Russano the Wise rested his chin on one massive paw, staring thoughtfully out of the dining hall window towards the horizon. His dark eyes rested for a time on the blue-green of the ocean, dappled with liquid gold by the noon sun. The Badger Lord pondered the ancient mysteries of deep water, its majesty, subtlety, and unpredictability; dangerous and yet, so beautiful...
There was a great crash as the oaken doors burst open and Snowstripe staggered in, his chest heaving, his jaws flecked with froth, eyes glazed and terrified. "Yes, Snowstripe, what... what is going on?" Russano demanded, whirling around to look at his son, his deep voice rising higher with instinctive concern.
The young badger could only manage a hoarse, cracked wheeze, gasping out incoherent syllables. "Melan... mela... fe...cra..." Then he stiffened, quivering from head to footpaws, and cried out piteously. Russano had not heard such a noise since his son was a newborn cub, cold and frightened with coming into the world, and pleading for his mother.
The Badger Lord leapt from his seat and rushed to his son's side as he collapsed, whimpering, on the stone floor. "Snowstripe!" he roared, lifting the young badger's chin and forcing their frightened gazes to lock.
With an eerie suddenness, the mindless, glassy look vanished from Snowstripe's eyes, and with the emotionless calm of pure terror he said clearly, "Melanius fell off the top of the crater."
While Abbey life was certainly preferable to being drowned or dying slowly of starvation, at times the large amount of menial labor involved grated a bit on Ciánan's nerves. The young weasel was currently down in the cellars, aiding Drogg Spearback in taking out barrels for the upcoming feast, and he felt he couldn't take much more of the dank, dust-laden gloom, his shoulders and back already aching terribly.
"Would it bother my lord Cellarhog if his young vassal returned to the world above for a mere few minutes?" Ciánan asked mockingly, executing a flourishing bow to fit the tone of his speech.
Drogg chuckled, clapping the weasel firmly on the back. "Sure thing y'can. Cellar'og work ain't fer everybeast. Lots of work needs doin' up in the upper world too, mind!" Ciánan smiled politely and trotted away up the stairs, wincing at the further pain in his back from Spearback's clout and fingering the chain of the concealed pendant around his neck.
Brushing a stray cobweb from his headfur, the young weasel entered the Great Hall. The room was quiet and empty, with sunlight tinted a rainbow of colors filtering through the stained-glass windows, and tiny motes of dust drifting up towards the vaulted ceiling. His sandals making soft clopping sounds on the stone floor, Ciánan paused halfway across, staring silently at the wondrous tapestry he faced.
They had explained to him the story of the mouse Warrior, and he'd nodded and appeared interested enough to satisfy them, though privately their devotion somewhat amused him. His eyes flicked over the woven scene with little or no real emotion, but they acquired a certain gleam as he looked upward and saw the sword resting above the tapestry, its blade glinting lightning-white in the sun.
He turned away and continued out of the Hall, hoping he could remember where at least one of the doors was. Bloody huge, this place was.
Deyna, standing unseen and unheard by the opposite doorway, watched the weasel leave. So he takes an interest in Martin, then, the otter thought. Or does he merely covet the sword? ...No, he decided after a few moments of thought, he is not of that type, not a thief or coward.
The Champion turned and walked away, absentmindedly running a paw down his face where his Juska tattoos had once been, wondering vaguely if it had just been a reflection of the colored windows, so brilliant with the sunlight, that had given Ciánan's eyes that slightest gleam of blue.
Snowstripe's voice was barely above a whisper, yet so silent was the room that its tones echoed and re-echoed off the high rock walls. Russano's face was utterly expressionless; his mind refused to process what had been said. The Badger Lord shook his head slowly from side to side, like a cub who does not understand the lesson his teacher has told him. "I'm sorry, son, I don't..."
The young badger wriggled out of his father's grip on his shoulders, managing to stand despite his shaking limbs, so weak and powerless he felt as though he was made of water. "You have to come and help, Father," he muttered through his tears, his voice constricted with grief. "Father knows what to do," he said softly, more to himself this time than to Russano. "Father always knows what to do..."
He turned away, moving at first with agonizing slowness; then with another great cry he bounded for the doors, Russano pounding along beside him. The Badger Lord was speechless with confusion and a growing horror; passing hares called out, hurried up, asking what was wrong, yet Russano the Wise took no heed of them. As they ran towards the doors, outside, across the sand, towards Salamandastron's massive base, his son's quiet chant of "Father... Father... Father... Father..." was the only thing he could hear.
The sun was slowly sinking from its noon zenith as Russano and Snowstripe reached the side of the mountain, and Melanius seemed bathed in light. Her eyes were closed, her body lay twisted at impossible angles, her neck wrenched savagely to one side by the force of her fall. Yet it was simply the outstretched paw, still clutching desperately at the air for help that had never come, that made Snowstripe turn away from his sister and fall to his knees, retching, upon the sand.
Russano, too, had collapsed by the motionless form, so stocky and vibrant in life, now so fragile-looking and broken she seemed like a discarded toy. He wept softly, shaking his head, running a paw over the lifeless face, shaking his daughter's shoulders, pleading in a choked, rasping voice for her to move, to open her eyes, to breathe.
Snowstripe pressed his muzzle against the warm sand, trying to close his senses, his chest heaving. Unknown to him or Russano, a small audience of hares had gathered; portly matrons chattering nervously, officers trying to take control, a few babes beginning to wail.
What happened at that next moment was something that would stay fixed in Snowstripe's mind forever, a final horror to end a day of horrors.
Russano the Wise, kneeling over his daughter's body, threw back his head and roared, a deep, wordless howl filled with despair. It was something from before the spoken word, from the primal ages, the ancient, hopeless cry of the wounded beast resounding into the day.
Snowstripe did not even realize that he spoke, but suddenly his voice joined that of his father's, in a hurried rush of words that to him was almost a confessional. "Father, Father, she tried to save me, she thought I was in danger, and I didn't know she was falling, I thought she was playing, and I... and I... and..." The young badger dropped his head, unable to go on.
Yet Russano, his mind wracked with anguish, a strange anger stealing over his senses, understood. He did not know what was happening to him; the only things that existed to him were the words of his son and the motionless body of his daughter. He was no longer Russano the Wise; he was an animal consumed totally with grief, and in the seconds that followed, he was barely aware of the rush of crimson that suffused his mind.
Snowstripe too felt something strange come over him at that moment; he looked up, and saw a mask of fury that was not his father, not at all, not this.. this thing with bared teeth and savage roar and narrowed eyes that were that brilliant, deep, unmistakable red...
The hares, as one, cried out in shock, and Snowstripe backed away, almost paralyzed with terror. The Bloodwrath was upon Russano the Wise.
A/N: Thanks, everyone, for your encouragement. Guess not as much was wrong with the previous chapter as I thought.
To everyone who asked, I repeat: Yes, there is a great significance to Ciánan's pendant. No, I cannot tell you what this is. You'll find out later.
Kelaiah, sorry you weren't overly fond of the prologue, but it was designed to be a bit creepy, easy to skip over and get to the real story. Things'll hopefully make sense. (With less ego involved, I will confess that I don't write very good prologues. Shhh! ;D)