Blood Shelter

Rumi

Rumi did not argue, too exhausted and chilled to put up a fight.

Too tired to be embarrassed about her failing strength or how close their bodies were.

Rain streamed down her face, washing the mud from her eyes as she climbed onto his back.

She buried her face into the crook of his neck, his body heat like a beacon of light in the darkness.

She focused only on soaking up his warmth rather than the fear racing through her veins.

The rasp of rope around her waist was the only warning as he looped the rope around her a second time and cinched her body against him.

While he climbed, his muscles bunching and bulging beneath her, she delved inward, trying to find the strength in her Ti’la to create a shelter.

It had been years since she had molded a little hut for her and Mbali, and even then, it had not been weatherproof.

She would need to call the plantlife to knit together tightly enough to keep the rain out.

They had nearly reached the outcropping when she felt the colonel’s body tremble.

He grunted, reaching up.

His foot slipped, the rock crumbling.

The weightlessness of falling had a scream clawing up her throat as she clung to him.

He clutched at the harness around his chest, and a second knife glinted in the darkness.

They jolted to a stop, his knives plunged into the side of the cliff. His hushed expletive did nothing to hide the telltale sharp breaths of someone in a great deal of pain. She dared a glance down and shared an audible curse with him. They had slid back nearly as far as they had climbed.

He did not stop.

The colonel only panted as he began the arduous task once more.

Up and up he pulled them, the rope rubbing her waist raw while she tried to make herself small.

Her arms ached from clutching his shoulders, and the colonel’s body was overly hot from the exertion, his hands bloody from wedging them into the rock.

When he could not find purchase, he rammed his knives into the rock and used that to get leverage.

Rumi prayed and prayed, begging Amuna to keep them safe beneath her cloak.

There was nothing else she could do to aid him.

By the time he pulled them over the edge of the escarpment, he collapsed, his chest heaving as his body shook, no doubt from the adrenaline.

His muscles must have been utterly massacred.

Rumi curled protectively around him, trying to shield him from the rain, her meager warmth drowning in the abyss of cold water pelting them.

Hair clung to her face and neck, dark tendrils seeking the ground.

“You did it.

You did well,”

she said, rubbing his arm, trying to keep her own voice calm despite the hysteria welling in her chest.

There were no plants around.

Nothing to communicate with.

Nothing to work with to create the shelter he had asked for.

What would she do? He had done his part.

Now it was her turn.

“We are alive.

We made it.

We survived.

You did it.

You saved us.”

She continued to assure him.

He did not respond, only gasped in the air, rainwater puddling in the corners of his closed eyes.

Wildly, she scanned the area, searching for anything that might help while her hands rubbed his arms and back, trying to keep him warm while she racked her brain for ideas.

“We made it, Colonel.”

Think, Rumi, think.

“You did it.”

Now she had to do her part.

Dread bunched in her gut when a thought occurred to her.

Without giving herself time to balk, she grabbed his knife, clenching her teeth to cage the hiss of pain, and sliced her forearm.

Too deep.

Pain fired up her arm and her fingers shook so hard she dropped the bloody knife.

Rumi tried not to panic.

Large beads of crimson wept from her wound and dropped onto the wet ground.

Ribbons of red decorated her arm like bracelets as blood pooled below her arm.

A soft cry of relief tickled her throat when buds of green twined upward, leaves opening wide to gobble up the bloody rainwater.

This was more than Sullivan had been able to create.

They had not realized that a willingness to give life was a pivotal part in the Ti’la exchange.

She focused once more, one hand on the colonel to ensure he still breathed, and the other on the plant blossoming beside her.

Her tongue formed the words of the ancient language that thrummed in her bones, her voice resonating through the rocks and rain, speaking the language of the earth itself.

The blood-tinged leaves quivered before growing taller, the stalks vining and braiding around themselves.

Tighter and tighter those vines wove into a ring, forming a circle around them as more stalks rose to meet the tendrils, building on each other and growing taller.

She lost herself to the song, sharing in the whispered gratitude of the life around her.

When she could not feel the rain anymore, she stopped speaking and looked around.

A bubble of green surrounded them, so tightly woven that no water leaked through.

“Thank you,”

she whispered and brushed her fingers over the inner wall.

Then she lowered herself down, utterly spent, and curled into the colonel, seeking his warmth as black crept at the corners of her vision.

As more blood wept from her arm, a spongy bed of moss bloomed below them, cushioning their resting place.