vi.
Later, Daniel will blame himself.
Later, when they're back on solid ground, when they're safe from the chains and the needles and the knives, he'll sit beside her and think about how he should have been paying better attention, how he should have reacted faster.
If only he had fought harder, stopped them from taking her. If only he had volunteered to take her place. Things would be different if he had.
The guilt, the worry, the fear – that will come later.
Later, when his mind is clear and the room is quiet but for the whirring of the machine, he'll watch the bright lights pass over her pale skin and notice how her absence from his arms feels worse than the memory of her lifeless body pressed against him.
He'll feel it then, an ache that grows in his chest with each rise and fall of her own, and by the end of the night, it will turn into a deeply rooted attachment, one he'll never be able to shake.
All this comes later.
First, he has to get out of the barn, though it's proving to be more difficult than he would've thought.
He leans back against the wall, breath heavy from the drugs and the effort of scouring the room for a possible escape. It's been hours since Malick's men took Daisy, and in that time, Daniel has searched every inch of the four walls around him only to come up empty.
There are no loose nails or floorboards he could use as weapons, no weaknesses in the structure that he could exploit. The only thing he can find is a small gap in the wall that lets him see into the next room. It turns out to be more of a nightmare than a relief.
If he's being honest, he didn't expect to find anything. Once their captor revealed himself to be the youngest Malick son, it became apparent that there wouldn't be an easy way out. This isn't a simple kidnapping. This is personal.
No, the truth is, the past few hours have just been a distraction. A distraction from what's happening next door. He hears objects rattling, that smug voice that won't stop talking, the clinking of metal against metal. If he closes his eyes, he might be able to convince himself that it's just a slow morning at a diner.
But that's not what he sees.
What he sees through the crack in the wall is an array of surgical instruments strewn on a tray as Daisy lies nearby on a table. What he sees is a needle, then a scalpel descend out of his line of sight followed by a choking, gasping noise.
He knows that sound well by now. It's seared into his skull – that soft, muffled groan, something in between a whisper and a wail. It's the sound of someone trying to swallow a scream, and it might be the worst thing he's ever heard, but then everything falls quiet, and he realizes he was wrong.
The silence is so much worse.
The men drag her back into the room, and Daniel doesn't know all the details of human anatomy, but he knows enough to be worried about the spots of blood at her neck, the top of her spine, her lower back, both sides of her ribs. He expected torture, he expected bruises and perhaps broken bones, but this...this is a dissection.
The thought makes him sick, as does the way Malick talks about her, the way he looks at her – as if she's a well he can drink from, as if she's a resource he's entitled to. Daniel doesn't need to hear his explanation, it's clear now what he wants from her. He wants her powers. He'll stop at nothing to get them.
Daniel looks at the younger man then, really looks at him. He remembers being shown a photograph of him as a child and hearing the obvious pride in his father's voice. He remembers thinking that he was a cute kid with bright eyes and a big smile. There's no trace of that kid in the man before him. And it finally dawns on him that they just might die here if they don't find a way to escape.
Daisy groans softly, and he dives for her, slipping his hand under her head. Her voice is faint and she's muttering something he can't make out, a name, maybe. She says it happened before, and he's still trying to work out what that could possibly mean when her head falls forward and her voice fades away entirely.
He pulls himself back up against the wall and slides his leg under her cheek, starting to tell her his story, hoping his words might help her stay conscious. He tells her about Bastogne, and later, it will occur to him that he might have picked a better topic, a happier memory to share with her, but in that moment, the only thing he's thinking about is how clammy and cold her skin is, how weak her pulse is, how he's losing her and doesn't know how to stop it.
Talking is the only thing he can do, the only way he can think of to hold her attention, so he tells her about Mike Stephens, a man he hasn't thought about in a long, long time. They were never friends, barely more than acquaintances, but that day out there in the cold, Mike never left his side.
Daniel can still remember the stories he told him to keep him awake, stories about his parents, his favorite books, the plans he had for the future. He remembers being surprised to learn that Mike was a reader, that he wanted to travel the world and study different languages. He remembers wishing he had known him better.
Most of all, he remembers trying to speak through frozen lips, trying to tell him how much it meant that he was here. Mike had just shushed him and told him to save his energy and tell him later, when they got back to camp.
Mike never made it back. And Daniel never got to thank him.
But maybe he can now, by keeping his memory alive, by passing on his words, by saving someone else.
Maybe that's what it was all for, his many close brushes with death. Maybe it was to lead him here, to make sure that good people don't have to fight alone, to stay by their side when they need someone, to help them find their way back.
Mike didn't make it, but Daniel will do whatever it takes to make sure Daisy does.
He leans down and raises his voice slightly, hoping she's still with him, hoping that she can hear him.
We're going home, he says urgently, cradling her head in his hands.
What he means is, that's a promise.
...
When the needle breaks her skin, Daisy thinks of her mother.
She thinks of the first time she met her, the first time she heard her voice, the first time she saw her smile. It had felt so warm, being in her presence, standing beside her, talking with her. She had felt so full, knowing that this was who she had come from.
She wants to focus on these good memories, the few that she has, but the mind doesn't work that way. Remembering the warmth in her mother's eyes also means remembering the icy grip of her mother's hands when they wrapped around her throat.
It's starting to make sense now, how Jiaying could have reached that point. With each prick of the needle, every slide of sharp metal into her flesh, Daisy thinks of the pain and the rage and the horrors her mother must have held in her own flesh, in her heart, in her bones. And for the first time, Daisy thinks she may be able to understand how her mother had felt all those years ago. For the first time, Daisy can see how her mother's war might have been justified.
It's unfair, she knows. It's selfish of her to think this way. But it's hard to be the bigger person, it's hard to think of forgiveness when she's being poked and prodded and pillaged, her veins drained of blood, her body being violated and abused and consumed.
When Nathaniel sets down the last of his tools, Daisy thinks of vengeance, and when his men return her to that dusty, dirty floor, she thinks of bringing the whole barn down around them.
But not in her current state.
She can barely lift her head, let alone manage even the tiniest of quakes, and when she tries to speak, the words turn to mush in her mouth. It feels like being adrift, floating lost at sea, tired and empty and alone, and she lets herself succumb to it, lets her eyes fall closed as she sinks into the fog that's settling in her mind.
She's just getting lost in it when someone reaches out and pulls her back – a voice in her ear, hands stroking her hair, something soft and firm underneath her head. Ah, there he is. Sousa.
This feels warm too, a different kind of warmth, one she would quite like to keep.
He's saying something else now, and she tries to focus on his words, but they're slippery and distorted, like ripples in the water. She finds it hard to concentrate, so she settles instead on the cadence of his voice, the gentle rise and fall of his tone. It sounds like music and feels like waves rocking her back towards the shore. It's one of the loveliest things she's ever heard.
She feels his fingers tighten slightly in her hair as his breath tickles her ear. His next words are clear and unmistakable, and when he speaks of home, she finds that she can picture it. It seems close enough that if she were to just reach out, she could touch it.
Slowly, she lifts her hands up and shows him the piece of glass she's been hiding in her palm. It was the best she could do. She hopes it will be enough.
The pain hits anew when he slides it from her skin, and it hurts too much to do anything else, so she lays there, eyes closed, listening to the sound of his voice, letting it guide her home.
Keep talking, she wants to tell him.
What she means is, I'm listening.