His breathing is slow. In. Crackle. Out. Rasp. She places her hand on his chest, feels the beating of his heart (erratic) and the heat of his skin (hot.) Her breathing is fast. Inoutinoutinout. Her heart beats more steadily (but faster.) She is cold. Shivering.
Tears gather in the eyes of her soul. (Always so much more sensitive than her mind.) Lost. That is how she feels. Without direction, without hope. She doesn't know, and the lack of knowledge hurts almost as much as his slow, cruel death.
There is no time to hope. Just to run. Right foot, left foot. Heel, toe. He his heavy, an anchor pulling her towards the swirling depths of the sea. Waves brush against her cheeks. Salt stings her nose. It is the same feeling. Running in water. Running with him, held to her bent back with her weary arms. Rain reaches, wraps raindrops 'round runners. Arunner. Alone.
She pants. She stumbles. She stands. Goes again, determined (and scared.) How much farther? How much longer? Whowhatwherewhenwhy. How.
She believes in god for the first (and only) time when she sees them. Flying. Green blurs. One lifts the weight of the world from her shoulders. The other lifts her.
She wakes in white. Heavy. Drowsy. He lies across the hall. A thousand shuffling steps away. She moves there. Stares into his eyes. White (more of it.)
(It is his first smile for her. First set of crinkling eyes. First pair of almost there dimples. The first time she saves him.)
Her hand hovers over his arm for a moment, then touches. Feels: Skin. Warmth. Good.
(It is the first time she looks at him with something more. More than starry-eyed admiration.)
Their eyes meet. Genuinely.