timber heart ; ;

Marlon watches intently, expression serious till she meets his gaze and his expression splits into an easy smile. There could be many reasons she listens so carefully. Maybe starvation was not new to her, maybe she’s an overly practical woman or, more likely, she’ll do anything to feel better. She drinks the juice. A shiver runs through her and he’s immediately ready to ask about blankets or coats – but then she begins to hum. 

Marlon’s selflessness is born from pure selfishness. There’s a satisfaction he can find nowhere else when he helps another. They never owe him anything – he could easily live without the ‘thank you’s – because it’s simply enough to see the difference these hands of his can make. At some point he used to overthink – wonder if it was still the ‘right’ thing to do if running to another’s stress would ultimately make both of them feel better. Now he considers it a gift and good fortune. Not many would push aside their own time or needs to help others. There’s nothing but bone deep satisfaction when she begins to hum with her satisfaction. She finally manages a few words which aren’t completely strangled by her dry throat. Much to Marlon’s joy.

“Not a problem, he answers with a nod and almost embarrassed smile from how much joy this brings him. It’s why Marlon always dreamt of being a doctor, why he was so willing to put that dream o hold when his parents needed his helping hand,“Just tell me if you need anything else, yeah?”

He knows it’s probably best not to overwhelm her. The few bits of juice and fruit will be enough of a shock. There’s no telling what she’s been through and Marlon doesn’t feel now would be a good time to find out. Instead he lets the grin soften, not wanting to be over bearing, and goes for introducing himself,“My name’s Marlon.”

The satisfaction is short lived as the pain worsens, starting at her bellybutton and reaching outward, into the rest of her abdomen. Her first thought is that she’ll lose her breath to the pain, and it’s hard enough to breathe already. Her second thought is that she’ll vomit, and she tries to steel herself against it, needing to keep the water down. She can’t keep the shakes from coming, though she is small inside her jacket and hopes the canvas will hide most of it. Liadan peers into the tiny can of peaches, longing for another taste. Her tongue says Drink, her stomach says Upchuck. 

Looking up, she meets his eyes again, and there is a happiness to them she didn’t expect. No one around here seems to have that kind of look anymore. Then again, she’s only seen a handful of people in the past two months (people who have stowed her away, those...things she had to fight off), so her perception may be off. But she can read people like the best of them, and she finds his ease and confidence comforting. “Liadan,” she says in return, opting for the water bottle this time and taking a sip. “Thank you,” it comes again, even when he’s already gone and reassured her she doesn’t need to say so.

Her appetite is finally piqued, despite the fighting pain cramping in her stomach. She’s had a taste and it’s like her body knows there’s more nearby, and how can she deny it when she needs it so badly? Hunger takes over any sense, and she has another sip of the juice. A small diced peach slips through, then another. She sinks her teeth into the tiny fruits and sighs. Swallows.

The more he assisted her the more she seemed to trust him, allowing the fatigue to consume her and use his aide as support. He didn’t mind, that was what he was here for, after all; he wanted to help her re-acclimate, realize that they were all here to survive - and it could be done together. She didn’t have to go back out there alone. This new world they lived in wasn’t meant to be braved by one. 

She settles down into the chair obediently and continues taking careful sips of water as he fetches a selection of fruits and vegetables they had collected. It isn’t much - nothing is really all that much anymore - but it’s better than nothing and it would definitely help to get her energy back up. As he takes the seat across from her she comments on his name and he smiles lightly, shoulders lifting in a modest shrug. “Well thank you, I appreciate that.” Perhaps not as unique as her name by a long shot but that doesn’t mean it lacks in good graces. 

He can tell she’s attempting to speak - perhaps to refuse everything or take it all, he’s unsure. But he gestures for her to make a selection for there isn’t any way he’s going to allow her to ‘wave off’ their generosity. As much as they need the food she needs it ten times more at this moment.

When she finally chooses the red apple he nods, gesturing for her to go ahead, “I can cut it up for you, if you like, or you could take it like that - whatever you prefer. Just eat it slow, I know it’ll be hard but you don’t want to push yourself too fast after what you’ve been through.” 

