Prompt: Be inspired by a song from Melodies of the Mended Wood by Joel Clarkson.


Picket stood on top of the tall, grassy hill as the summer breeze ruffled his fur and bent his ears gently. With somber brown eyes he gazed at the horizon before him. A bright meadow of green and gold stretched away in the sunlight. He could see the rising mountains, and could see where the woods met the far edge of the field, as if the trees had paused to look at a view of their own after their wild rush down the wooded slope.

This was where Picket came to think, especially when old memories came back to haunt him. It was a fair walk from his farm, but the journey relaxed his mind. Sometimes he brought Weezie out here. Today it was only himself.

He sighed and lowered his gaze to where his arm used to be. For the cause and crown, it had been lost. He could have lost so much more. He looked out again across the field, and in his mind's eye he saw wolves assembled on the grounds. And a brave host of rabbits, swords drawn, charging at them. There was not the slightest bit of fear in them- their eyes blazed with courage and determination. Picket saw Smalls at the head of the charge, darting among the enemy, sword gleaming. The green ember shone around his neck. Beside him ran Helmer, a blur of dark fury as he tore his way through the wolves' ranks. Uncle Wilfred was there, too. And Lord Rake, and Captain Frye. The wolves were in a panic, but a shadow fell over the field. Picket looked up to the sky, and saw three birds of prey circling under the sun. And then he saw himself leaping. He remembered that day. He had soared. He had slew the predators of the air even as the wolves had watched below. He had saved his king that day. He had proven himself.

Beside the leaping Picket soared Jo on a glider. Jo, the brave Fowler- the flier, the archer. He rained down arrows of death upon the screaming wolves. Heyward flew beside him, for some reason, tossing down loads of hedging shears upon the confused army below. Picket followed the path of the barrage, which sent the wolves into such a state of panic that they ran for the woods and disappeared. The rabbit army crashed in after them, their eagerness unquenched. The battlefield was left with the cries of the wounded and the bodies of the fallen wolves. Picket saw Heather and Emma in the distance, bandaging the wounded rabbits and giving them words of comfort. Sparking hope once again in their eyes as they were reminded to bear the flame until the healing could come. Until the mending.

In an instant the vision faded, and Picket smiled through tears. It hadn't been an exact vision- more like odds and ends of his memories from the war stitched into some sort of funny quilt. But still his heart surged with the memories. It had all been so long ago, and he had changed so much through all of it. The blood and sweat and tears had made him who he was. And as he gazed at the distant mountains it felt almost as if he had his sword buckled to his side. He could almost feel Heather standing beside him. She was in New City, Picket reminded himself, but he closed his eyes and imagined she was there with him all the same. They had both survived and seen the seed of the new world come to fruition. They had both borne the flame. And though Picket's memories brought him grief, he was able to truly appreciate what they now had. A time of peace and plenty that would extend throughout eternity.

"Now is the time of the Mending," he whispered. "Long live King Jupiter Smalls."


Author's note: This bit was inspired by the song Lighthall. Even though I knew what it was supposed to be about, all I saw was Picket standing on a rise looking off into the distance, thinking of his times as a soldier.