Fish on Land

You need to move, you need to move, you need to move. She could feel how the water started gnawing at her skin and seeping through the bubble of air she had caught in her lungs before being plunged beneath the waterline. You need to move. She looked where she thought was up, but she couldn't be sure everything was submerged in the midnight pitch black sky, not even the moon shined bright enough to see her own hands. Her heart was beating like a ticking timer trapped in her chest, reminding her of the little time she had before she would need a breath of air. So she followed the air bubbles that leaked from her mouth and nose, more escaping with each stroke that she took. She was so close to the surface, she couldn't see it, but she could feel her body getting lighter, it was just a few more feet she was sure of it. More than a few strokes had passed, and she was still underwater. It was only a few more strokes before the cages she held her only breath in came unlocked, she gasped and her lungs filled with polluted lake water, she gasped again knowing full well that it wouldn't be the air that she would consume. You need to... 

“You got a name?” a man sat across from her on a stool far too small for a brute like him.

“No? Fine, I'll call you Fishy then.”

She wanted to laugh but instead coughed up the water and a bit of blood that had been lingering in the bottom of her stomach. She realized she hadn't taken a deep breath in hours. She inhaled the fumes from the campfire in front of her and exhaled. Then she realized the real threat. You need to move.

The last thing she remembered was a never-ending frigged darkness, now she was laying across from a round-looking man bundled in hunting gear. Her instincts pushed her to jump up and run, but her legs hadn't quite yet acclimated to the land again. She lost her balance and twisted her ankle while precariously shuffling away from the campsite, and hit the rocky shore. She searched for a weapon of any kind but found only the weathered smooth rocks best for skipping across the lake rather than bashing a man's head in. By the time she gave up her search, the man was already upon her. The shadow cast by the campfire deepened the cavity in his brow and revealed his true figure. Instead of round his shoulders were broad and sharp and made the rest of his body look small, though he was the opposite of small. It was then that she realized he wasn't bundled up in the average hunting camo, it was tattered and stained but she could just barely make out that it was a military uniform. She braced herself anticipating his strike but he instead knelt down to be semi-eye level with her. 

“I ain't gon hurt you.”

Lies

“Why was you all the way drownin’ in the middle of the lake, you were bout dead by the time I found you.” She didn't respond, but he grinned and rocked back on his heels to sit with her on the cold rocks.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” She scrunched her nose, she hadn't said anything. 

“I know that face, Fishy, the face of a runaway. Now I don't know who or what you're runnin’ from but I don't think they'll be looking for you now.” She didn't know if he had said that because she almost died in the lake, and the people who had been chasing her would have assumed she drowned, or if it was something else, something about him. He lowered his voice to a whisper.

“If it helps, I'm on the run too.” He lifted his sleeve and revealed his arms covered in tattoos, but he pointed to a massive scar that stretched across his forearm. 

“Battle scars” He smiled as if it was a game, then pointed to another, slightly uglier scar on his neck.

“That the newest one, some poachers caught me sniffin’ through their stuff while them were wathcin the birds. Who watches birds?” He laughed 

“Anyway, they done got me on the way out with one of them fancy guns that does all the shootin’ for ya.”

He stopped talking and stared straight out in front of him, it almost seemed like he was reminiscing about something, then snapped his attention right back to her, like he was never gone. The change in focus startled her enough to scoot back and grip one of the useless skipping stones around her.

“Oh come on, you really still gone be scared of me? Look the way I see it, you got one messed up ankle.” He pointed to her now bruised and limp ankle. “And if you want I can just leave you here, let the tide rise, and you can have your shot at trying not to drown again.”

He was right, she had two choices, let her lungs feel the slow and agonizing burn of drowning again or go with the sketchy man covered in tattoos and scars with a funny way of talking.

You have to move.

“Your name”

“She speaks!”

“Your name.”

“Yours first.” He furrowed his brow as if to look serious but his mischievous smile gave it all away. They sat in silence, as neither of them was willing to trust the other enough to exchange something as precious as their own names.

“Aight, you smart. How bout this, I keep calling you Fishy, and you can just call me your savior.”

“Piss off”

“Fine, I'm called Lawrence.”

Lies

She gave him her hand and took it and carried her back to the dimly lit camp sight. He wrapped her ankle and gave her a too-large jacket to cover her soaping clothes. 

“What, you thought we was gonna stay here?” He had started packing up the miniature tent and the pots that hung above the fire. This was the first time she had gotten a good look at where they were. They were just at the line between where the shore became a thick uncharted forest, no doubt home to various animals and rogues from the Third War. Was Lawrence and rogue? The thought sent a cold shiver down her spine. 

“Oi, you gone help or just stand there?” He handed her a shovel, it was wider than her wingspan, and everything this giant had was giant-sized. She used her full force to send the shove into the ground and bury the dwindling fire. 

“What's a posh girl like you doin’ on the run? Shouldn't you be in your princess castle?” Apparently, he had noticed she wasn't exactly built for survival, from her wincing each time she swung the shovel. 

“Who said I was posh?” He snorted and looked at her. She rephrased.

“Who said I live in a castle?” 

“If you ain't livin’, no surviving out here, then you livin in a castle to me.”

“Oh please, I'm still a child of course I don't live out here.” He snorted again but this time it turned into a holler.

“I've been out here since I learned to walk, fact I was shooting my dinner by the time I was your age.

That didn't make sense, her parents had taught her ever since she was little that the people who lived out here were there because they did something bad. That everyone had an opportunity to live within the city walls, but if they betrayed the crown like the rogues of the Third War then they would be banished.

“So Fishy, you never told me why you're out here, who’s chasing you?” Lawrence asked before his attention snapped away from her like he had done before by the shore. She didn't make a sound. He continued to stare into the forest. A branch snapped from further in the trees. Lawrence jumped to the ground and brought her with him. 

“Get down!” 

He screamed as a bomb erupted next to them, putting the half-dismantled tent into flames, a cracking sound rang through her head, pounding through her skull. Lawrence crawled over to her before another explosive hit their camp separating him from her. A tree had crashed down in front of her burying her in a thin layer of soil and leaves. Lawrence was somewhere on the other side of three, so she climbed, though it was only a few steps. When she reached the top and looked over Lawrence was laying on the ground head bloodied and limbs twisted in ways limbs should never be twisted. 

“Lawrence!”

 She yelled knowing full well that wasn't his real name.

“Aw, don't worry little Fishy, I'll be alright.” 

He coughed through his obvious pain.

 The brief moment of silence after the explosions was interrupted by a war cry coming from deep within the tree. A kind of yodel that sounded funny at first became deeply frightening and it crept closer and closer to the shoreline. 

“Fishy you gotta get outta here.”

 He tried to sound calm but the quiver in his voice alerted her. 

The battle cry was upon them, then she saw who had made the sound. A small army emerged from the trees covered in paint, dressed in animal skins, screaming their hellish yodel. It was them, the Rogues of the Third War.

“Fishy you gotta run!”

 He was screaming from beneath the tree branch.

She couldn't move. She was frozen.

“You need to come with me!”

He didn't respond, she knew he wouldn't. But she still couldn't move. Still frozen in time.

“Fishy, you need to move!”