Nothing in her wanted to ask for more help. She was always on his side of the table, offering, giving - being on this side was foreign to her, tasted funny. What was the proper balance to strike when asking for things? Liadan stared at him while he spoke, giving her options - he could cut it, she could cut it, she could try to eat it whole. Then she stared at her hand. She didn’t have the energy to chew, so whole was out of the question. She stared. Watching it quiver. Watching it shake against her own will around the apple. Feeling it shake and grip the water bottle tighter. She removed her hand to reach for the knife and it shook so violently it gave her a chill and her arms came back to hold her coat, water bottle standing between her legs.

“I can’t.”

The words slipped out faster than she’d let them - faster than she realized they’d wanted to come at all. She couldn’t. Something inside her was so changed, so affected by what was out there over two months, that she couldn’t hold her own hand steady. Her stomach ached and she sighed, taking another sip of water in the hopes of satiating any dire thirst. It was food, nourishment that she needed.

To top it all off: she didn’t earn this food. She didn’t earn the right to take it from others. She didn’t find it or scavenge for it or unearth it. Somehow, her confusion made conflict in her - what was this place, and why was it now considered hers?

Just as soon as he steps closer to help she moves towards him, as if gravitating towards his being for comfort, for warmth, for stability - maybe all three. The reasoning doesn’t matter as much as the act itself and he allows her to grab a hold onto his forearm with the trembling hand, to use him as a support to keep her on her feet. As she holds onto him and takes the bottle of water he lets his free arm loop around her carefully, as a guide and another support to keep her upright in case wobbly knees were to fail. 

She nods in agreement to his words, comprehends the conversation - which is all a good sign, a very good sign, one that hopefully points in the direction of a full recovery despite exhaustion, starvation, and dehydration that were crippling her. Once they had her drinking and eating and resting she would, with time, be good as new.

A smile flickers onto his expression as she sips the water with a carefulness that’s just as eager, as a gentle sigh escapes her and rivulets of liquid not captured by lips make paths down her chin. She holds onto him tighter and he’s not planning on going anywhere, not planning on leaving her any time soon. “Good,” he speaks gently, nodding with encouragement he doesn’t know if she needs but gives anyway. 

He begins to lead her towards the makeshift kitchens and storage of food, listens for her answer to his question but doesn’t prod for a response she may not desire to give. At first only a breath of air escapes her, a whisper of a word that’s lost in translation and interrupted with a cough  that clears the throat and is soothed with another mouthful of water. He waits patiently, still careful and leading, before she speaks again. Liadan. 

“Well it’s a pleasure to meet you, Liadan,” he greets, “that’s a lovely name.” Now that they’ve reached the ‘dining’ area of sorts he sits her down on one of the chairs that’s pulled up to a table before fetching a selection of food that would be good for her to start out with, fresh fruits and vegetables that had been gathered by their scavengers, a can of soup if she was feeling up to it, a pocket knife produced to cut them up. “Tell me what you like.”

A strong arm comes around her narrowing waist and she allows herself to lean a bit of weight into his hold. His form is sturdy and upright, and she feels her muscles deflate in relative peace. At last they can uncoil and rest. Even in sleep, however cavernous and black it might have been, she had felt restless behind closed eyes. Now she is allowed to let her fatigue take over, and it cries out for help in various ways: her eyes, heavy-lidded and dull; her legs, shaking and weak; her head, nearly tilted to lay on his shoulder.

He leads her into the museum and she takes periodic sips of water. Each new swallow feels like a step closer to normal. But this body still feels too worn, old and in need of major repairs. She does not feel like herself and doesn’t recognize such a strong need for help with the fundamentals like walking and feeding herself. Infantile needs have become her primary needs. But he’s kind and generous, doesn’t call her out on her weakness or pain, and she sinks, slow and easy, into the chair.

She thinks, maybe she should have told him her nickname. She doesn’t know why she considers it. Maybe to resurrect a part of her past she knows will be lost forever if she doesn’t make an effort to preserve it. Maybe she longs for a connection like those she had at the camp, ones of family, of safety, or at least mimicking it. Maybe she just wants to pretend like nothing’s happened, she’s at home, it’s just a conversation with one of her father’s employees. Any number or combination of these leaves a sour taste in her mouth, and it’s not because of the water.

She smiles the way a sun barely peeks through overcast, little flares in her eyes and curls of her lips. “Thank you.” She takes another drink. “Tobias is a nice name, too.” She wants to say more (it’s strong, biblical, pure, golden, reminds her of a mountain lion at rest) but her voice won’t allow it. She sucks in a thready breath that hurts to let out. Another drink.

