august
This high in the Arma Mountains it is already winter. Snow dusts the peaks and doesn’t melt in the places where the shadows are long and the winds cold. The aspens are a dying flame, rusty red on their way to brown and gone. Between their pale slim trunks there is a line of tracks, and where the tracks cross the patches of snow they bloom scarlet with blood.
August isn’t going to die. That’s what he tells himself, at least, though the ravens that circle overhead clearly disagree; every time they call to each other in their hoarse voices his ears turn back and he bares his teeth. If he could fly, he would catch them and pluck their pinion feathers away. They’re calling the wolves to him, he knows, and every other predator with ears to hear and a belly that wants filling (and who in these mountains isn’t hungry for something?)
The palomino stumbles and rights himself with a hiss of pain. I am not going to die. Not here in these godforsaken mountains, and not from something so stupid as a snow griffin. He has to pause for a moment to breathe between clenched teeth before continuing on; the days are short, and the sky is already bruising with the threat of evening. His sword, still bloody, bumps against his side when he moves again. It’s reassuring, even if he’s not sure he’s strong enough to swing it again.
The adrenaline is beginning to wear off, and pain is eager to take its place. He needs a willow tree, or the witch’s hut. There are claw marks scoring his shoulders and haunches, all still weeping blood; there is a sizable chunk of skin missing from his foreleg, and while (thank Caligo) it has missed anything as vital as a ligament or artery it will not stop bleeding, no matter how much moss he presses to it. At least the griffin is dead.
When he looks back over his shoulder his heart sinks. He’s barely made it half a mile - he can still see the top of the copse of trees where he was attacked. He needs to wash the blood off so he’s not advertising what a walking feast he is. He needs to get to a lower altitude, maybe Vitreus Lake, where someone stands a chance of finding him.
Instead he finds himself sagging against a tree, painting for air, leaving scarlet smeared against its bark. I am not going to die. Instead he staggers on a few more feeble steps, light-headed and faint. I am not going to die. Maybe if he just could lie down for a minute - the snow would feel so good against his skin -
Overhead, the ravens scream again, and the stallion’s head jerks up. He continues walking, only it is more of a stumble. I am not going to die. But even in his head, the words sound unconvinced.
we drink the poison our minds pour for us
and wonder why we feel so sick
and wonder why we feel so sick
@Isra |
