A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!

Advent

By: Bechtel

My time has taught me that all beasts are doomed to suffer, in their own way. Suffering is but a spectre that wears a different skin for each of us. Disease, tragedy, loss-from Mossflower to Marshank, woodlander and vermin, these pains find us.

The shame of suffering is not in its presence. It is in the beast who kneels to that spectre, who sets down his broken shield and bends his neck for the slaughter.

That is a shame that can never be wiped clean.

~.~.~.~

"Begin, then. Tell me everything."

And so Bechtel did. Reading the pages of his memory on the desk's carvings, he told the rat all, from his time aboard Tiltsnout's ship, to his meeting with Molly, to his discovery of a plot for freedom. Hours spun quickly by the light of his tale, the fresh oil in the lantern growing old and wane. Sickness and strain crackled his voice, and the closer he reached into the past, the greater the ache within him.

Across from him, Whip offered no commentary or interjection. Only thrice did he halt the bat, each time raising a paw before disappearing into the further room and returning with a cup of honeyed tea. Throughout it all, he remained wordless. He lay like a statue upon the edge of the cot, scarred brow molded in concentration.

When Bechtel finished recounting his story, and its myriad details, Whip raised a paw and ran it across his chin. Still, he said nothing.

Bechtel reached for the half-empty cup, long-since cooled. "Did you find what you—?"

"Ssh!" Whip hissed, holding up a paw. "I'm thinking…"

In the silence, Bechtel drank the last of the tea, down to the coalesced gob of honey settled on the bottom. He stared at the cup. With his story told and his part played, he wondered why he bothered to care for himself further.

To ensure Ander's freedom, he told himself. He realized that the rat could kill him now and pretend their deal never existed, but he had no other option. He had to trust in Whip's word of honor, and he would carry himself through to see it to the end.

"Hale's feast."

Bechtel jumped at the sudden speech. A click told him of the rat's shifted posture, of the rubbing paws and eager gaze, as if beholding a new approach on some long-wrought puzzle.

"Never agreed with Wimmick's suggestion of Ryetail poisoning the cat. Looks like my intuition is as sharp as I thought." He nodded. "And it makes so much sense. That weasel jumping onto the table—it was all a distraction for you, wasn't it? Pity you failed."

"But I didn't. I used the entire vial."

Whip snapped his fingers. "Exactly. By all accounts, you didn't. Yet our friend the Administrator is on his way to a speedy, miraculous recovery." He paced about the room, paws clasped sharply behind him. "And how did Quintock get this poison in her claws?"

Bechtel clicked and studied his carvings once more. He focused on a double-story building, with the dark of a hundred of scratches enshrouding the three figures within. He could feel the cold of the vial in his claws once more, and he listened as Molly spoke of her plan, of orders from the outside to kill Hale.

"Someone on the outside. She called him a benefactor." He furrowed his brow. "She never spoke his name. …in fact, I don't think she knew who he was." He remembered the elder mouse Orban's words during the clandestine meeting in the Crucible, and his frown deepened. "…none of them seemed to. Yet he's the reason they all came together, which doesn't—"

A bark of a laugh cut him off. Across from him, Whip bent double, a gutborn guffaw issuing against the shake of his body. He slapped his paws together as if heralding a curtain call. "Oh, bravo, you clever cat! Vulpuz be proud!"

Bechtel coughed and steadied himself against the rat's outburst. "What… what do you mean?"

"Can't you see it? It all comes down to this benefactor. The beast clever enough to run circles around my guard, smart enough to inspire a rebellion, and influential enough to get poison past any checks." His smile deepened. "And this beast even had a plan to pin everything on an unsuspecting noble. After all, who could deny a drawerful of treason, signed with their very name?"

Bechtel's eyes widened. "Wait… you're saying Hale was the benefactor? But, that would mean—"

"That he poisoned himself." He shook his head, his mirth turning bitter and strained. "Who could doubt the sincerity of the sickly Seftis, having narrowly avoided death? Not a single beast cast a glance his way. I even let my guard down, and now look at me: discarded, while that damn cat worms his way further into Cain's good graces!"

