καναρίνι would say she can't remember the last time she was this scared, but it would be a lie.
It's the day she washed up here, starving, terrified, all but drown. But, like she's been taught for years now, you don't fight fear. You run with it, you use it, and καναρίνι has gotten very good at that. She takes the horse but not the saddle, and she stops only to rinse the blood from her skin. She avoids people where she has to, and tries to hurry conversations where she can.
Every second is one second too long, is one second she's too late, is one second where she must have fallen off her horse and hit her head because Oliver Queen can't be real and a man can't step foot on to Paradise Island, but she can't stop. She can't stop until she has everything she has the horse laden with blankets and everything she could pack without arousing too much suspicion.
The ride back feels like it takes forever. Each closer space covered feeling only like it's taking too long, until she can reach the beach and the caves beneath the far caves beneath the cliffs. She can't entirely tell if there's yelling or if it's the crash of the waves on the rocks. She fills her arms and heads for the first opening Oliver had made, desperately hoping that he's still alive, and he is.
And he is shouting.
"I'm here," she says, as the noise she couldn't quite pull from the waves suddenly sounds deafening when she's near him. Like the whole island will hear. His voice, and her wrong name. "I'm here." Even though he looks more than half-crazed and the smell of blood has started to grow since she left. He's armed. Again. She freezes but then keeps moving. Her sandals are light on the ground, thin and quiet, as she drops the armful by him, digging for her kit. "You need to lay back down."
"You can't keep moving this much. You'll bleed out." She wonders if shock can last this long. For him. Or her.
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καναρίνι would say she can't remember the last time she was this scared, but it would be a lie.
It's the day she washed up here, starving, terrified, all but drown. But, like she's been taught for years now, you don't fight fear. You run with it, you use it, and καναρίνι has gotten very good at that. She takes the horse but not the saddle, and she stops only to rinse the blood from her skin. She avoids people where she has to, and tries to hurry conversations where she can.
Every second is one second too long, is one second she's too late, is one second where she must have fallen off her horse and hit her head because Oliver Queen can't be real and a man can't step foot on to Paradise Island, but she can't stop. She can't stop until she has everything she has the horse laden with blankets and everything she could pack without arousing too much suspicion.
The ride back feels like it takes forever. Each closer space covered feeling only like it's taking too long, until she can reach the beach and the caves beneath the far caves beneath the cliffs. She can't entirely tell if there's yelling or if it's the crash of the waves on the rocks. She fills her arms and heads for the first opening Oliver had made, desperately hoping that he's still alive, and he is.
And he is shouting.
"I'm here," she says, as the noise she couldn't quite pull from the waves suddenly sounds deafening when she's near him. Like the whole island will hear. His voice, and her wrong name. "I'm here." Even though he looks more than half-crazed and the smell of blood has started to grow since she left. He's armed. Again. She freezes but then keeps moving. Her sandals are light on the ground, thin and quiet, as she drops the armful by him, digging for her kit. "You need to lay back down."
"You can't keep moving this much. You'll bleed out." She wonders if shock can last this long. For him. Or her.