CHAPTER 3
A/N: This chapter is a bit longer seeing as I've got a good bit more time on my hands these days…thing Driver's ED. Heh. Also some angst which might cause the rating to be changed. And for those of you who are more closed minded, this is not slash, in other words, it's not romantic relations between two males. My two O.C.s are…shall we say…very close friends. But it's not slash. Ashdark's POV marked by italics, switches between memory and present marked by dashed lines.
Disclaimer: (better late than never) Mossflower Wood does not belong to me, nor does the River Moss, Camp Willow, or the concept of a Skipper of Otters, and Inbar Trueflight and the Taggerung aren't my characters.. However, Runnalon Ghostpaw and Ashdark Trueflight belong to me. I have no problem with people using them so long as they clear it with me first.
Without further ado…
Blurs, shapes, light, warmth, and pain…pain. The haunting darkness of unconsciousness resolved itself gradually into flickering flame shadows as Runnalon's eyes slowly opened beneath his fevered brow. He stifled a moan as the throbbing pain in the right side of his forehead sharpened into a white-hot intensity that was almost tangible. He winced as, raising a bruised paw, he touched the matted fur just below his ear gently. His hooded eyes, clouded with suffering, were shocked to take in the blood that dyed the snow still burning between the pads of his paw a light rose. The moan rose sharply in his throat, becoming a growl and then a snarl as his shell-shocked mind latched itself onto a single memory: blood. Blood, warm and damp, trickling before his emerald eyes, a flash of shining metal and coils of sinuous muscle…the last things he saw before the darkness enveloped him. Thrashing against the blankets that now sheltered his wounded body, Runnalon desperately fought the memory until, at least, he lay silent once more.
Dark-gray eyes, burning black in the shadows near the hearth impassively watched the white northlands otter writhing like a streak of light against the dark bedclothes. But behind his impeccable emotionless warriors façade, Ashdark Trueflight ached to see his best friend, he who was like an extension of Ashdark himself, in such agony. Sighing wearily, he sat near the fire and began to clean the snow and blood from his own big, dark-furred, capable paws. Staring into the flames, Ashdark's thoughts swirled like the silently conquering snowflakes that even now trapped the two otters. He shivered and closed his eyes as recollection overwhelmed him.
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Ashdark's eyes had lingered on Runnalon as he'd left the messhall. After all, how could the dark-eyed warrior have missed Skipper's distracted anxiety as he assigned what should have been no more than a routine patrol duty? Runnalon had swept from the hall with all of his usual confident grace, but Ashdark's mind raced, worry rising in his lean frame like steam from a cauldron. Runnalon…winter's first storm…lone patrol duty…funny tracks…suddenly Ashdark boiled over, bounding from his chair and sprinting from the room. The feeling of dark premonition that drove his footpaws swiftly onward did not ease until the big otter had clambered up the tunnel and raced across the new snow to the armory. Sending the hardwood door slamming against the stone wall with a single powerful shove from his dark-furred paw, Ash lunged for his longbow. Running a paw fondly over the smooth, dark, perfectly curved wood and taut, well waxed string, his expression set into capable determination. Runnalon! Ashdark shouldered his bow and quiver, crossing the bowstring and quiver strap across his chest, and at the last second before leaving the armory, snatched a dagger from a high shelf, twirled it once in his paw, and thrust it into his belt sheath. *Semper paratus. His resolve still fresh in his mind, Ashdark set off into the storm.
Breathing lightly, Ashdark dropped down into the snow, wriggling himself into a protective trench. Brushing an impatient paw against the ice crystals that the biting winds had driven to cling to his dark fur, Ash levered himself up on his paws and peered into the swirling snow. His steel-gray archer's eyes had easily picked up the tracks of his friend, and he had doggedly followed them to the edge of this forest clearing, still and silent but for the distant sounds of combat. He had paused to regroup and plan his strategy…Ashdark shook himself. What was he doing burrowing into the snow when Runnalon was in danger? A cloud of vapor from his breath was all that remained of Ash as he crashed frantically through the undergrowth, stringing his bow and drawing an arrow from his quiver as he ran.