"So what does this mean?"

Whip folded his arms with a huff. "It means we found why Hale wanted you dead." He stroked his chin. "Now, I just proof to show Lord Cain. Hale hasn't been faking his illness, and the physicians assured me it was hemlock. He must have watered down the dose, but even then, he'd have to build a tolerance to it. He would need a supplier, then, but one without a paper trail. He'd be too smart for that…"

"We're done, right?" Bechtel interrupted, prompting Whip to glance his way. "I gave you what you wanted. Now it's your turn."

Whip waved a paw. "Your friend can wait. Hale's influence grows stronger by the day. It could be only hours before he makes his next mo—"

A crash of wood drew both of their attentions. Rapid footsteps echoed above them, descending with such speed to sound like the buzz of some giant insect. The door to the kitchen slammed open, and a gasping Gromo nearly fell upon the ground.

"C-Cap'n!" he wheezed, supporting himself against the counter. Bechtel clicked, but saw no signs of injury on the beast. Only wild-eyed panic.

Whip darted to his subordinate, not bothering to shut and lock the door behind him. "What is it, Gromo?" With only breathless wheezes as his answer, Whip smacked the other rat upon the cheek. "Calm yourself and speak! Have more guards fallen? Are the faithful still with us?"

Gromo shook his head vigorously and pointed a trembling claw behind him. "A-a-army!" he managed to cry.

Whip straightened and his tail went still. Shoving past Gromo, he dashed through the rooms, his furious steps carrying him up a stairway. Gromo stumbled to a nearby barrel, slapped the lid off, and dunked his head into the pungent drink.

Against the nausea swimming at the edges of his awareness, Bechtel staggered forth from the room towards the guard rat.

"What do you mean 'army'? "

Gromo pulled up from the barrel, gasping for air. He swiped a paw at the river of ale streaming down his chin. " 'Sactly what I said. Bloody army on the horizon!"

The rat returned to slaking his dried throat, paying no further heed to the bat. Bechtel passed him by, exiting the kitchen and climbing his way up the simple-slat stairway leading out of the compound. Catching himself against the doorframe leading to the outside, he clicked.

A lone, unassuming shack on the outskirts of the city, the echoes told him, sweeping first around his immediate surroundings. Whip lies at the top of an notched pole, a spyglass in his paws. He has a view of the entire city, but he looks elsewhere, towards—

The evaluation ended as the echoes reached further, past the watching rat, past the distant roads smothered by untrodden snow, past the winter-dead trees edging the marshlands.

As a child, Bechtel always quivered in fear whenever Atrus spoke of the hordes. Crowds of evil beasts haunted his nightmares well past childhood. The miracle of a brave few goodbeasts overcoming insurmountable odds never ceased to amaze him, for how could so few stand against so many?

He realized now that his nightmares had been kind.

A mass of beasts stood against the horizon, congealed together in a solid line. He could not even see their shadows against the falling sun, but the echoes told him of each and every beast. They wore no uniform, as the guards of Marshank did, nor any emblems to declare their allegiance or origin. The rough-hewn iron spoke for them, forged without grace, gouged by war, worn like skin. Spears and swords lay drawn in ready paws, though not a beast moved forward.

Bechtel tried to count them. Fifty. One-hundred. Two-hundred. Hundreds more stretched beyond the reach of his voice, and he wondered if there was ever an end to them.

He heard Whip drop from his lookout post, and the rat stomped his way back towards the hut. He grabbed Bechtel's shoulder, shoving the bat down the stairway and back into the kitchen. The world swam, even when he collapsed to the ground to steady the spinning.

"What do we do, Cap'n?" Gromo asked, the panic still in his voice.

Bechtel heard Whip yank something from a shelf, followed by the crash of clay and wood on the floor around him.

"Gather supplies." His voice issued calm and sharp, unmarred by any emotion save for urgency. "Dry goods only, and whatever fills a beast up the most. The Crucible's larders are well-stocked, but not if we have to support the town as well."

