The journey continued. The sun rose and set, but in this forest, day and night were just different shades of grey.
The pain in Lycaon's crippled leg grew increasingly unbearable. With every step, a searing pain shot up to his brain, like a red-hot drill. The flesh around the old wound was swollen and inflamed. The infection had begun.
And then, he fell.
It wasn't a light stumble. A slippery root had stolen what little balance he had left. He fell forward, his face landing straight in a puddle of cold mud.
A fall that was both painful and humiliating.
He just lay there. Helpless.
The physical pain was immense, but it was nothing compared to the storm raging in his mind. The protector who couldn't even stand on his own. Weak. Useless. A burden. He remembered the image of his parents being killed, of Lyra being taken away. He had been unable to protect them. Now, he couldn't even walk on his own; how could he possibly protect this girl? The fear that his weakness would once again lead to tragedy nearly drove him mad. He wanted to scream, to claw at his own ruined face.
Elyra heard the heavy fall. She turned back.
She saw him lying there, curled up, not from physical pain, but because he was being tortured from within. His one good eye stared into nothingness, filled with a hatred directed at himself.
She didn't offer empty words of comfort. She knew that words were meaningless at this moment.
She quietly went to the edge of the woods, searching. A short while later, she returned with a straight, sturdy oak branch. She didn't hand it to him. She just placed it on the ground, right within his reach. Then, she sat down a few feet away, took out her pieces of flint, and patiently began to build a small fire. She didn't look at him, giving him space to face his own demons.
Her actions seemed to say: "I don't see you as a burden. I'm just waiting for my companion. Take as long as you need; I'll be here."
Lycaon lay there, in the mud, looking at the staff, then at the fire she was building. The fragile warmth from the flame crept toward him, touching his cold skin. For the first time, he didn't see pity. He saw acceptance. She accepted his weakness, accepted his reality, without judgment.
After an intense internal struggle, he reached out. His trembling hand grasped the staff. It wasn't just a staff. It was the bitter acknowledgment that he needed help.
He laboriously pushed himself up, leaning against a nearby tree. He didn't look at Elyra. He just looked forward, where the path was still long and shrouded in mist.
The small fire had flared up, its orange embers dancing, chasing away some of the damp chill of the forest.
Lycaon limped over to the fire and sat down across from her. He said nothing, but his presence by the fire was his response. He had chosen not to drown in self-destruction, but to keep going, even if it was just one limping step at a time, beside the only person in the world who didn't see him as a monster.
They weren't saving each other; they were simply two broken pieces, leaning on one another so as not to be swept away by the storm of the world.