#dr vauclair

(Walton + A Vague Notion of You - AKA never trust me with prompts.)

It was too late in the year for the mountains to flaunt their autumn coats, but a stubborn smattering of leaves still cast their fiery shadows upon the snow chilled ground. They danced a kaleidoscope underneath the slowly passing sun, but, discouraged by the brisk mid-November air and the layer of ice crusting top of a day-old snow, only a few were inclined to see it.

Walton did not mind the loneliness. The whistle of a timid northerly wind and the crunch of snow underfoot were a welcome reprieve to the hustle of the cities he was so used to. If only he could have been truly alone, he laments as his fingers brush against the ice forming beneath a ladden bough, he would have extended his stroll a little further.

He turns to look at the one following him with weariness creasing the corners of his lips. Bundled in a coat and scarf much thicker than his, you move more slowly trough the denser patches of snow, but do well enough to keep up with his more practiced strides despite the soreness you are starting to feel within your bones. Nonetheless, he murmurs for you to keep up, and you cannot help but grimace.

For you this trip is becoming less and less of a roadside rescue and more of a nagging feeling in your gut that you were about to die. The setting and circumstances were almost correct for a B-rated thriller minus the fact that the sun sparkled in a clear blue sky. Your car veers. Glass shatters. Metal rips. When your eyes finally reopen a face like death haunts your driver's side window. And your dog is gone.

You check your phone again and are crestfallen that there is still no signal on this trail he says leads back to the road, and when you call out your beloved canine's name there is still no answer - only that hollow wind and the breaking of ice beneath your feet. Your limbs are beginning to tremble and your jaw begins to chatter, and you know it is not because of the cold.

You do your best to keep afloat.

"How far...?" you ask, tucking your bare hands under your arms. "You're certain you did not see my dog?"

Walton turns those eyes upon you again and your guts churn. The anxiety ramps when he shakes his head and points to a distance to his left. "The road is back up that way," he answers and your blood freezes like your breath, "approximately eighteen minutes away. Seven if you decide to run."

You pale. "You're not taking me back to the road?" Anger. Fear. "You're taking me further away?"

He puts a finger to his lips and you feel inclined to hurt him though the thought of retaliation keeps you guarded. He has a knife - you see it hanging upon his belt. He has a gun - one is strapped over his shoulder. And he is stronger than you. You, on the other hand, have a pain in your wrist from your work and a tightness in your chest from the seatbelt that saved your life. You might be able to fight, but it would be hard to win.

His hand lowers, but the index finger remains extended, and you realize it points to a single track of pawed feet spaced unevenly apart. You do not recognize it immediately, dazed as you are, but its name dawns upon you.

"(Dog's Name)..." They are here. Why did they have to run?

"You're high on adrenaline. It is why you shake," he states turning about and beckoning with a jilt of his head for you to follow. "And those panicked thoughts are pushing you towards shock. Please remember to breathe. You seem too proud for me to carry you." Your brows crease at his strangely acute observation and you hug yourself tighter. Lips open in protest, but he cuts you off. "Your dog is at the stream. They look to be okay if not a little dazed and nervous as you."

Immediately your attention and movements perk at the thought of reuniting with your furry friend. You even dash up in front of Walton's strides and careen your neck towards the direction he leads you though you currently stand nearly as tall as him.

But through the sunset coloured trees and tired land you see no stream. You see no dog. You hear nothing except, again, the steady snapping of ice and snow beneath his feet. It stops right behind your back. And you see nothing except a growing shadow in the corner of your widening eyes.

You turn slowly to look upon the stranger who found you - a man who wandered these desolate woods alone. The sun momentarily blinds you to the features of his pale face, but you swear his eyes and the darker shades upon the planes of his face had a feral glow. Your legs begin to feel both like steel and jello as your hands drop as fists against your side. Your heart contracts like packed snow.

But he is not even looking at you. His eyes flick across the valley spreading before you. "I see no stream," you test out warily. "I don't even hear one."