Flux

In the end, he did the only thing he could think of: he filled his own mouth with as much water as he could, carefully made his way back, and then pressed his lips to Ennek’s. It was hard to be sure, but he thought at least some of the liquid went down the other man’s throat. He made several more trips—pausing only long enough to swallow some water for himself—until his legs would no longer carry him and he collapsed on the beach alongside Ennek.

    ***

    He didn’t exactly sleep. He was too worried and his slashed arm was throbbing with every heartbeat and he thought he might be a little feverish as well. But he dozed a little here and there until the sky began to brighten and birds started calling raucous morning greetings.
    Ennek looked even worse in the daylight. His skin had a greenish tinge and it looked very tightly drawn over his bones. Against all that paleness, his hair was shockingly dark and his new scar was red and angry.
    Miner got to his feet again and found his little pool of fresh water; he repeated the tedious business of bringing his lover liquid, mouthful by mouthful. The tide was out, and he noticed some mussels clinging to the rock below the tideline. He used his blade to pry a bunch of them free and stuffed them in his sweater to carry back to Ennek’s side. Then, remembering the matches, he scavenged up a little driftwood and started a modest fire.
    He didn’t really have any clue how to cook shellfish over an open flame. In the end, he simply dumped the mussels atop the fire and left them there for several minutes, then poked them out with a long stick. It was hard to remove the meat one-handed; it was rubbery and gritty with ash, but it was food and his stomach was grateful. He had no way to get it into Ennek’s stomach, however.
    His hunger more or less mollified, he took a more careful look around. Even in good light, there wasn’t much to see. Fifty yards or so away the grass-covered bumps gave way to a sparse forest of low, gnarled trees. Noisy birds flitted in and out among the branches, calling and squabbling at each other. There was no sign at all of other humans.
    Miner's fever was getting worse and his arm felt as if it were on fire; he slumped beside Ennek hopelessly. Maybe there were healing herbs nearby, something he could use to help himself and Ennek, but Miner didn’t know anything about healing and he was just as likely—maybe more so—to poison them both. He needed to find shelter and figure out a way to get some sustenance into Ennek. He needed to get them decent clothing and something to cover his collar. He needed to do a better job of setting his wrist. Most of all, though, he needed to make sure that Ennek remained safe, that he recovered from his stupor. But right then, even getting up and laboriously bringing Ennek more water seemed like an impossible task. Miner lay down beside Ennek, wrapping his body around Ennek’s shorter one, and worked at the tangles in Ennek’s hair again.
    After a while, he started to speak. He knew the other man couldn’t hear him, not really. But he remembered when he was Under, and when he’d had brief flashes in which he could see and hear. One of those times it had been Ennek he’d seen: Ennek as a boy, with his face smudged slightly with dirt and his eyes wide as cuprinus coins. Ennek had spoken to him then, the first time in 300 years someone had addressed Miner. “Are you awake?” Ennek had asked. And although Miner couldn’t answer and he’d been sucked back into the depths of Stasis immediately after, those three words had remained with him, echoing inside his swirling head, providing an anchor for the remains of his sanity. Ennek couldn’t hear him now, but perhaps some ghost of Miner’s voice would reach him somehow and comfort him.
    “I wish you had met my mother,” Miner said. “Her name was Celsa. She was very tall with hair that was almost white. She used to sit by the fire in the evenings and my sisters would brush it for her. Her nose was a little too sharp and her chin was too square, but somehow she was beautiful anyway. Maybe it was the way she moved, as if nothing could stop her, as if she were the equal of anyone she met. My father used to say that it was a shame she wasn’t born a man, for she’d have made a fine soldier.
    “She didn’t talk very often. Not like my father—he would tell stories and laugh. He could strike up a conversation with a complete stranger and in minutes