Chapter 7: Angeline (Gel) Ross
Year 0001, XII-XIII Month: The Imperium
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Nightmares of the Young Girl
Gel was lost in a feverish dream, haunted by the memories of what had happened to her and her mother. The nightmare tugged at her consciousness, rousing her slightly, but exhaustion pulled her back into its depths. Fragments of the horror she had witnessed flashed through her mind—her mother's blood-streaked face, the desperate pleas, the chaos that had descended upon their home. Each image is more vivid than the last, searing itself into her memory.
Just before she fully succumbed to sleep again, she glimpsed a shadowy figure lifting her from where she lay. Strong arms cradled her with unexpected gentleness. A voice, distant and muffled, spoke words she couldn't comprehend. Then, darkness took over once more, swallowing her whole.
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From Her Perspective
The next time she opened her eyes, she was wrapped tightly in thick blankets, nestled near a crackling fireplace. The dancing flames cast long shadows across unfamiliar walls. The room smelled of pine and smoke, with undertones of herbs she couldn't identify.
She had no idea who had brought her here, but she could only hope it was someone that she could trust—someone who belonged to this house. Her mother's final dying visage warning her of dangers that might befall her, echoed in her mind: *"Trust no one completely."* As an animated form of her dead mother spoke to her. Yet here she was, vulnerable and at the mercy of a stranger.
She recalled the desperate night before with painful clarity. Her mother had pointed her towards one of the houses in the distance, urging her to run even in her dying breaths. "That house," she had whispered, her voice growing fainter with each word. "Find the owner..." and she breathed her last. But when Gel arrived, stumbling through snow that reached her knees, there had been no signs of life. No one answered when she pounded on the wooden door, her knuckles growing raw and bloody from the effort.
Still, the house was full of belongings, a stark contrast to its emptiness. Books lined shelves that reached the ceiling. Clothing hung from hooks by the door. An empty cup that sat on a table, as if its drinker had stepped out only for a moment ago, but now it had nothing but dust, a memory of a distant past. It was clear that someone had once lived there, but at that moment, it had stood abandoned, a hollow shell of domestic life waiting to be reclaimed.
With her body trembling from exhaustion, grief, and the cold that had seeped into her bones, she wandered the silent house until she found one of the larger rooms upstairs. The bed looked inviting, covered in quilts of deep blues and greens. With no energy left to think, to plan, to fear, she collapsed onto it, her consciousness slipping away like water through cupped hands.
That was the last thing she remembered before everything went black, before the fever claimed her and reality became a distant shore she could no longer reach.
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Awakened From Slumber
Gel drifted in and out of consciousness, slipping between reality and fevered delusions. Time lost all meaning—minutes stretched into hours, hours compressed into heartbeats. Sometimes she thought she heard voices: her mother calling her name, strangers arguing in hushed tones, the wind howling like a wounded animal.
When she stirred awake, she found herself still swaddled in layers of blankets, though some had been removed already. Yet, she couldn't move her body well. Her limbs felt weighted, her muscles atrophied from disuse.
The reason soon became clear—her savior had left her bundled up, likely as a precaution. She must have been wrapped that way to prevent sudden movements, a measure of security for whoever had found her. Perhaps they feared she might lash out in confusion or try to escape. Or maybe they were simply protecting her from herself, from the thrashing that often accompanied her nightmares.
And so, when she groggily attempted to rise the first time, struggling like a tightly bound mummy, the young man watching over her reacted with wide-eyed bewilderment. His face, partially hidden by unkempt golden hair, registered shock, then concern. He took a step forward, then hesitated, as if unsure whether to help or retreat, armed with a bow on one hand and a bowl in the other.
She could only fall back on the bed, with an aching head splitting with pain, as she slowly drifted back to sleep. The room spun around her, and darkness crept in from the edges of her vision. Until she was released from her blanket bondage, she couldn't do anything but surrender to this cycle of brief consciousness followed by overwhelming fatigue.
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Under a Confused State
Her mind wandered, confused. She couldn't decide if she was trapped in a dream or if this waking world was some kind of nightmare. The line between reality and hallucination blurred, creating a disorienting haze that enveloped her thoughts.
Her fever still burned through her, keeping her in a constant state of discomfort. Her skin felt too tight, too hot, as if she might combust from the inside out. Sweat soaked through the blankets, yet she shivered uncontrollably. Each time she drifted into awareness, recognizing the wooden beams of the ceiling or the pattern of light filtering through curtained windows, she would soon slip away again, lost in restless sleep.
Sometimes she thought she saw her mother sitting beside the bed, stroking her hair and humming a lullaby from her childhood. Other times, she was certain that village guards were storming the house, their boots heavy on the wooden floors, banging on their doors. The cycle continued, her mind unable to fully grasp the reality of her situation, trapped in the limbo between life and whatever awaited beyond.