"We're goin' back t' the Crucible? C-Cap'n, didn't yew see how many there—"

"I saw fools looking to challenge the might of Marshank," Whip snarled. "Hale may think he's won, but Cain will not abide an army. I will force a confession and surrender from that cat's lips, and then I will let Lord Cain plunge a dagger into his brother's black heart. Marshank has abided enough of these games."

The swirling lessened, and Bechtel pulled himself to his feet. "You gave me your word, Whip."

"And I will keep it," Whip snapped. "I have a siege to prepare for. That weasel can wait."

Bechtel slapped a burlap sack from the rat's paws. "No. Once the food runs low, they'll send the slaves out to their death. Is that the Crucible's justice?" He jabbed a wavering claw at the rat. "You promised me his freedom, not his death."

Whip's tail lashed in wild arcs, and his breath came out like spurts of steam. "Fine," he growled. "I'll make the time for it." He reached down and tossed the sack at Bechtel, heavy enough to send the bat staggering back into a wall. "But you'll help pull your weight."

~.~.~.~

Silence punctuated the hour-long journey into the heart of Marshank, broken only by their footfalls and Bechtel's occasional cough. Neither wind nor snow leveled their wrath upon the languid streets. Day-old pawprints carved their way along the towlines connecting the buildings, yet the streets remained barren. Few of the passing windows glowed with firelight.

The combination of it all lent an eeriness to the world. Bechtel ignored the feeling, concentrating only on each step ahead of him. His body churned with revived aches, and the sack he carried – though it contained less than half of Gromo and Whip's provisions – felt like a millstone. He asked to stop and rest twice, and was granted time only once. The trio gathered their breath and Whip considered their bearings.

"Why would Hale send an army against his brother?" Bechtel asked, if not only to break the silence around them. "Why do any of this?"

Whip leaned against the corner of a building. "Not the first time he's tried to overthrow Lord Cain. I told Cain to kill him when he had the chance. Seems exile only made him more cunning."

"Exile?"

"To the untamed North, where the marsh lies deep and the toads rul. Most beasts thought it was a death sentence. Even Lord Cain did. But then Hale returned five years later, 'reformed.' After his sisters succumbed to a passing sickness, Lord Cain had mercy on his sole-surviving sibling. Didn't take long for beasts to forget about Hale's treachery."

Gromo nodded. "Aye, that were about th' time o' my recruitment. If it weren't fer th' Cap'n, I'd never have guessed how bad a beast Hale was."

Whip's scowl deepened. "And to repay his brother's kindness, Hale plots in the shadows and sends for his ill-gotten allies."

"Allies?" Gromo raised a brow. "What d' ye mean, Cap'n?"

"The armor on those beasts. It's Northern-make."

"Does it matter?" Bechtel asked, prompting Whip and Gromo to both shoot him a look. "If Hale wins, I mean. You said the Crucible is justice—does it matter who's master over it?"

Whip scoffed. "Wouldn't expect you to understand. The Crucible is pure, but it can be tainted, same as any of us. Lord Cain understands this. He has brought more beasts into the Crucible than any of his forefathers. Marshank has grown strong under his rule. But Hale… Hale has already begun to corrupt his mind with these visions of a reconstructed Crucible. Suites for the nobility, seating for the commonfolk, and those ridiculous paintings." He spat. "An insult to the Crucible's honor."

Bechtel considered this, but before he could respond, Whip pulled his sack back over his shoulder.

"You've had enough time."

They set off once more. Snow began to fall with increasing intensity, a shrill whistle heard all around them. Through chattering teeth, Bechtel clicked his tongue to keep sight of his guides, but movement to his side caught his attention.

A beast, half-fallen into the snow, stared at him. It was an otter. Confusion broke before bewilderment as Bechtel realized he recognized the beast.

Laurence?

The otter stood back up and disappeared into an alleyway. A curtain of snow blocked any further echoes from reaching the beast.

I thought Whip said Laurence had been killed.

Bechtel stepped to face the rat, but collided into the back of Gromo. The rat made no reaction, standing stock still.

"Bloody heels," Gromo whispered, raising a paw to his mouth. "Lookit, Cap'n. Damn murderers got another one."