The array of foods in front of her makes her teary-eyed, mouth open as if to speak, but...what can she say? Everything. All of it. She wants all of it. She hasn’t seen food like this in months. But it’s for everybody. They should have it. But she wants it. She just doesn’t know how to say it. It’s not hers to take. She’s a guest. They’ve done so much for her...

Unsure, she gently puts a wavering hand over a round, red apple.

There’s something that lights in her eyes akin to fear, though the source of it Tobias can’t be certain. Of course there is a long list of things that could be the root cause of it; fear of the unknown or unfamiliar, fear for survival, fear associated with demons of her past - they were living in a world that surrounded them in horrors and monsters; they had all cozied up with fear on more than one occasion over the past month or so. He wasn’t at all surprised by this reaction, but it meant he had to tread even more careful still; he didn’t want to cause her any more suffering. 

Her coat remains pulled tight around her smaller frame, sectioning her off from the rest of them, giving her a comfort of familiar in a world so new. It’s natural to seek out the familiar in times like these, natural to crave something associated with memories. But still he’s worried about her, worried about the subtle quake to her limbs as if they could barely support her small frame, the fatigue that weighs on her lids and weakens muscles. 

Then her head falls into her hand and Tobias steps closer instinctively, wanting to offer her a shoulder to lean on or a hand of support, but still not wanting to cause any further anxiety. So he moves in closer, an offer, there if she needed him. 

But she nods in agreement to his offer of food and he holds out a bottle of water for her to drink. “Sip slowly to start and I’ll bring you to the food, okay? It’s right down the hall here.” He pauses, just a breath, before introducing himself. “I’m here to help you, my name’s Tobias. Can you tell me yours?”

Warmth, she needs warmth. She’s got her coat and she’s safe inside a building but she’s freezing and hungry and she needs warmth. Warmth and to lie down. Suddenly the idea to stand, to walk, even in search of food, seems like a bad one, and she wishes to be back on the cot on which she found herself, wherever she left it. She hasn’t known a hunger this deep before in her life, never gone without for this long. She doesn’t want to open her eyes to the people around her because she’s afraid she will see someone worse off than herself, and her shaking shoulders cannot bear the weight of guilt, of selfishness. Still, she knows if her family were here, she’d go another two months without food if it meant they could live.

Hunger and shaking and freezing all set the panic into motion, the one she tries to quell, the one that begins to subside as she looks to the man in front of her, all soft eyes and gentle tones. He is not afraid. He is healthy, he is standing tall, he does not shake. He will help. Overwhelming gratitude moves her closer to him, just as he steps to her, and as her knee buckles ever so slightly, she holds onto him with one trembling hand.

Water. Waterwaterwateryeswaterpleasewater. She has to steady her fingers around the bottle first but she grabs it with an intensity brought on by cold and by fear - she cannot lose the water. She nods to his instructions, remembering, knowing the steps but navigating a foggy mind that’s only getting foggier to find the memories. Long, hot days at the logging sites. Water slowly, then food, maybe. She tips her head back and sips as deliberately as she can manage. Streams dribble down her chin and she sighs with thirst, holding tighter to his arm. She motions, Thank you.

Food sounds almost better than water. She follows him, still holding to his arm, when he introduces himself. Tobias. Her eyes brighten at the name, she likes it. It has a certain quality. She nods to him, opens her mouth and, “Liadan,” comes out as air rather than sound, a whisper through her throat and she has to stop and cough. The water hasn’t completely wet her palette, so she takes another swallow. “Liadan,” she says again, this time inside her husky alto tones.

Every time he’d get a call out, no matter how the situation described he could never be certain what he’d find. There was always moment which would tip the situation. Life only dealt extremes and one small change could spell disaster or a nothing. Now, he waits for words. Before it’d be much the same. He’d be looking for a pulse or for even a flicker of pupils. If she speaks, then it’ll be a usual situation. A ‘nothing’. If she doesn’t or begins to gulp the water: it quickly tips into disaster.

