Jeremiah Hardsock pulled his nearly dead brother, Wendell Christopher Hardsock, through the chill marsh waters. Jeremiah hoped the cold would slow WC’s bleeding. He repeated a single thought over and over and end to end: this has got to be faster. He no longer felt certain.
The broadly fletched arrow poking straight out of WC’s chest caught Jeremiah’s attention again. He thanked God that WC was in such good health–he’d make it for sure–and prayed that leaving the shaft unbroken wouldn’t work against him. The air turned cold overnight making his hands too numb to snap the arrow shorter without worrying the wound. Between a puddle of more blood and leaving the shaft intact he’d chosen to leave it alone. Thankfully WC wore his capote and slid through the knee-deep water and wet grass easily on the strong woolen coat. Jeremiah had only needed to loop WC’s possibles bag under his arms and bind his arms with a leather thong. [too much logistics]. The water lagged the temperature drop; the deeper spots even warmer. Strips of fog tore away from the marsh.
Word count: 186