Bechtel clicked, letting the sound scour the snowdrifted landscape. He saw it across from them—a fox hanging limp upon a towline, arms strung to the wire. Their head tilted too far to the left, like a doll whose seams had split. Their eyes lay open in terror, frosted over with ice, while a congealed mass of blood streaked across a gash in their neck.

When the initial shock faded, Bechtel realized that the beast was wearing a jacket.

"Another one." Bechtel recalled Whip's first words when Gromo came rushing into the underground hideaway: "Have more guards fallen?"

This was not the first guard murdered like this. Bechtel spun around, clicking twice. The echoes scurried about through the surrounding alleyways and potential hiding spots, but he found no sight of Laurence.

A paw on his shoulder snapped him from his thoughts. Breathing hard, he focused on Whip standing beside him.

"This is why Hale can't rule the Crucible." The rat's voice lay deep, rumbling with the danger of an approaching thunderstorm. "Madness like this."

Unsure what to think or say - or if he should say anything at all - Bechtel settled for a nod. He reset his grip on the sack and resumed walking behind the pair. The image of the frozen corpse remained in his mind long after they left.

~.~.~.~

On the approach to Justice Road, he heard the first sounds of life: the distant rumble of frantic murmurs, the pierce of tears dripping up into the air, the bark of orders crackling above them both. They stepped onto the Road, and the trio stopped.

The sea of Justice Road churned with the fear of a hundred beasts, all gathered before the Crucible's gates. A line of guards pushed the more frantic beasts back while one beast stood upon a makeshift podium of crates and barrels, shouting declarations to the crowd.

"Vulpuz strike me," Gromo whispered. "Serpose all of Marshank knows about the army, now."

"And now we've got a riot on our paws," Whip snarled.

"Is that Wimmick, up there?" Gromo squinted his eyes at the beast atop the podium.

Whip didn't answer. He adjusted the sack over his shoulder while his other paw freed the scourge from his hip, then he trudged off towards the Crucible's gates.

"What's he doing?" Bechtel asked, taking the moment to gather his breath.

"Dunno, mate," Gromo muttered. "But best t' stick by his side. C'mon."

Bechtel felt a paw loop around his shoulders, stabilizing his wobbling steps. He nodded his thanks, and the pair slowly made their way after the raging captain.

By the time they reached back of the crowd, a crack shot overtop the noise, silencing the whimpers and orders alike. Bechtel clicked, and watched as the crowd parted. Whip strode forward unimpeded, eyes locked on his former deputy on the podium.

"I see you're doing a good job in my absence, Wimmick," Whip's thunderous snarl reverberated under the stomp of his approach. "Bravo."

Wimmick's eyes widened. "Captai—" He shook his head, straightening up with renewed composure. "Whip. What are you doing here?"

"I was hoping to have a calm discussion with Lord Cain, but now I see I'll have to fix your bloody mistakes while I'm at it."

"Captain Whip!" A weaselmaid stepped forth from the crowd, held back only by the grip of a nearby guard. "They're not letting us into the Crucible! They say there's an army, and—"

Another crack snapped into the air, followed by a cry. The weaselmaid collapsed onto her tail, a paw shivering by a fresh cut on her shoulder.

"No interruptions," Whip said, casting look at all the surrounding beasts before focusing once more on Wimmick. "I need to speak with Lord Cain. Now."

Wimmick's paws tightened by his side. "Lord Cain has declared a state of emergency." He faced the crowd once more. "He is in negotiation with the leader of this army now, and will come to a peaceful resolution. However, we urge you to seek shelter at the nearest indicated stronghold, and for the strong and able to—"

Whip cracked his scourge again. "You didn't hear me, Wimmick. Get me an audience with Lord Cain."

"I… can't do that." A small wince accompanied the words, as if the beast expected a lash in response.

"And why not?"

"Administrator Hale specifically said you're not to be admitted." When no lash came, Wimmick straightened up further. "Under no circumstances."

For a moment, Whip simply regarded the rat on the podium. Then he stepped forward. "What's Hale promised you, Wimmick? Position in his new kingdom? How much did it take for you to break your vows to your Lord?"