She sips at the drink while he imagines she’s gasping to chug the entire thing. Then, she finally she finds her voice.  At least part of it. The words are half lost and sound as they scratch their way out of her throat. It’s an odd sense of relief when things are better than they seem. It’s almost anti-climatic. The true possibilities of what could be simply fall out of mind. The real, possible dangers mere after thoughts when they could be all consuming.

‘Ok,” Four days isn’t as bad as he expected. It’ll be a while before she could work up to full meals. (Although he’s not certain that’s a luxury they can afford nowadays.) She might not even be able to stomach solids just yet. “I’m going to get you something to start with. Sit tight.”

The ‘sit tight’ immediately feels redundant. He even almost winces,instead he smiles small before disappearing towards the supplies.

He returns a few minutes later, peeling the lid off a can of  small tinned peaches. As much as he tries to stop his helping from looking like coddling, it’s too risky to do anything else. Marlon crouches in front of her this time. The can of tinned peaches is small but to a starving women, it might look like heaven.

“You’re going to have to take your time with the food. I know, it sucks, but start with just the juice. You’re body needs to adjust.” He sets the can next to her one the bench once more, still keeping a wary eye on her in case her eyes prove to be bigger than her stomach.

Four days. It sounds like such little time. Four days she’s gone without eating a single thing - over the stretch of two, three months, those four days over and over again add up. She’d gone for six days. A week. Two. Four days seemed like nothing when he asked, but now, sitting here, doing the math - she wonders if she should tell him she’s been undernourished for months. She doesn’t think to bring it up just yet, her lips tasting water for the first time in those four days, it feels too good to take a breath and speak again just yet.

It hurts to speak. She fights for volume, for any slight appearance of strength left inside her, but her voice is smoky anyway and her throat feels like it’s a rope pulled taut and she just wants to keep drinking. But there’s so much to say. Thank you, for one - for the fact that this place is here, and it’s real, and there are survivors. She wants to tell someone that her family is dead because no one else knows yet and it’s killing her. She wants to say that she’ll help, she’ll take up jobs, she’ll do whatever she can to keep this good thing going, as soon as she has her strength back. But she can’t say anything, her sandpaper throat putting up a winning match against her will.

Just like that, he scuttles off. Liadan clutches the water bottle and dares herself to take a bigger sip. She coughs lightly, and sputters, not really expecting herself to listen to that silly thought - don’t push it, she reminds herself, no matter how good it feels. Her hands tremble with a violence that ripples the water like a storm. Her back joins in. Fear begins to register, something she’s ignored for a long time: what if she doesn’t make it, even now?

He comes back and her stomach feels like it’s in knots - but he has food. She sees the can and right away forces herself to sit up straighter. It doesn’t take much convincing. Right away she nods, agreeing to his terms and holding out her unsteady hands for the can of peaches. Even before it’s met her lips she can taste the sweet. She’s so, so glad there is someone kind who is willing to care for her this way. She meets his eyes in gratitude before tipping her head back and drinking.

It’s cool. She feels it all the way down. Her body shudders, she thinks in surprise rather than pleasure. The syrup coats her throat and she finds that she can hum in satisfaction, to let him know she’s all right. There’s an ache low in her stomach that’s starting to persist, and she wraps one arm around her torso, taking it easy and setting down the can. One more time, she pulls her eyes up to meet him.

This woman may not have even realised she walked up to a museum. In what looks to be a confused daze, seeing a dinosaur skeleton looming in her vision must be a sight. Or maybe she doesn’t care at all. The second thought seems more realistic

When she sits down, her sighs sound more like deflating. As though any second now she’ll disappear. With starved eyes and cheeks that have begun to cave in, it looks like she’s half way there. He doesn’t want to think on how long she was wondering, alone. How long she’s gone without the basics that means she stares at the water as though it were the most beautiful thing she’s ever laid eyes on.

“Try not to gulp it down. Take a few sips for now and see how it goes.” He unscrews the lid whilst speaking before setting the bottle onto the bench next to her,“Could you tell me when you last ate?” he asks, watching her expression closely. Trying to pick out how much life there is behind her complete silence. Hopefully, it’s more nerves with being around strangers than some sort of trauma silencing her. Marlon knows he won’t do her any harm so he’d simply have to prove it. It’d be a quicker problem to solve. Unsure exactly what supplies they’ve got, the question may be a pointless one. No matter her answer, he might only find a granola bar at best. Still, he watches and waits patiently for her to answer. She’ll need to get accustomed to drinking again before she gets onto any solids food anyhow.

