What remains

NATHANIEL It's probably best to forget it. Again, he wishes he had the dog. Her nose, her ability to know just when a person needed her press up against them or when to lie down at a watchful distance or when to see to other things. Nathaniel is not half so wise as the dog. He can only step back outside into the snow, frowning as the last of the day's sunlight glances off every white surface, as he scours the property, wondering where he ought to start. He ends up moving toward the nearest outbuilding. A barn of some sort, he thinks, trying to remember what sort of animals they had. Sheep, was it? Were there cows? Chickens? They must have had dogs. A few lazy flakes drift over his shoulders as he moves. Like the house, the barn is terribly silent. The silence of a carcass picked clean. Nathaniel pauses outside the door, noting scuff marks on the wood. Could someone have run out here? He cannot recall the monsters ever troubling themselves too much for animals, but maybe someone tried to escape the house. Unbidden, his mind conjures the image: one of the children maybe, gaining time as the adults took the brunt of the damage themselves, scrambling desperately for the nearest shelter. Of course, it would not have been enough. It was never enough. A heavy breath. The door whines as he pushes it open, and inside is dark, earthy with the smell of animals no longer present. The sheep would have escaped, frightened probably by the blood and the noise. They can be found later — some of them, at least. Nathaniel's eyes scan the space anyway, as if one of Maea's family might appear. As if a miracle has ever happened in Caido. When he does see movement, he startles, his eyes widening, though his body hardly moves. He steps forward immediately, some kind of exclamation building in him, but it isn't a person. It's an animal, a sheep dog, curled in one corner and pushing itself farther away from the sudden movement. Something about the way it moves is strange, wrong. The earth and straw beneath it dark. "Hey..." Nathaniel's voice goes soft the way it only does with things like dogs. Instinctively, he falls into a crouch, reducing his height. Suddenly nothing else exists except for himself and the wounded animal, the wary crescent of white at the corner of its nearest eye. Slowly, carefully, Nathaniel edges sideways toward it, talking softly all the while. When he's near enough, he shrugs off his pack and sets it carefully on the floor, within reach. Touching the dog is the hardest part. It bares its teeth, and its voice escapes in a painful whine when he extends his hand. One paw is curled protectively beneath it, the rest of the legs braced, and it pushes itself into the wall as if it wants to disappear. He spends a long time talking to the dog before he finally trusts its posture enough to place his palm on its head, stroke the matted fur along the back of its neck. "It's okay," he tells it, his voice low. "You did everything you could." Eventually, he works his hand down to the injured leg, brings the paw forward. Blood has soaked and matted in the fur, making the wound beneath impossible to find. Pulling a folding knife from his pocket, Nathaniel works slowly, the sharp blade shearing away filthy hair. Every now and then, he pulls the wrong way, and the dog cries out, jerking its foot away. Then he has to work all over again at regaining the foot. He isn't sure how much time has pssed when he hears the door move behind him and glances over his shoulder. Maea there, her face swollen but surprisingly composed. "Can you help me with this?" he asks. "It knows you better than me." It's probably best to let go.