Wimmick blinked twice, then stammered out, "What are you talking about, Whip?"

"Don't play dumb." He gestured at the crowd. "That's what this is, isn't it? Terrify the people, cast them from the Crucible, and hold them hostage once the army descends."

Frightened murmurs rose, spreading the rat's words like a virus to those outside of earshot.

"Is it true?" a mouse demanded, paws locked around the shoulders of two young dibbuns.

"Cain promised me safety!" a ferret cried, clawing the sleeves of his fine suit into ribbons.

Echoes of both statements rose from the crowd, the fear and tension peeling free to bleed in the air.

Wimmick's lip twitched, his eyes flicking about the shuddering beasts. "Whip, I'm warning you," he said, voice barely heard over the rumble of the crowd. "Leave now. Go to the Arbington, bring these beasts some confidence. It'll do more to help your standing with Lord Cain than this foolishness."

"Slit your tongue, traitor," Whip snarled. "You're just a pup pretending on a pedestal."

Wimmick's paw inched to his sword. Whip saw this, and Bechtel saw more. The rocks readied in the paws of the crowd. The tension of the guard as they called for peace, but lowered their spears.

"Stop him," Bechtel said, turning to Gromo. "Stop him now."

"Cap'n knows what he's doin—"

Bechtel hooked a claw into Gromo's shirt. "They're going to kill him if he continues. I need him alive!"

Gromo slapped the claw away with a scowl, but shot a look to his captain. His expression faltered, yet he remained still. Scowling, Bechtel dropped his sack and shoved his way past the remaining layers of the crowd.

Whip tilted his arm back to strike the blow that would set the crowd ablaze.

Bechtel jumped, colliding with the rat and sending the pair of them tumbling into the crowd. He lost his grip on the rat, and the two of them disappeared underneath the revived jeers of the multitude. His vision spun long after he felt the ground beneath him still. He attempted to push himself up on his knees, but only succeeded in falling back to the snow with a ragged series of coughs.

The crowd showed little sign of acknowledging the bat, their attention focused entirely now on stoking the fire of the rat's flint-struck words. Past them, Bechtel saw movement.

Whip is on his feet. A knife in his paw, the shuddering echoes told him. He comes for you.

He felt a paw flip him on his back, and through the blur of his vision, he saw a glimmer of metal.

"There's another way!" he choked out between coughs, the words coming out before he had time to think them through.

The blade lay suspended in the air. "…what?"

Bechtel's gaze flicked from the blade to the rat. "A-another way into the Crucible." He recalled the mess hall, the conversation with Ander, the mention of an escape route unknown to any of the guards. "I can get you in to see Cain and stop Hale."

It was a half-truth. Ander had spoken of a patched hole within the Crucible's walls, but Bechtel had never seen it. Whether it still remained, or ever existed, he did not know.

Whip's lip quivered with already-stoked anger. "You're only telling me this now?"

"I didn't know you wouldn't be let in. You didn't, either!"

Whip flexed his grip on the dagger. He shot a look to the crowd around them, and the guards beyond. Wimmick returned to assuaging the ire of the crowd, only casting the briefest of looks Whip's way.

"If this is you stalling…"

"It's not. All I need is some rope and I can get the both of you in."

"Cap'n!" Gromo cried, pushing his way past the other beasts. "Cap'n, are you all right?"

Whip's whiskers twitched. He straightened up and slid his dagger back through his belt. "Get the bat up. We're leaving."

"What 'bout th' supplies?" Gromo asked, hefting up both his and Bechtel's sack.

Whip glanced at his own discarded burlap bag. He stepped to it, pulled a length of rope free, then grabbed the shoulder of a finely-dressed hare. "You. What's your name?"

The hare looked him up and down. "Gervaise."

Whip gestured to the sack. "Take these provisions to the Arbington. Speak with Emery and tell him Captain Whip sent you, and to prepare for war. Board up the windows and entrances with anything you can find."

"Why in the blood-soaked North would I do that?" the hare huffed.