There are artifacts...everywhere. Strange paintings and sculptures and recreations with wax and fake fur. There’s more plaques than she can read in a lifetime and everything seems to be staring at her, no matter where she moves in the room. They had historical displays and tiny walkabout visitor’s stations in Montana, but around Jardine, museums weren’t really a priority. There was so little history worth telling, she supposes - mostly genocide and the invasion of lots of white people. Probably her own white people. The name “Bailey” could have only come from a few places.

So being here has her confused, wondering why and how they’ve set up camp in a museum, of all places. Perhaps it was the only one still intact (she barely remembers dragging her feet through the city, let alone what buildings were upright or structurally sound), or it had enough room for their cause. How many people can it fit, she wonders? And where are they all? How many have managed to escape the war zone the outside world has become?

He tells her what she already knows about readjusting to regular food consumption, but is glad she’s reminded - she has half a mind to chug the whole thing in a few swallows. Instead, she does as he instructs, taking the bottle with grateful eyes and a nod and tipping it back gently into her mouth. Water has never tasted so good. Lukewarm and a little dirty, it’s heaven on her tongue. It takes all her strength not to keep drinking.

“Thank you,” she finally says, her throat dry and only half the words making it past the husk in her voice. She clears her throat, swallows the sting in the back, and has another sip of water. Last time she ate... Liadan wets her lips and her brows come down in thought. “Four... Four days ago,” she finally concludes, counting backward and trying to remember what made each day different. “I think.”

Marlon had not been there when the women was taken in, but he’d found her at some point under Tobias’ care. He’d help when Tobias would let himself have a moments break. Those moments in time seemed incredibly rare to come by.  Still, at some point he found himself sat with the cold compress held over her forehead and wandering what she’d been through that knocked her out so hard and for so long. When she woke and ran off – she moved with such speed he’d be hard pressed to put her as looking like Death when she arrived. It’s amazing what fear can push someone to do. He sits with the wet compress in hand and only watches her gather herself on unsteady legs and wander out into the main floor. She doesn’t say a word: only looks at him startled and confused. As though she were some feral creature rather than a human at this point. Marlon doesn’t rush to follow, instead he lets her have a few moments to walk and let the situation sink in. Her legs look steady enough to keep her up, for now. He’ll manage to sprint and catch her if she falls anyway. A reasonable distance away, he follows her. She trembles fiercely, even beneath the coat, and he desperately wants her sat down once more before her body gives out on her again. He restrains himself, of course, moving too fast or forcing her to sit will only throw her off more. “Hey there,” he calls out softly, very aware she may still startle at the sound no matter how gently he speaks. Marlon holds up the water bottle and tips his head towards a nearby bench when he gets her attention,“Would you like a drink? Or to sit for a bit?”

This is not the mountains and this is not Jardine - this is barely anything at all, the once-theres, the remains of what had been perhaps two, three months ago. A skeleton of its former self. Much like her, actually, and she suddenly feels closer to disappearing inside the building than even the smallest inkling to escape it. Out there is a world of brutality, tenfold. She wonders, as before, if New York is still fertile ground for chaos and overpopulation, disease and danger. If the risk is actually greater here than out there. She supposes not - after all, there is food here, and a gathering of people. Better together than apart; stronger.

But that does not remove her from her guarded state of mind, however bleary and cloudy it is. She can barely make sense of what she sees, and finds herself worried (afraid, even) of everything. A flick of the wrist or a too-fast blink and she can feel her trembling worsen. Nourishment is what she needs. Something to sharpen her mind and steady her legs and hands. A fire to sit by, perhaps, though she surmises they might not have those for fear of burning the place to the ground.

Already she misses home.

The voice makes her jump, only just - she surprises herself by how easily she is startled in this state of hunger and fatigue. There is very little she can tell herself that will calm her shaking nerves. The man, from before, just before... The one with the wet cloth, a narrow, shrewd face. But his eyes say truth beyond the squareness of his brow. And he’s offering her water.

Liadan nods, following his gesture and taking a seat on the bench. Her back curls in respite, a long sigh escaping her. The water - her eyes lock onto the bottle, not wanting tor each something she hasn’t been properly offered.

