A Don't Starve AU Fan Fiction

Edge

Finally, he collapses to his knees at the cliff side.

The running had made his breathing hard, the frequency of the wracking coughs increasing. Dropping on all fours, he coughs into the ground, hacking up green mucus tinged with rusty blood. Taking a couple of rattling breaths, he hugs his own chest as if it will get the pneumonia to go away, eyes squeezed shut in pain.

He is careful not to touch his own left arm or his back. The claws had left nasty tears on his back and he was 'oh so smart' using a torch to cauterize the wounds that it made him black out until morning. Those wounds hadn't become infected, luckily but the last few days had been hell on top of pneumonia.

The bites on his arm were more recent, as in less than an hour recent. The damned spiders. One had got him, snuck up on him while he was trying to relocate somewhere warmer where he could find some way to cure his lung infection. It had tore his pack apart and left him with nothing but a torch to defend himself with. He had won, but it had already called for help.

He was going to have a hard time recovering from that half hour of running. The chills had overtaken whatever heat he had salvaged from the exercise, the wind off the ocean only serving to freeze his sweat on his brow. His eyes were getting hazy, not that he was really trying to use them. On top of all that, the fever was burning his brain, his mad-tainted mind being kicked towards the edge of insanity with each fever dream. Fever dreams that happened whether he was asleep or not.

So Wilson just knelt there at the edge of a cliff, wishing the fever would go away, that the wounds would stop hurting, that he could breathe normally, that he was strong enough to stand again. Wishing he wasn't so pathetic. He looked out into the grey sea, knowing there was no way to cross it, that he was trapped here until he died. That certainty was looking closer every second.

More wet coughs wracked his frame, each producing more of the horrid phlegm, more tainted by blood every time. Wilson stared at the filth, eyes dully focused in disturbed fascination. He had trouble focusing on his hearing, ears filled with the sound of rushing blood and cotton. He could feel the fingers on his left hand going numb. Gently tilting his head, he looked at the offending limb and through his torn sleeve and the blood; he saw green tinged skin around the wounds.

A half mad laugh escaped the man "Poison!" he rasped, his voice high in disbelief "Of course the spider's bite was poisoned" He threw his head back in insane, desperate, sad laughter. Staring at the sky, he could feel the tears stream down his face.

The laughter slowly dissolved into a coughing fit and he was on all fours again. As his coughs slowed, sobbing took its place. Wilson cried, slamming his good fist into the ground. His face contorted in rage and pain, he continued to beat the ground until whatever anger was beat out of him and the man was left with fear and despair.

"God, please-"he whimpered, choking on a sob, "I don't want to die." He screwed his eyes shut as he dug his fingers into his head, pulling at his black hair, ignoring the pain. He looked out into the sea, as if pleading with it "God damnit I don't want to die!" he yelled, his voice thick with tears and mucus. Wilson had never been truly religious, but kneeling as he was, it looked as if he was a penitent man. He may have even prayed a bit.

It was then that Wilson saw the steam ship. Well, it looked like a steam ship to him, for all he knew, it was a weird log that hallucinations of madness and sickness made to look like a ship. If it was god's idea of a joke, he was sorry he even thought of praying to that sick bastard. He closed his eyes and slumped over, somehow still kneeling upright as he went limp in exhaustion.

He had been dying as soon as he arrived on this island. All the talk of surviving was just a distraction from the truth. He wouldn't be leaving this island alive.

The words snapped him back from unconsciousness. Voices, he could hear voices, but couldn't tell how near or far they were, nor what they were saying. Another hallucination, mad whispers. He dismissed them until they were right in his ear.

"Ya hear me, laddie?"

"Wake up! Sir, wake up!"

"Go away" Wilson muttered, his voice weak and flat "you're not real. Just let me be."

"Wha? What're you sayin' lad?"

"Oh dear, you were right to bring me sir."

It was the touch that made him second guess the whole notion of hallucinations. A hand felt his forehead; cool against the heat of fever. It made him shiver and open his eyes to see a woman kneeling in front of him, grey eyes behind glasses and brown hair in a messy bun. She took off what looked like a sort of cloak and flung it over his shoulders. The warmth was the most wonderful thing in the world in that moment, even if it did make the burn on his back sting a bit. He winced and shut his eyes again as arms pulled him against the woman's shoulder. He would have normally been flustered so close to a woman but now he only felt tired.

"Sir, help me bring him back to the ship!"

"Wha?! We don't even know 'o 'e is!"

"It doesn't matter! He has a fever and I'm betting other wounds!"

"Eh?"

"If nothing else, he should at least die in comfort, not in this godforsaken place"

"Eh, fine. I'll carry 'im. Go ahead an' warn the crew"

"yes sir, captain"

The warmth of the woman disappeared and for a moment, Wilson thought he imagined it ever being there. Until he was picked up and slung over the shoulder of someone much bigger than either him or the woman. He couldn't open his eyes to see but he could feel a strong arm under him. A near silent sob escaped his lips as he managed a whisper "you're real?"

"Aye. Hold on, lad."

This is what happens when I finish finals and am looking at stuff for a game I haven't played since January at midnight! Enjoy this mildly disturbing and depressing fan fiction about a mad man dying on a cliff! This may go on for a couple more chapters but no more than four.