She moves closer, and every military-bred instinct in his body tells him that she's a threat because no one voluntarily moves closer to him unless it's with a knife or a gun in their hand (or a sword, in some very rare, very strange cases). All she has in her hand is a scarf, held out to him in silent offering. For the blood, she says. He hadn't realized he was bleeding.
Maine blinks once or twice just to be sure that she's actually there, and once he confirms that yes, she definitely is, he gathers his hands against the ground and heaves himself up into a kneel. The pain in his head is still very present, twisting the trees into fuzzy green shapes, and he sways unsteadily for a few seconds before the world rights itself and he can focus. On the soldiers, cutting through the rocks and frozen brush to check on the remaining eight. On the scarf, dangled across her open palm. On her face, committing small details to memory.
THANKS, he writes with one finger in the snow, after he's carefully plucked the scarf from her hand. He presses it to the gash on his temple. Thanks doesn't feel quite good enough for a stranger who came to his aid when she absolutely didn't need to, so he finishes it off with two dots and a backwards c. :)
sry for his awkward lakshmi
She moves closer, and every military-bred instinct in his body tells him that she's a threat because no one voluntarily moves closer to him unless it's with a knife or a gun in their hand (or a sword, in some very rare, very strange cases). All she has in her hand is a scarf, held out to him in silent offering. For the blood, she says. He hadn't realized he was bleeding.
Maine blinks once or twice just to be sure that she's actually there, and once he confirms that yes, she definitely is, he gathers his hands against the ground and heaves himself up into a kneel. The pain in his head is still very present, twisting the trees into fuzzy green shapes, and he sways unsteadily for a few seconds before the world rights itself and he can focus. On the soldiers, cutting through the rocks and frozen brush to check on the remaining eight. On the scarf, dangled across her open palm. On her face, committing small details to memory.
THANKS, he writes with one finger in the snow, after he's carefully plucked the scarf from her hand. He presses it to the gash on his temple. Thanks doesn't feel quite good enough for a stranger who came to his aid when she absolutely didn't need to, so he finishes it off with two dots and a backwards c. :)
Better. Or the best he can do right now, anyway.