Voices of Despair by ford_of_bruinen

VIII

“Mother?” His voice is small, dazed. I curl tighter around him, trying to stay strong, to protect him. Mother is dead. Can I tell him that?

I feel lost and small. But I am not small; I am big now, seven years old. Mother said I need to look after him, I am older than him with two whole hours.

What should I do now, mother? I am so cold. He has stopped crying and grown tired, his body heavy and so cold, we have been here for two nights. “Elurín,” I whisper in the silence. “Elurín, are you asleep?”