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From the Hungry Depths She Rises
An hour had passed since her last brief awakening. The shadows in the room had shifted, indicating the sun's movement across the sky. The boy had kept the brothy soup warm by the fire, occasionally stirring it and testing its temperature.
The next time she stirred awake, something was different. The fog in her mind had receded slightly, allowing for clearer thoughts. The fever had broken during her sleep, leaving her weak but more lucid than she had been in days.
A rich, savory aroma filled the air, curling around her senses and drawing her from her fevered haze. It was a smell that spoke of comfort, of home—onions and herbs, meat and vegetables melded together in perfect harmony. The mere scent of it sent a shudder through her weak body, a reminder that despite everything, she was still alive, still human, still in need of sustenance.
Like the dead rising from their graves, she sat upright, freed from her bondage before; her arms could now move, as could her body. Her weary eyes scanned the room in search of the source of the aroma, taking in details she had missed before—the worn but well-crafted furniture, the small sculptures decorating a shelf, the thick curtains that kept out the worst of the winter chill.
Across from her sat a figure, watching her carefully. He couldn't have been much older than her, perhaps ten or twelve. His face was that of a boy reflecting his age, though his emerald eyes were alert and wary. In one hand, he held a steaming bowl of broth soup, and in the other, a bow, ready to react if necessary. The contradiction was stark—offering nourishment while prepared for violence.
Her gaze flickered between the two objects—both the weapon and the food. The bow was simple but well-crafted, the kind used for hunting rather than war. But soon, her attention locked onto the bowl, her stomach twisting in painful hunger. She couldn't remember the last time she had eaten; it might have been days.
The young man noticed her fixation. He hesitated for a moment before making a simple gesture, nudging the bowl toward her while mumbling something under his breath. The words were too quiet to make out, but the meaning was clear enough—an offering, a tentative olive branch between strangers.
Her mind processed his offer, but her instincts screamed caution. She hesitated, suspecting the food might be poisoned. In a world that had shown her nothing but cruelty lately, kindness seemed like a trap. She wasn't desperate enough to be reckless—at least, not yet. But her mouth watered as she watched him lift his own bowl to his lips and take a careful sip, then another.
After a few more bites, he continued eating with greater ease, as if savoring something he had long been craving. His shoulders relaxed incrementally, and for a moment, he looked like any ordinary boy enjoying a meal.
Only then did she decide to pick up her portion. The bowl was warm against her palms, a comforting weight. Steam rose from the liquid, carrying with it promises of strength and healing.
The moment the first sip of broth touched her lips, she abandoned all hesitation, devouring the meal like a starved animal. The flavors exploded on her tongue—salt and herbs, vegetables and something meaty that might have been the famed rabbiet meat. Each spoonful brought warmth back to her body, filling a void she hadn't realized was so vast.
The two strangers sat in silence, focused solely on their food. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the occasional clink of wooden spoons against bowls. And yet, despite the quiet, a strange comfort settled between them—the simple communion of shared hunger, shared sustenance.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Gel felt something familiar in the meal—something reminiscent of home. Not the exact taste—her mother had always used more rosemary—but the comfort it brought, the momentary respite from fear and pain.
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An Uncomfortable Awkward Atmosphere
When their meal was finished, the awkwardness between them thickened like soup left too long on the fire. The shared moment of comfort evaporated, leaving behind the stark reality of their situation—two strangers bound by circumstance, neither knowing what to make of the other.
The young man, seemingly uncomfortable with the lingering silence, stood up abruptly, gathering their empty bowls. His movements were jerky, betraying his nervousness.
"Umm... I—I'll go clean these up," he stammered before hurrying out, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to escape the tension. The sound of his footsteps echoed down the hallway, followed by the distant clatter of dishes.
Gel remained seated near the hearth, watching the flames dance in the fireplace. The fire threw golden light across the room, creating pockets of warmth amidst the shadows. Outside, the wind had picked up, whistling around the corners of the house like a mournful song.
There was so much she wanted to ask—so much she needed to know from him. Who was he? Why was he alone in this house? Did he know what had happened to her? Was he friend or foe? But she sensed it wasn't yet the right time. Words felt dangerous, liable to shatter whatever fragile peace they had established.
And so when he returned, his hands slightly damp from washing the dishes, they sat in awkward silence as the evening crept in, the only light source coming from the flickering fire. Occasionally, one would glance at the other, only to quickly look away when their eyes met. Questions hung in the air between them, unasked and unanswered.
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The Girl Named Gel
Days passed. The bitter cold of winter had begun to fade, giving way to the first signs of spring. Icicles dripped from the eaves, creating small rivulets that carved paths through the remaining snow. Birds returned from their southern sojourns, filling the mornings with cautious songs.
