped up as much water into her mouth as she could, rushed back to the boy, and began to dig a small divot in the ground. Her cheeks were growing sore from holding their expanded position, but she knew that she would have to add pebbles to the floor of the makeshift dish before she could offer her gift to the patient.

Once she'd finished corraling enough small rocks and debris into the shallow hole, she slowly let go of the water, being careful to minimize the splashing. There were some holes in between the flooring of the dish so he would have to drink quickly to get most of what he needed. Here, try to drink some of this, okay? she cooed, gently nudging his shoulder.

If the present was a cliff Baal was only barely clinging to it. Everything else was below him stretched a hellish abyss with inky muzzles each parted with razor sheep teeth snapping as the hell hounds leap from their pit threatening to grab ahold of his fumbling legs as claws scraped uselessly against the bedrock to pull himself up onto solid ground. It took energy that he simply didn’t have and he slips inch by inch, claws digging into the clay and pebbled earth in attempt to find purchase. This is what he feels, how he would give vision to the struggle of his mind. Baal does not even he’s disassociated until she speaks and it sounds to him as if she is speaking through a long tunnel. The words don’t immediately make sense again. This time, it’s the touch of her nose and the journey it takes along the length of his abdomen that shocks him from it. He flinches but not in hostility. For a wild second, he flinches in terror. She’s so close to vital organs. She could have killed him if that’s what she had a mind to do. She’s helping. You agreed to let her help. He reminds himself. “S-sorry.” He fumbles over the word, his tongue tripping on the start of the apology. Baal does not speak with a stutter but he might as well because his tongue always feels so heavy as if his tongue is refusing to cooperate with his brain. He does as she asks then, drawing a deep inhale of the frigid air and letting it out in a slow exhale.

While she leaves him to do …whatever it is she intends to do he worries that she is angry with him. It is, perhaps, an unfounded worry, really, she gave no indication that she was angered by his violent flinch but that does not cease the guilt that threatens to drown him. She’s only trying to help and all he can do is flinch. There’s nothing she can do to him that hasn’t already been done to him, that is any worse than what he suffers through. Physical ailments heal but the mental ones? Those scars linger. He looks up timidly as he hears her returning, and averts his gaze when he glimpses her. He watches, repentant, as she digs the shallow hole. He feels like he should be doing that for her but his strength has deserted him. His stomach screams for what he denies it and he tries not to think about it for too long. He’s in no state to hunt anything let alone anyone but that does not mean he does not fear that the nightmare will find a way. Desperation and aching hunger was an unearthly motivator when pushed to the absolute extreme. He moves towards the hole and bows his head, lapping at the small bit of water that she has carried back for him. His tongue is as dry as the desert sands and the water tastes like heaven in the coppery and acidic aftertaste of his sick.

“I can walk,” He assures her. “I can walk to the water.” Baal reiterates still trying to help himself, still hesitant to rely entirely upon her and her charity regardless of that she offers it. “I’m thirsty.” Suddenly, he is very thirsty; so much so that it's the only thought that momentarily consumes him. It is a temporary reprieve from everything else and greedily Baal latches onto it with a ferocity, wanting nothing more to drink until the dryness of his mouth goes away, until his thirst is sated.