Whip's grip tightened. "Because you're not getting into the Crucible tonight." His lips curled with a smile. "And once you show up at the Arbington with supplies and a plan, those beasts will practically put you in charge of the place."

The hare's frown slowly disappeared. "I… see your point." He turned, whistled for the attention of several nearby beasts and gestured to the sacks.

Whip left them behind and stepped beside Gromo and Bechtel. "Lead the way, bat."

~.~.~.~

The roar of the crowd faded to a whisper as they skirted the outside of the Crucible. Gromo supported Bechtel's flagging steps, while Whip trailed a few paces behind them. He hadn't said a word since the altercation at the gates, and his scarred brow was perpetually knit.

Bechtel paid him little attention, however, clicking every few steps and scouring the wall for signs of the barred hole Ander had mentioned. Scaffolds lined the walls in irregular patterns, only serving to complicate his search of the walls.

The further they walked, the harder his heart pounded in his chest. Ander's salvation lay in his claws, in finding a way into the Crucible, yet he began to wonder if he'd misheard. Perhaps Ander was mistaken, and there was no exit at all.

"Thank ye, by the way."

Gromo's voice broke the bat from his thoughts. "For what?"

"Fer savin' th' Cap'n." He cast a look over his shoulder towards Whip before continuing. "Been thinkin', an' yew were right. Weren't no good solution t' that mess, an' the Cap'n prolly woulda died." He shrugged. "So… thanks."

"I didn't do it for his sake."

"Well, no matter why ye did it, t'were the right thing."

Bechtel clicked, letting the echoes scour the massive wall once more. He saw nothing, and so he returned his attention to the rat. "…do you believe him?"

"Hrm?"

"About the Crucible. That the beasts there deserve to be there, and that their judgment is just."

Gromo pursed his lips and made a great show of thought. "Dunno, mate," he finally. "Cap'n certainly believes it. It's why he set up all those hideouts in town."

Bechtel thought back to the underground complex. "There are more of those?"

"Oh aye. Were th' bread an' biscuits of his whole operation in Marshank. Shame Lord Cain threw him out 'cause of it. Only had the best interests o' the Crucible in mind."

"...what do you mean?"

"Well, Lord Cain'd been upset at how few slaves were comin' in from the trade. Bad fer business, so th' Cap'n decided to help out. Said beasts that ended up in th' Crucible were due t' come anyhow, so he set up some some checkpoints to look fer beasts wanderin' th' streets." He nodded to himself. "A righteous cause, he said it were, an' it worked 'til Hale had t' spoil th' whole thing."

A chill trickled down Bechtel's spine. Was this the justice of the Crucible? One creature stealing away random beasts, just to impress their ruler with a show of numbers?

The sick feeling – the spiraling sort of despair that transcended physical discomfort – returned to him. With it came an image: an open wound in the Crucible wall, high above them beside a length of scaffolding. Lopsided boards patch it shut, but not tightly enough to remove all sight of the halls that waited within.

"Halt."

Bechtel jumped at Whip's voice, whirling to face the rat striding towards him.

"We've walked far enough. Where is this entrance?"

Bechtel did not respond immediately. He studied the former captain's face.

This was not justice. It couldn't be. The Crucible festered with rot, and Whip's actions only fed into it. If the rat had lied about the Crucible - lied about Laurence's death - what would stop him from lying about freeing Ander? How could he trust the rat to fulfill any deal at all?

A paw on his shoulder broke him from his thoughts. He staggered back, breathing hard, but Whip's grip kept him close.

"Answer me." He pulled his dagger free. "The truth, or I'll see your judgment handed out now."

Bechtel's heart hammered at the sight of the dagger. He believed the rat's threat fully, and moreover, knew that Ander's fate lay in his own claws now.

"Er, Cap'n," Gromo said, voice thin and careful, "this cully's burnin' wit' fever, an' has had a rough run o' it. Mayhaps we can give him a bit o' leewa—"

Whip held up a paw. "The entrance, bat."

With no other choice before him, Bechtel gestured with his wing. "It's here."

Whip followed his wing, eyes squinting against the steady snowfall.