In his haste, Ashdark's first black-feathered shaft went wide and only wounded one of the strange gray vermin that surrounded Runnalon. But his companion did not appear to need much assistance; whirling the sapphire-hilted ice-keen dagger that had once belonged to the legendary Taggerung, Runnalon cut down the strange, scruffy, soot-colored beasts with swift and deadly accuracy. Ashdark fired arrows rapidly into the throng, thinning enemy ranks drastically. As Runnalon noticed one of the creatures attacking him falling slain as though by magic, his eyes flashed an evergreen smile at the dark figure firing the taut longbow. Ashdark returned the glance and chanced a quick laugh; the battle seemed won. Allowing his bowstring to slacken off, Ash paused to watch his friend dispatch the rest of the vermin. A simple task, until…
Ashdark's limbs turned to ice as a specter out of a nightmare made his blood run cold. Out of the storm had come a creature the like of which had never been seen in Mossflower: a huge white and yellow patterned serpent, red eyes glittering, blackened fangs dripping, open mouth emitting a sibilant hiss. Skipper's "funny tracks" were immediately explained as, hypnotized by fear and revulsion, Ashdark watched the monster slither forward, its slimy bulk leaving S-shaped trenches in the deep snow as it bore down on Runnalon. Seeing their leader seemed to drive the bizarre grey vermin into a frenzy; Runnalon was hard pressed and quickly began fighting for his life, sustaining multiple wounds from the short spears they carried. Ashdark moved as though through thick syrup, his normally agile paws stumbling over nothing at all. He had seen the snake rear and prepare to strike…Runnalon…no…but it was too late. The foul serpent's head snapped towards Runn with lightning speed and the muscular coils tightened around his body as the fangs made contact with his forehead. With a bellow like a wounded bull, Ashdark came out of his stupor as the ghost-like warrior collapsed, staining the pure snow with his blood. Rage blinded the brawny otter. Streaking as rapidly as flame across the clearing, Ashdark thrust a paw into his belt, wrenching the dagger free. Still cannoning forward without pausing to aim, Ashdark whipped his paw forward, sending the dagger spinning into the wintry air. The silent missile buried itself in the roof of the serpent's still open mouth. With a sputtering hiss of shocked pain, the snake turned upon the dark warrior. But Ashdark was off, having hoisted his fallen friend into his paws and sprinted off to the west without slackening his pace.
Fighting the urge to cry out, Ashdark drove his body onward, refusing to slow down and further betray his friend. He fought the images of Runnalon, falling and Runnalon, bleeding that threatened to overtake his mind. The frenzied yowling of the scruffy vermin rang in his ears as they flocked about their fallen leader. Smiling grimly, Ash forced all of his remaining energy into his aching paws and tightened his grip on Runnalon's limp body, slightly relieved but not placated by the warmth and pulse that indicated the tough warrior's ongoing vitality. Not much further now…Ashdark bit his lip until blood showed as pain and exhaustion began to make his muscles burn. Just got to keep going…with his last vestige of strength, Ash raised his head and glimpsed his destination. Slowing to a stumbling walk, Ashdark carried Runnalon into the entrance to a cave, hidden amidst a stand of pines.
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Shuddering involuntarily, Ashdark snapped his molten-silver eyes open and cradled his head in his paws. With a sigh, he rose and glided silently to the pallet on which his friend lay breathing harshly. Pausing inches from the unconscious otter's still form, Ash surveyed the white-furred warrior as his mind raced.
He looks so peaceful now…no thanks to me. Remember? That snake…and I just stood and watched him fall.
Running the back of one swollen paw gently across the left side of Runn's brow, snow-white and unmarred by dried blood, tears filled Ashdark's eyes.
Runnalon…I don't deserve you. Here you lie, wavering between life and death, drifting toward Dark Forest's gates. And why? Because your "friend" glued his paws to the snow while anybeast's worst nightmare cut you down. No, I don't deserve you…but where would I be without you? Who else but you could save an outcast otterkit from drowning in his sorrows with your steady eyes and shy smile? Who else but you could soothe a rebellious young warrior's temper with your calm voice and strong, stable paws? Who else but you could light up even the darkest night with nothing but quiet laughter? Who else but you could hold off a vermin regiment, single-pawed, and still have time to look up at me and grin? Runnalon, I don't deserve you. But I need you…so…much…And look what I've done to you…Runn..
Ashdark collapsed onto his knees and rested his head on his injured friend's muscular chest, sobbing brokenly. Slowly, Ash's breathing calmed, weariness casting its spell over the anguished otter.
Ashdark's warm weight on his torso gradually brought Runnalon down from the world of dreams. His eyes flickered and opened slowly, taking in the lines of exhaustion and worry as well as the tears that streaked his friend's normally handsome face. Anxiety and concern shone through Runnalon's tired green eyes, and he ran a soothing paw over the dark fur on Ashdark's head, continuing down over his neck and onto one tense shoulder. Runnalon's dry lips formed Ashdark's name and then closed as sleep claimed the wounded fighter once more. The two otters slumbered on, lost in friendship and pain as night fell over the forest.
*Semper paratus – "always prepared" in Latin
