Chapter Five: Dream-Life

Rawlstow had at first been concerned at the man's lack of response to his words, but gradually realized he was conscious and at least partly alert, but spoke little if any Narnian.

Perhaps, Rawlstow reflected, he had come from the same place as the sovereigns of Narnia. True, by all reports they had spoken fluent Narnian from the first day they arrived, but their world was surely larger than the country of Spare Oom, and distant lands might well speak some other tongue.

And he appeared to have no knowledge of Talking Animals, reacting to Rawlstow with the same fear with which he would regard a wild beast. Rawlstow wished he could find some way to reassure him, but knew it was unlikely that any in Narnia spoke his language, unless perhaps the kings and queens might have heard it before.

But at least the man seemed more willing now to believe Rawlstow meant him no harm, leaning on him until the fox feared his legs, not designed for walking upright, might give out.

But they soon reached his den, and his mate Vroxa was there to help settle the man on a low couch.

"Danke," he murmured, and Rawlstow took it for an expression of thanks.

"Yer welcome," he replied, swiping his tongue over the man's face. "Let m'see about settin' yer arm now."

He gave the man another dose of the herbs he had mixed, though he knew the break was bad enough that nothing was going to mitigate the pain entirely. When the man appeared to be getting drowsy, Rawlstow once more eased the arm from its sling and unwound the bandages holding the splint in place.

He was pleased to see the swelling had indeed gone down, though deep black bruises were beginning to form. Sniffing along the injury, he was able to determine that no major arteries had been damaged, and the bruising wasn't dangerous.

The bones were only slightly misaligned; it was but the work of a moment to put them right. The man jerked and cried out with the pain, his eyes flying open briefly before rolling back in his head as he passed out once again.

Rawlstow pressed his listener to the man's chest for a moment, finding his heartbeat rapid and his breathing shallow, but both fairly steady and not at dangerous levels. He licked the man's face once in silent apology before turning to bind the splints once more to his arm, more securely this time.

oOo

The next thing Franck was aware of was the smell of something savoury and appetizing. He lay enjoying the aroma for a moment, assuming he had been taken to some farmer's cottage and that the fox healer he remembered was merely part of some feverish dream.

Then he felt something cool and moist nudging his temple, and blinked his eyes open to see a red-furred face beside his own. If it had been a dream, then, he was not yet truly awake.

"C'n y'eat somethin'?" the fox asked.

"Ja," he managed, suddenly ravenous at the delicious aroma. He wondered briefly at the type of meat a fox might use, but surely foxes this large wouldn't bother with mice, and he was almost too hungry to care if they did.

Struggling to push himself up with his good arm, he felt a black paw slide a supporting cushion behind his back, and let himself relax against it. Then two paws held a bowl to his lips, and he was sipping a thick, nourishing broth with bits of meat and vegetables floating in it.

He licked his lips when it was gone, wishing for more, but not liking to ask. "Danke."

The fox licked his face, a surprisingly friendly gesture that no longer made him cringe. It reminded him of the dog, and he glanced across the room to see Otto enjoying a bone that was far too large to have come from any mouse.

As the days passed and Franck became more accustomed to the elided burr of the foxes' Speech, he found he was gradually able to understand more of what was said to him.

And as each day found the foxes just as real and solid as the day before, he was more and more convinced that this was somehow not a dream. It felt instead like a waking from a nightmare; a nightmare of war and bombs and being commanded to blow whole defenceless towns into oblivion. Some nights he did indeed dream of those days, and when he woke tried to convince himself that it had all been a dream, that this life with the foxes was not only a reality, but the only reality he had ever known.

It felt sometimes as if he were living in one of the fairy stories of his youth, a tale of gnomes and friendly forest denizens. And if perhaps there were also ogres somewhere about, at least he no longer owed his allegiance to one.

Next chapter coming next week!

I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! (Note that this story is formatted using British spellings.)

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