The cabin is cold, the fire barely keeping anyone warm at all, a futile attempt to keep the wilderness’s cold out. Lottie sits in the rusty tub, her shoulders slumped with her back turned to you. The water has gone murky, tinged pink from the blood you’ve rinsed off her hands and arms. Lottie’s breathing is shallow, but she doesn’t say much. 
She hasn’t since the ritual earlier today. You try to be gentle as you scrub the dirt and dried blood from her palm, her fingers limp in your grasp. While the silence between you isn’t uncomfortable (it never is with Lottie), you know what she’s taken on, the weight she carries, not for herself, but for all of you.

No one else could do what she’s doing. No one else would listen to the wilderness like she does, give it what it asks for, no matter the cost. And you trust Lottie like no one else still seems to, some rolling their eyes or whispering behind her back. You trust her because she’s the only one who’s made you feel like there’s a purpose to all this chaos.

The rag in your hand drags over a fresh cut on her forearm, and she flinches slightly but doesn’t pull away. “Sorry,” you murmur.

“It’s fine,” Lottie says, so quiet you almost don’t hear her. Then, after a moment, she adds, “I don’t think anyone has ever taken care of me like that before.”

You pause, your hand lingering on her arm. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” you say, and even though she doesn’t respond, you can see the way some of the rigid tension ebbs from Lottie’s shoulders.

When you finish tying the last strip of cloth around her arm, you sit back, your fingers brushing hers. Lottie looks up at you, her face still pale. “You make it bearable,” she murmurs.