Okay, everybody, this is my very first fanfic. So please review; I'd be
grateful for pointers!
Disclaimer: The Giver belongs to Lois Lowry
The sled slowed to a stop beside the house. Standing up from the sled was the hardest thing Jonas ever did, the muscles of his legs burning with the effort. With Gabriel still tight in his arms, he stumbled up to the door of the house and pounded on it once before his legs gave way abruptly.
The sound of singing stopped from inside, and the door swung open. Jonas squinted up in the sudden light pouring around the girl in the doorway. He turned Gabriel so that she could see him, and he heard her gasp. "Help him, please," he said, his voice trembling. "Please... help..."
The rest was a blur as Jonas faded in and out of consciousness. Someone took Gabriel from his arms with an exclamation; another person picked up Jonas himself and carried him up some stairs. He was divested of his cold, wet clothing and then—wonderful!—put in a warm bath. They gave him some warm water to drink, and fed him some bread dipped in a liquid whose taste he didn't recognize. Finally, he was dried off, dressed in warm, soft clothes and laid in a soft bed, where his exhaustion finally took over.
Jonas' sleep was deep and dreamless. He opened his eyes to a white ceiling above him; gray light was shining on him. It took a minute for him to remember where he was and why. He turned his head to look around him better—it was a struggle just to do that! A few feet from the bed was an armchair. a girl about his own age sat curled up there reading, her bare feet on the seat. Her dark brown hair was long and hung loose around her face. His movement made her look up, and she put the book down with a smile. He saw with a jolt that her eyes were a brilliant green.
"Good, you're awake," she said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "How do you feel?"
He took a moment to decide on the best word. "Tired," he finally answered. His voice came out strangely scratchy and weak.
"I bet!" the girl answered, and Jonas wondered what the word meant. "I'll go get you something to eat."
"Wait," Jonas said, struggling up on his elbows. "Gabe! Where's Gabe?"
"Gabe?"
"Gabriel, my brother."
"Oh, is that his name? He's fine—relax. In fact, he's doing better than you are." She stood. "I'll be right back. As she was going out the door, she turned. "What's your name?" she asked curiously.
"Jonas."
"Pleased to meet you, Jonas. My name's Charity." With a smile, she disappeared.
She was back soon, padding silently on her bare feet, with a tray laden with a hot stew and glass of water. As soon as she set the tray on his lap, Jonas began slurping up the soup eagerly, dripping a good deal of it on the bed from his shaking spoon.
"Not so fast!" Charity exclaimed. "You'll make yourself sick." She curled back up in the armchair and was soon engrossed in her book again.
The stew tasted delicious to Jonas—but then, he thought, almost any food would taste good now. When he finished, he looked up and saw Charity watching him over the top of her book.
"Where did you come from?" she asked.
Jonas stared at the soup bowl, feeling suddenly empty again. "The communities," he said quietly, and heard Charity's sharp intake of breath. "I ran away." He essayed a glance at Charity, long enough to see an indescribably expression on her face—a mixture of admiration, pity and fear. There was a long pause.
"You need your rest," she finally said, and picked up the tray. "Sleep tight."
Sleep tight? Jonas thought, bewildered, but he didn't feel like staying awake to wonder about it.
The sled slowed to a stop beside the house. Standing up from the sled was the hardest thing Jonas ever did, the muscles of his legs burning with the effort. With Gabriel still tight in his arms, he stumbled up to the door of the house and pounded on it once before his legs gave way abruptly.
The sound of singing stopped from inside, and the door swung open. Jonas squinted up in the sudden light pouring around the girl in the doorway. He turned Gabriel so that she could see him, and he heard her gasp. "Help him, please," he said, his voice trembling. "Please... help..."
The rest was a blur as Jonas faded in and out of consciousness. Someone took Gabriel from his arms with an exclamation; another person picked up Jonas himself and carried him up some stairs. He was divested of his cold, wet clothing and then—wonderful!—put in a warm bath. They gave him some warm water to drink, and fed him some bread dipped in a liquid whose taste he didn't recognize. Finally, he was dried off, dressed in warm, soft clothes and laid in a soft bed, where his exhaustion finally took over.
Jonas' sleep was deep and dreamless. He opened his eyes to a white ceiling above him; gray light was shining on him. It took a minute for him to remember where he was and why. He turned his head to look around him better—it was a struggle just to do that! A few feet from the bed was an armchair. a girl about his own age sat curled up there reading, her bare feet on the seat. Her dark brown hair was long and hung loose around her face. His movement made her look up, and she put the book down with a smile. He saw with a jolt that her eyes were a brilliant green.
"Good, you're awake," she said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "How do you feel?"
He took a moment to decide on the best word. "Tired," he finally answered. His voice came out strangely scratchy and weak.
"I bet!" the girl answered, and Jonas wondered what the word meant. "I'll go get you something to eat."
"Wait," Jonas said, struggling up on his elbows. "Gabe! Where's Gabe?"
"Gabe?"
"Gabriel, my brother."
"Oh, is that his name? He's fine—relax. In fact, he's doing better than you are." She stood. "I'll be right back. As she was going out the door, she turned. "What's your name?" she asked curiously.
"Jonas."
"Pleased to meet you, Jonas. My name's Charity." With a smile, she disappeared.
She was back soon, padding silently on her bare feet, with a tray laden with a hot stew and glass of water. As soon as she set the tray on his lap, Jonas began slurping up the soup eagerly, dripping a good deal of it on the bed from his shaking spoon.
"Not so fast!" Charity exclaimed. "You'll make yourself sick." She curled back up in the armchair and was soon engrossed in her book again.
The stew tasted delicious to Jonas—but then, he thought, almost any food would taste good now. When he finished, he looked up and saw Charity watching him over the top of her book.
"Where did you come from?" she asked.
Jonas stared at the soup bowl, feeling suddenly empty again. "The communities," he said quietly, and heard Charity's sharp intake of breath. "I ran away." He essayed a glance at Charity, long enough to see an indescribably expression on her face—a mixture of admiration, pity and fear. There was a long pause.
"You need your rest," she finally said, and picked up the tray. "Sleep tight."
Sleep tight? Jonas thought, bewildered, but he didn't feel like staying awake to wonder about it.