Chapter 4 #2
While I work to restore my body’s function, I test the connection to Ellie.
It’s still there, still tugging northwest, though it’s still no stronger.
The frustration of it gnaws at me. To be so close to finding her, yet unable to gauge whether I'm gaining ground or simply walking in circles.
Every step could be bringing me closer, or carrying me further from where she waits.
Walking across the floor, I look down over the street below. In Meridian, storms mean sheltering indoors until conditions improve. Movement ceases. Roads vanish beneath ice, and even Authority patrols pause until the weather breaks.
Here, life continues.
The raven takes flight, rising into the sky, and sweeping the surrounding streets. It shows me the beginnings of morning movement. People come out from buildings, bundled in thick coverings, their faces hidden beneath fur-lined hoods. Although it’s not like any fur I’ve ever seen.
Some walk with strange cups cradled between their covered hands, steam rising from the tops. Others eat food wrapped in paper, consuming their meals while walking through the snow.
The adaptability impresses me despite my circumstances. These people haven't just learned to survive in this environment, they've built a civilization that thrives in it. The storm that nearly killed me is, to them, just another morning.
My stomach makes a sound, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since before facing Sereven.
I need to find Ellie. I also need food, and water, and shelter from the elements that are slowly killing me. The priorities compete with each other, but I can't deny that survival must come first. I won't be able to find her if I collapse from exhaustion or starvation first.
Some of the buildings have opened shutters or windows. Food vendors opening their stores, despite the weather. The smells that drift on the wind are unfamiliar but unmistakably edible—bread, cooked meat, something sweet and rich. My stomach responds with renewed protests.
Then the raven draws my attention to something else. Uniformed figures walking regular patterns along the pathways. Their movement is too coordinated to be casual, too purposeful to be anything but official.
Are they this world’s Authority? Soldiers patrolling?
I need to be cautious. In Meridian, I know how to read the cues that separate friend from foe. Here, I’m blind. One mistake, one misread signal, and the consequences could end my search.
The connection tugs at me again, that faint sensation that tells me Ellie is out there somewhere. I can’t stay hidden in this place forever. The longer I wait, the greater the chance she might move beyond my reach, or something might happen to her.
Yet I can’t wander the streets indefinitely in clothes that mark me as foreign, with no understanding of this world’s language, and without food or water. I need to adapt, at least enough to survive while I search for her.
I don’t know if she’s aware of the connection or that I’m searching for her. Maybe she thinks I’m lost. I will find her, though. However long it takes, no matter how many obstacles this world puts into my path.
I leave the building the same way I entered it—down the stairs and through the gap in the wall. Snow crunches beneath my boots as I step back onto the street. My raven scouts ahead as I walk, searching for signs of her.
I pass building after building, each one filled with people, while the ones on the street hurry past with their heads down, ignoring my presence. They don’t look up, and they rarely speak to each other.
Then I round a corner and nearly collide with someone coming out of a side alley. A woman, middle-aged, carrying what looks like refuse in a container. She stops short when she sees me, eyes widening as she takes in my appearance.
She speaks rapidly, gesturing at my clothes.
Her tone is oddly worried rather than hostile.
When I don’t respond, she steps closer, reaching toward my arm.
I step back, evading her touch, and she freezes.
Her expression shifts from concern to confusion, then wariness.
Her hand lowers, and she takes a slow step backward, before turning and hurrying back the way she came.
The encounter confirms what I already know. My appearance is going to draw attention. Whether it’s my clothing or something else, something will mark me as someone who doesn’t belong here.
I keep walking, more cautious now, still following the pull of the faint connection to Ellie.
Another street brings another encounter. This time it’s a man clearing snow from the entrance to a building. He looks up as I pass, calling out something. When I don’t respond, he shrugs and returns to his work, muttering something in a low tone.
The brief exchanges remind me of Ellie when she first arrived in Meridian. The frustration in her eyes when she couldn’t make herself understood, the determination that kept her trying. But she had one advantage I lack here. She had me, able to understand her and translate for others.
But I’ve faced impossible challenges before. The key is breaking larger problems into manageable pieces, addressing obstacles that stand between me and my primary objective. Finding Ellie. Everything else is secondary to that goal, mere necessities that enable the search to continue.
I need to survive long enough to reach her. Food, water, shelter from the cold. I need to move through this world without drawing attention that might slow my progress or force me into hiding. If I don’t find her soon, I will need to find ways to understand their language, and their customs.
The connection pulls northwest, but gives me nothing else. She could be streets away or on the far side of this sprawling city. For all I know, she's injured, lost, or facing threats I can't anticipate because I don't understand the dangers this world contains.
Every hour I spend learning to navigate these streets is an hour she remains beyond my reach. Every moment I waste on survival is time she might not have. But rushing blindly forward helps no one.
Still, my situation gives me a new appreciation for how well and how quickly Ellie adapted to my world. She survived Meridian without knowing its rules. She endured. Adapted. And found a way forward.
The thought brings comfort and guilt in equal measure. Comfort, because it proves adaptation is possible. Guilt, because I understand now what I put her through, how helpless she must have felt in those first days and weeks.
Now I walk the same path, in a world that would see me as wrong. But as long as the connection holds, it means she's alive. That has to be enough for now.