She had shown up at the gates in a state of delirium, exhaustion written into every plane of her face, fatigue consuming her body. It had only been a matter of minutes between her arrival at the doors and her collapse from days, weeks, a month or more of travel, of fighting off Infected, of surviving. So what could they do but take her in and tend to her wounds and survey her condition? Even if they were trying to keep a quiet safe haven it wasn’t as if they could leave here there at the door. It would have left her exposed, ready for killing. It would be another death Tobias would place on his hands, more blood slicked across his palms, and that number was already high enough as it was. 

So they had taken her in, laid her down on one of the cots they had collected over the past week or two from looting nearby homes and apartments, collecting odds and ends. She had been wrapped in blankets to keep warm, monitored for signs of waking. He had been one to keep an eye on her most frequently over the hours, but when she’d finally woke he’d been away, taking some time to play cards with Rebecca. 

It wasn’t until he saw her strolling aimlessly through the main hall that he even knew she’d woken, wrapped tightly within her jacket and observing the new world she found herself deposited in. He got to his feet to walk towards her, though he stopped a fair distance away, not desiring to startle. 

“You must be starving,” Tobias spoke gently, watching her with cautious eyes. It was hard to tell how a person would react when first waking from unconsciousness, especially in a world like this where very little made sense and hostility ran so high. He didn’t want to cause a scene if it were possible to avoid. He wanted her to feel safe, welcomed here, even. “I can show you. We have food and water right down here. It’ll help you feel better.” 

Childhood nightmares paled in comparison to her most recent history, conjuring up monsters that only existed in her head until they were right in front of her. Choices she’d had to make purely for her own survival were grim exploits of fantasies only her dreamsleep could have cooked up. But here she was, traveled and weary, at the end of her escape from the nightmare that had entered their reality. Bombings and illness and something she couldn’t explain - a change, a shift, the entering of a new era. Something she hadn’t thought would happen to them, but made sense. The world had been heading toward war, anyway. Perhaps this was a side effect.

Her eyes fell upon a man who approached her, and she stood her ground, waiting for him to close the distance. He kept a fair space between them, perhaps out of respect, perhaps out of fear. Liadan felt extraordinarily small in her coat, in this building, watching as his kind eyes and kind words offered her food and a respite. Her muscles were slack with wear but her jaw couldn’t muster the effort to fall and make words. Yes, food, please, need food. Between her heavy-lidded blinks and trembling legs and the swaying inside her head, she couldn’t think up the things to say.

My family is dead, she wanted to scream. I want an explanation for why my family is dead. Do you hear me? My family is dead! A rush of air shot from her mouth and she caught her forehead in her palm to keep upright; the first semblance of sound or response to the gentle man’s words. She recognized it as the beginning of tears, but couldn’t muster the strength to make them fall. She hadn’t spoken the words aloud, not even to herself, in the last few months, but they had circled, endlessly, a spinning flux of cascading failures: my family is dead.

She allowed the feeling to pass, the tightness in her chest and the locking of her jaw. It was the thought of food, at last, that made her want to weep. Her stomach twisted with hunger, her muscles ached for fuel and repair. She looked up at the man with fervent gratitude, and nodded.

But she had to walk with them, test them out like a newborn foal, trying to get her bearings and recover. She remembered waking up, warm and covered in blankets, someone tending to her head with a damp cloth, perhaps for fear of fever or long-term unconsciousness. She remembered blinking slow, up at their face, not recognizing them at all and jolting as only a person who’s just been pulled from a deep sleep can jolt: barely, and suddenly, and she had cried out in pain. Her scar had been irritated, every muscle sore, every bit as familiar to Liadan as a perfect stranger.

So she walked through the main floor, watching, taking it in - the bodies, the sounds, the faces. Dozens, gathered in safety and survival. For how long? She’d lost count of days, hardly able to track the seasons until she felt the ocean breeze push winter onto her skin by the coast. New York was cold in the winter, nearly as cold as Jardine. She pulled her coat tighter around her body, not because she was so much affected by the temperature anymore, but because she wanted to drown in its folds and fabric. It still smelled like home.

Liadan Bailey’s knees wobbled and her shoulders trembled. She was fatigued and hungry and afraid. She didn’t know who to ask for a bite to eat and a place to lie down.