Someone was talking.
It was vague and distant, like water lapping against shore, an echo through a dream. The teeth were torn from his body, pulled out and coated in his blood; it ran in little rivulets, soaking up into his clothes, and the breath that left his body was a weak sigh.
It almost sounded as if he wasn't going to breathe in again, but he did, and his eyelids began to flutter. Never before in his life had he been so grievously injured, never before in his life had he been in such agony—always a careful, cautious child, grown up to a careful, cautious wolf.
Yet there he lies, bleeding and burnt.
His body was done indexing the damage; it had done the calculations, and so far, it still came out as alive. The strange and glassy and starry sea he floated in began to give way to the noise of the chaos around him, the scent of blood and melted hair and the reek of animal fear. One hand held the pony's lead rope; the other was clasped around a red, glowing antler.
He had found a third road, one that had no stars, one that had no need for murder.
There were no more taunts, goading him into an inexplicable, single-minded rage.
Amalia was hovering above him, worried and frantic, and what he had just been put through began to come back to him. Most importantly, she needed to keep herself together. They were out during the Long Night, god's sake. "We can feel guilty later," he mumbled to her, but he decided against trying to smile for her. The skin of his face felt taut and every little movement had the darkness threatening the edges of his vision.
"The antler," he said, as if it somehow explained everything.
Then he was being hauled up, and he definitely blacked out a time or two, but Amalia managed to right him and he caught most of what was said between her and the fire-handed girl. "So that we can have some fucking light," Rory weakly finished her sentence. He wasn't sure it even carried to the girl. He glanced around for the fox, spotting the white creature near the perch. "Hey, Paws, y'should.. should come.. hold this thing," this thing being the red antlers.
Knowing what his mind had said and done.. he couldn't fault the fox for putting its teeth in him.
He was just a teensy bit pissed about all the blood he was leaving behind, though.
As he was led closer to the perch (still holding the gray pony's lead rope, and the little mare followed anxiously close behind him), the extent of the damage became clear to him. The main beam had been brought down, but it was splintered, which would've made it so off-balanced a giant, mythical bird probably risked snapping it if it landed in the wrong place. They needed to fix that.. but there were not tools...
So he turned inwards, sort of slumped across Amalia's shoulder as he sought for what he needed. Something that could act as a tool, to cut off the splintered part.
The answer to his prayer was a beaver. It just sort of appeared, between one heartbeat and the next. The not-quite-real creature sniffed the air, then approached the beam—guided by Rory's desire and need, it began to chip away at the crossbeam.
"There's still rings.. attached to the top," he mumbled into Amalia. "If we can just get some rope through.. we can haul it back up again..."
Rory takes the antler, then summons a beaver to nom off the splintered end, and kindly informs everyone about the rings they can use to hoist it back into place.
It was vague and distant, like water lapping against shore, an echo through a dream. The teeth were torn from his body, pulled out and coated in his blood; it ran in little rivulets, soaking up into his clothes, and the breath that left his body was a weak sigh.
It almost sounded as if he wasn't going to breathe in again, but he did, and his eyelids began to flutter. Never before in his life had he been so grievously injured, never before in his life had he been in such agony—always a careful, cautious child, grown up to a careful, cautious wolf.
Yet there he lies, bleeding and burnt.
His body was done indexing the damage; it had done the calculations, and so far, it still came out as alive. The strange and glassy and starry sea he floated in began to give way to the noise of the chaos around him, the scent of blood and melted hair and the reek of animal fear. One hand held the pony's lead rope; the other was clasped around a red, glowing antler.
He had found a third road, one that had no stars, one that had no need for murder.
There were no more taunts, goading him into an inexplicable, single-minded rage.
Amalia was hovering above him, worried and frantic, and what he had just been put through began to come back to him. Most importantly, she needed to keep herself together. They were out during the Long Night, god's sake. "We can feel guilty later," he mumbled to her, but he decided against trying to smile for her. The skin of his face felt taut and every little movement had the darkness threatening the edges of his vision.
"The antler," he said, as if it somehow explained everything.
Then he was being hauled up, and he definitely blacked out a time or two, but Amalia managed to right him and he caught most of what was said between her and the fire-handed girl. "So that we can have some fucking light," Rory weakly finished her sentence. He wasn't sure it even carried to the girl. He glanced around for the fox, spotting the white creature near the perch. "Hey, Paws, y'should.. should come.. hold this thing," this thing being the red antlers.
Knowing what his mind had said and done.. he couldn't fault the fox for putting its teeth in him.
He was just a teensy bit pissed about all the blood he was leaving behind, though.
As he was led closer to the perch (still holding the gray pony's lead rope, and the little mare followed anxiously close behind him), the extent of the damage became clear to him. The main beam had been brought down, but it was splintered, which would've made it so off-balanced a giant, mythical bird probably risked snapping it if it landed in the wrong place. They needed to fix that.. but there were not tools...
So he turned inwards, sort of slumped across Amalia's shoulder as he sought for what he needed. Something that could act as a tool, to cut off the splintered part.
The answer to his prayer was a beaver. It just sort of appeared, between one heartbeat and the next. The not-quite-real creature sniffed the air, then approached the beam—guided by Rory's desire and need, it began to chip away at the crossbeam.
"There's still rings.. attached to the top," he mumbled into Amalia. "If we can just get some rope through.. we can haul it back up again..."
Rory takes the antler, then summons a beaver to nom off the splintered end, and kindly informs everyone about the rings they can use to hoist it back into place.