"Cor…" Gromo breathed. "Be a jolly long way up, innit?"

Bechtel felt something rough shoved against his chest.

"The rope," Whip said. "Fly up there and attach it."

"W-what?" Bechtel stammered. "I can't possibly-"

"These walls weren't built to be scaled, bat. You'll fly up there, or you'll die here."

Bechtel shook his head, staggering backwards. The heaviness of his shoulders and the sickness in his gut seemed to double at once.

"Cap'n…"

Whip cut Gromo off with a raised paw. He drew in a breath, the hardness of his expression softening. "I can't free your friend if I'm not in the Crucible." He held out the rope again. "Do your part."

"How… how can I trust you?" Bechtel muttered.

"There's no one else left to trust. But if you don't get me in there, that weasel will die."

Bechtel ran a claw against the sweat-melted snow on his brow. He gazed at his wings, one scabbed over and only partly healed, the other a fresh, mangled mess of patchwork repair. He looked at the scaffolding above-an easy flight any other season, suddenly now daunting and impossible.

And yet, Whip was right. Either he flew and Ander had a chance to live, or he didn't, and Ander was without hope.

He took the rope from Whip and looped it around his neck.

"Can ye make it?" Gromo asked in a small voice. "Practically had t' carry ye the last mile…"

"Just keep your promise," Bechtel said, blinking his eyes hard to push back the waves of nausea set upon him.

With one step forward, Bechtel jumped.

Searing, excruciating pain carved through him like a knife drenched in boiling blood. He was in a void, a world absent from all but agony. Screaming, he fell from the void, colliding into the snow. Spots flooded his vision as he squirmed, curling into a ball.

He felt a pair of paws grabbing at him.

"He can't make it, Cap'n! There's gotta be anothe-"

"No!" Bechtel roared, growling against the pain and the dizziness. "I can do this!"

He barely saw through the chaos of pain clouding his every sense, but Whip nodded.

"Get him up."

Gromo helped him to his feet and held him steady as he staggered, choking back bile.

I have to do this. I have to set things right.

Bechtel pushed himself from Gromo, clamped his jaw shut, and set his mind solely on reaching the scaffold. Then he flew into the void.

Nerves flayed in two, threes. Staples ripping, craving passage through his skin. A wind of needles and knives, stabbing and prying.

He pushed further.

Nothing. Nothing to know but the senseless pain rending every sense mute. He was blind, lost in a world without return.

And he fell.

He crashed into snow sobbing, interrupted only by the heaving of his stomach against the torture piercing through his body. Minutes seemed like hours, seemed like days. Eventually, the void released its grip on him, and he felt once more the cold of the world around him. He felt bile against his chin and tried to push himself up, but his limbs had no more strength.

He said nothing, waiting for Whip to come and pull him up once more. He felt no paw around his collar, but he heard a voice on the wind, somewhere far beneath him.

"Mother o' a pike, he did it!" Gromo howled out a cheer.

Bechtel flexed his claws and felt no earth-but a hard surface beneath him.

I made it.

"Get that rope tied!" Whip ordered, cutting through the combating whirl of shock and pain.

Against a weight unlike any other he'd ever felt, Bechtel shoved himself up onto his knees and crawled over to the edge of the scaffolding. Clicking his tongue weakly, he spotted a sturdy pole on the edge and pulled the rope free from around his neck.

Focus, he told himself, trying to rid his mind of the dizzying haze, but it refused to leave.

His claws worked with the sluggish distance of a vanishing dream. Every action - every pull and loop of the rope - seemed to pull him further away from the cold world and into a growing darkness that called him.

The rope slipped from his grip. He felt it uncoil, spiraling downwards off the edge. Slamming his wing down, he stopped the rope and began to pull it back up.

Stay awake! he screamed inwardly.

He attempted to start another knot.

If you fail here, Ander dies.

The end of the rope trembled in his weakening grip.

If you fail here, there's nothing left.

He no longer felt the cold. The rough texture of the rope faded more and more into the encroaching darkness.

It has to be worth it. It has to mean something.

The darkness enveloped him, and all was nothing.