Gel had recovered most of her strength and was now moving about the house more frequently. She explored its rooms during the day, examining books she couldn't read and artifacts whose purpose she could only guess at. Yet, despite her regained vigor, she rarely spoke. Words seemed precious, not to be wasted on idle chatter.
August—the name she later learned belonged to the young man in one of his childish antics in the mirror, speaking to himself (the system)—was still awkward around her. He moved through the house like a ghost, attempting to maintain distance between them even in the confined space. He barely spoke as well, avoiding conversation at every opportunity. When they did cross paths, he would mutter something unintelligible and quickly find a reason to be elsewhere.
That was until one day, when he finally mustered the courage to ask her something. They had just finished their evening meal—a stew made from the last of the winter stores—when he cleared his throat awkwardly.
"Ummm... C-can I ask for your name?" he stuttered, his voice betraying his nervousness. He stared at his hands as he spoke, as if the question itself were too forward.
Gel blinked, momentarily surprised that he had spoken to her at all. After so many days of silence, his voice sounded strange, almost intrusive.
She hesitated before answering, weighing the risks of revealing even this small piece of herself. Finally, she decided that her name, at least, was safe to share.
"...Gel," she said, her voice raspy from disuse.
A beat of silence followed, heavy with unspoken questions.
"Oh... Ohhh... okay, cool," August blurted out, nodding stiffly. Then, as if realizing how awkward he sounded, he quickly added, "Right, I'm August Finn!" The declaration came out too loud, bouncing off the walls of the small room.
A strange silence stretched between them once more, filled with all the things they weren't saying. August's face flushed red, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
Somewhere, in the depths of his mind, a cold, floating system window seemed to judge him for his social ineptitude.
[ S Y S T E M : HMMMPF! ]
*Pouts.*
August mentally cursed at it. He knew it could read him like an open book, and he hated it. This strange awareness, this system that commented on his thoughts, had been with him as long as he could remember. It was both a comfort and a curse—a companion that never left, never gave him peace.
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The Days that Followed and The Welcoming of Spring
After that conversation, they returned to their usual routine, though something subtle had shifted between them. The knowledge of each other's names created a tenuous connection, a first thread in what might someday become a bridge.
August continued his daily activities, though now he spent more time outside, jogging around the house and tending to various chores. He chopped stored wood for kindling the fire, ensuring they would have enough to last through the unpredictable remaining winter weather. He checked his nearest traps in the forest hoping those critters had already awakened, bringing back a few rabbiets here and and there, relieving them from eating preserved food and nourishing them with the fresh catch. He mended tools and repaired a section of the roof that had been damaged during the harsh winter storms.
Gel, meanwhile, took to sitting in August's father's favorite chair by the window, quietly observing him from inside. The chair was worn but comfortable, molded by years of use to cradle the body perfectly. From her vantage point, she could see the front yard, the other dilapidated houses, the haphazard perimeter walls and the edge of the hibernating forest beyond, below the gently rolling hillside where the village was silently tucked away in the middle, by two towering mountain cliffs, away from the clutches of the world outside.
It became a peculiar pastime of hers—watching August as he moved about, performing his tasks with a kind of methodical dedication. There was something soothing about his routines, a predictability that made her feel safe for the first time since her world had collapsed.
Occasionally, when he was focused on a particularly challenging task, she would notice a strange stillness come over him, as if he were listening to something only he could hear. His lips would move silently, forming words she couldn't decipher. Then he would shake his head and return to his work with renewed determination.
The days stretched on like this, a rhythm forming between them. They began to move around each other with more ease, no longer startling when they entered the same room. Meals became slightly less tense, though conversation remained minimal.
And as the snow finally melted away, revealing mud and the first tender shoots of green, the world stirred back to life. The first buds of spring began to bloom on the trees surrounding the house. Animals emerged from their long slumber, tentative at first, then with growing confidence.
One morning, Gel awoke to the sound of birdsong—louder and more varied than it had been all winter. She made her way to the window and saw a tiny red bird hopping across the newly revealed grass, pulling worms from the softened earth. In that moment, watching the simple act of survival and renewal, something tight within her chest began to loosen.
The world was moving forward, refusing to remain frozen in grief or fear. Time continued its relentless march, bringing change whether they were ready for it or not.
And, in their own quiet way, so were they. Two survivors, bound by circumstance rather than choice, learning to exist in each other's orbit. Not quite friends, not quite strangers anymore, but something in between—something undefined yet real.
As spring took firmer hold, Gel knew they would eventually have to speak of the past, of what had brought her to his doorstep that winter night. They would have to face the realities they had both been avoiding. But for now, this fragile peace was enough—this shared silence, this cautious coexistence.
For now, it was enough to simply be alive.