Chapter Text
It had been thirty minutes. Which, usually, wouldn’t be something to be concerned about.
It was a blizzard that was more ice than snow, and even those who wore proper clothing weren’t prepared for the bitter cold.
It wasn’t the cold that bothered Malark; it was the fact that a certain wood-elf was missing. The others, which he barely knew the names of, didn’t think anything was amiss. But as the minutes ticked by, the growing feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach only grew like a cancer. Thirty-five minutes, thirty-six, thirty-seven. It was when Paddy hadn’t been seen in forty minutes that Malark left the cave acting as shelter, against the other members of High Hopes’ wishes.
He tried to find the place that Paddy was last seen. Even when they had been together, the visibility was next to nothing, and all that could be seen clearly was your breath. Malark rummaged through his memory. There was… a dark figure? A tree - that must be it. It was by a tree, Malark’s pretty sure.
Pretty sure? His anxiety-filled mind asked. He tried to push down his qualms and even his breathing, how Paddy taught him, as the frigid fear spread to his chest, threatening to chill him to the bone - more than he already was.
Forty-five.
The sense of dread that had developed in the pit of his stomach quickly turned to panic as he couldn’t even find a tree, or the sky, or the ground, or where he had come from. When putting out his hand to try and orient himself, he realized he couldn’t even see his gloves. Sweat started to drip down his neck, even though it must’ve been at least fifteen below with the savage winds threatening to knock Malark down with every step he took.
“Paddy!” He called. He stumbled in the snow and caught himself.
“Whitlaw!”
Forty-nine.
No answer. As the minutes ticked by, Malark kept trying to swallow the fear.
He was dimly aware that even if he did find Paddy, there was a large possibility that Malark would find a limp body.
It was going to be Malark’s first Winter Veil with the party the next day. It was supposed to be a celebration.
It was going to be spent mourning his fellow rogue.
Malark’s eyes stung, and not just from the wind.
Fifty-five.
He called out again.
“Paddock!”
Malark swallowed the lump in his throat.
Sixty minutes and then even he would have to accept the fact that Paddy would be dead.
Malark started going faster, and screaming louder, and breathing started to stray and become more erratic, his entire being filled with the pure terror of the possibility of Paddy the wood-elf not being there to spend time with watching leaves flow through rivers and streams, sighing at their other party member’s stupidity, and talking during late nights where they couldn’t sleep.
Those late nights, where he had thought of past friends that he had considered family that had passed, and like a button had been pressed that flung him into a state where his fear of almost everything had threatened to swallow him whole.
“Paddy!”
That elf had taught him what to do when there seemed to be nothing left worth doing, when it seemed that everyone you had once cared about had been taken away and that even though that was years ago, the wounds had been reopened like the battles where they were created had been yesterday.
Everyone eventually left Malark. He was doomed to be alone, forever. For the majority of his life, the rogue didn’t mind. Prefered it that way, really.
For the first time in a long time, Malark was downright terrified of the prospect of loneliness. Paddy had helped change that. He felt like he belonged, in a strange way.
The wood-elf had taught him how, when thinking of the people that had passed on, leaving you feeling utterly alone, to just breathe. And take a step. And then another.
High Hopes wouldn’t be the same without the Whitlaw.
Malark turned around. Tears started to slowly fall.
“Paddy!” He shouted, one last time.
Fifty-seven minutes.
Three minutes left.
Malark could barely feel his limbs. He wanted to crawl into a ditch and, quite frankly, never wake up again.
A tiny voice found it’s way into Malark’s ears. It was so faint, so small, and it shouldn’t have carried itself over the wind. But it did.
“Malark!” Rang a familiar voice. One that had spent countless hours talking to him during lates nights and dosing off on his lap, contently watching streams and rivers carry leaves to unknown destinations on different journeys and adventures.
Malark had never turned faster in his life, but his boot caught and he tripped, losing his sense of direction.
Frantic screaming. It was from his left. Malark tried to get up, but he had twisted his ankle.
Malark tried and tried to stand, and each and every time, he fell, and each time, the screaming got weaker and weaker as it’s owner got closer to death’s door.
The screaming stopped, and Malark, running on anxiety alone, stood, and sprinted towards the direction that it had came from, ringing in Malark’s ears. He almost hit a tree, but hit a wall of snow and rock instead. It was a cave-mouth, blocked from an avalanche. He felt hot blood dripping down his face as his nose bled. Still, he began to claw his way through.
Fifty-eight.
He scraped and scratched and cut his fingers on razor sharp pieces of debris. He could almost feel his steaming blood mixing with the snow. He was muttering incessantly to himself.
It would have sounded like he was talking to a group, but if anyone listened closely, they would have only heard:
“Please, Paddy, please please…”
Lightning flashed, and he saw Paddy’s face through a crack. His eyes were closed, chest almost deadly still.
“Don’t be dead.”
Tears threatened to stream down his face. He tried to blink them away.
“I love you.”
Sixty.
Malark tore through and pulled away a decently sized boulder, enough to be able to get to his friend.
He sprinted to Paddy.
The elf was buried in snow. His face was almost frozen and he had bits of ice stuck to his skin. The tips of his nose and his cheeks were blue.
Tears blurred his vision.
He began to gasp and cough and his vocal chords began to make strangled cries. He could feel his heart pounding blood through his ears.
In that moment, the icy fear had fallen and buried him whole. He pulled Paddy close, and hugged him, clutching onto him for dear life. It felt like several eternities and the age of the universe had passed. He knew he had to go. Take a breath and then a step.
But, just as Malark had stood up to walk away from it all, Paddy weakily flitted his eyes half-open and gave Malark a weak smile.
Relief flooded into him, like finding a pristine river after days in a cruel, blazing desert.
He immediately bent down again and hugged him, more careful and less panicked now, as if holding a young child made of glass in the middle of a battlefield.
Paddy was already unconscious again as Malark made his way out of that cave.
Paddy didn’t hear the way Malark shakily repeated:
“I love you.”