He wiped the dewy vapor from his face, squinted his eyes and tried to see through the water droplets that immediately beaded his eyelashes. There was a dense cloud of snow eddying in the air currents in the valley bottom, a couple of hundred feet below, and it effectively shielded anything down there from his vision.
Wiping his face once more, he stumbled foward, grabbing trees and shattered saplings for handholds, slipping, crashing into rock formations and yil trunks with his hips, but somehow managing not to fall. He was breathing well enough now that the vapor had begun to settle, but his heart still thumped wildly in his chest. He had recalled the dream he had had only a couple of hours before in which he had been imprisoned in a house of ice and Leah had come to release him by melting the walls down—and how she, in turn, had been led away, appropriated by the Alliance soldier without a face . . .
If she were dead, in this avalanche, it would be as much the Alliance’s fault as if a blue suited, brass buttoned officer had come and taken her and shot her . . .
No. No, he had to face up to the fact that some of the blame would lie with him. He should have tied her to a tree, tied both of them firmly, to protect against the possibility of an avalanche. Never before in his life had there been another human being for which he had felt responsible. It had always been him, alone, against the world, and any cuts or wounds incurred were marks of pride to satisfy the sadistic trait in him. Now the “me” was “us” as he had been reminding himself ever since that day in the temple, in the corridors of God’s mind, when the point of no return had been reached and passed at blinding speeds. And while one half of “us” was rather big and brutish and able to take care of itself, the other half was frail, light, and in need of help when the forces of the opposition were very large.
He cursed his mother and, to a lesser degree but still vehemently, his father. If they had been reasonable, open human beings instead of ego-bloated back-biters, perhaps he would have learned the concept of “us” when he should have, in his childhood. But from the very first days, when he saw that one or the other only took his side in order to goad the one who disagreed with him, he had realized it was Stauffer against them, Stauffer in the singular. Because of them and the lateness with which he had come to the discovery of love and the responsibilities it carried with it, he might very well have made a mistake in judgment that would cost him the other half of “us.” And so soon, before he had even had time to explore all the possibilities of the amplified self that now included this winged Demosian girl . . .
“Leah!” he shouted as he reached the edge of the wall of snow.
Silence. Except for the faint sigh of the wind.
“Leah!”
“Here,” she called half-heartily, thirty feet to the right and forty feet behind. She had been brought up against the thick base of an enormous, black-barked tree and had not suffered the ride clear to the bottom. She was struggling to get out of the imprisoning snow, but with little luck.
He started after her at a run, fell, cracked his head on a bared section of stony ground, got up a little dizzy. By the time he reached her she was half to her feet, and he had her clear of the mounds in seconds. He drew her to him, nearly crushed her, despite the padding of her survival coat. He wanted to say very many things, but there were not really words to frame them. They were emotions, formless thoughts of happiness. Instead, he kissed her and stood back to look her over. “In one piece?”
“No broken bones. Though I guess I’ll ache pretty terribly by tomorrow.”
“An ache can be borne. I don’t know quite how we’d handle a broken leg or something like that. The speedheal doesn’t have the facilities.”