#The Cat Claw Pottery Shard

[blueiscoool]

The Cat Claw Pottery Shard

This Ancient Paw Print on a Pottery Fragment in Jerusalem Is the Oldest Known Evidence of a Cat Kneading.

The deep penetrations suggest that the feline was pressing its claws into the clay, a behavior sometimes known as “making biscuits”

“Interestingly, the paw print indicates that the small cat probably reclined on the curving edge of the jug, likely basking in the sun,” according to a statement Gibson also provided over email. “The claw markings were still evident, cut deeply into the clay, perhaps to allow the cat to hold on to the jug surface, and we can only [imagine] that it was purring as it soaked up the Jerusalem sun.”

Experts estimate the jug itself hails from approximately 750 C.E., during the rule of the Abbasid Caliphate, based on other relics unearthed nearby. Although that period aligns with the Golden Age of Islam, Jerusalem remained a multicultural hub for Jewish people and Christians, as well as Muslims, who historically adored cats so much that they let them enter mosques.

[pilot-boi]

It’s been a week since Ren’s brother returned from the dead. He’s been keeping an eye on his leader since normal life resumed.

He isn’t supposed to know as much as he is, he’s not supposed to know more than Nora, Oscar, and Emerald (and the adults) were told by team RWBY and Jaune during their debrief. But he does. It’s apparently been decades for Jaune, and from his perspective Ren has only had his evolved Semblance for a few hours, so he isn’t shocked that his leader has forgotten.

But under his intense gaze, Ren sees more than the others do. Even without his Semblance.

When they’re a group together, Weiss’s eyes shift from Jaune to the door so often that Ren doubts she’s paying any attention to the meeting. Ruby is watching her uncle as he speaks, but her foot is tapping so fast it’s about to spawn rose petals and Ren doesn’t even think she’s aware that she keeps leaning towards Jaune every time he flinches.

And Jaune…

He’s leaning over his notes, but his eyes are glazed. He fidgets in his seat, visibly stiff from frustration or pain, and Ren knows that often those two things are mutually inclusive for his brother.

Watching Jaune is painful.

Ren sees Oscar ask him a question about their recent patrol and Jaune’s response seems a fraction quieter than usual. He starts to speak and then pauses, clearing his throat, still not used to his new voice. His old voice. He seems to want to gesture as he usually does, but after underestimating his newly-returned range of motion the other day and smacking a hot coffee straight into Marrow’s face, Jaune’s hands stay clenched at his sides.

The longer he sits, the more tense his shoulders get. Petals in a thousand colors swirl around him, making a stark contrast to the white in his hair.

After Qrow dismisses them, Jaune is up and out of the room without helping clean up or wait for them. Alarm bells clang against Ren’s skull and he’s out of his chair before he sees Weiss jogging after him.

Pink petals drift after her.

Ren sits back down. As much as it hurts, he’ll let his friend handle it for now. And keep watch from a close distance.

---

This is the third empty space Jaune has hid himself in today.

First was a supply closet, where Weiss found him.

Next was a bathroom stall by the cafeteria.

This is tucked in the corner of an empty classroom. Abandoned as all the students have been drafted into their apocalypse.

His limbs are ice.

Crushing, crashing, breaking into shards. He’s going to cut himself on the sharp edges of Alyx’s knife, of the broken pottery of a dropped soup bowl, on the Cat’s claws. And they glint, it’s piercing, he’s frozen in the ice of crushing pain and the chill from Weiss’s Semblance crashing in.

You’re going to get your friends killed. Just like Alyx, just like Pyrrha, just like Penny. They are here because of you and they are going to die because of you.

They are going to die, they’re going to die, they’re gonna die, they’re gonna-

“They’re gonna die.” Jaune’s voice bursts from his lips, the pain can’t be kept in his head any longer. The words scratch his throat on the way out.

“They’re gonna die, they’re gonna die,” he mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut and watching Ruby fall through the ground. Neo-Cat is on the ground, and Jaune raises his sword, but it’s Penny, and he’s shaking and shaking, and he can’t move, and Pyrrha is there with a blade like he should’ve been for her, and he’s paralyzed, and he’s falling, and they’re all going to die, and it will be Jaune’s fault, it’s all his fault-

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He’s curled into himself, scratching at his arms, digging nails in but too cowardly to break skin. Too cowardly to let the story play out, too cowardly to let the Paper Pleasers ascend, too stupid to back down from the self-righteous bullshit that nearly dug his friend’s grave.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Jaune can’t make his lungs breathe right, because he can’t do so many things right. Can’t even be the make believe hero, he’s going to die here and they’re gonna die too.

Jaune crumbles.

It’s no less than what he deserves.

---

Jaune hasn’t arrived for their meeting at five o’clock, and Ren waits only seven minutes to go and look for his brother. As far as Ren knows, ever since returning Jaune has only ever been two minutes late to anything, and that was because he got caught up in a meeting with Qrow. Getting forcibly ripped from time has made his brother painfully meticulous about schedules.

This is the first room Ren looked for Jaune in. He’s been trying to be the glue holding their family together, but introversion dies hard, and Ren still very occasionally retreats to empty classrooms, so he knows the best spots to go.

Evidently, Jaune knows as well.

When Ren finds him, Jaune is scrunched into the furthest corner of the room. Jaune is no longer the gangly teen from Beacon, he’s filled in the few years since leaving the Academy to be nearly six and a half feet of pure, friend-shaped, muscle. His brother is currently occupying a space about a third of his size.

None of the desks seem disturbed, so Jaune must have carefully picked his way across the room and tucked himself into the corner purposefully. Somehow, this makes Ren feel even worse.

He makes his way quickly over to Jaune and crouches beside him, cataloguing his brother’s movements. His breathing is erratic and he’s mumbling words through pulling gasps. Words that vaguely sound like, “They’re gonna die.”

“Jaune. I’m here. You’re not alone. Everyone is safe.” Jaune’s red-rimmed gaze snaps to him. Even during a panic attack, his brother still tries to give Ren all of his attention, something that is so exasperatingly Jaune.

“You’re in Vacuo,” Ren reminds him in case Jaune has forgotten, which based on the way he’s scratching at his arms and the dazed look in his eyes, he has.

Ren’s seen the same look in the mirror after Atlas.

It’s only been a week since Jaune and the others returned from the Ever After. Jaune hasn’t spoken to Ren about it, he definitely hasn’t spoken to Nora or Oscar about it, but his shoulders have been stiffening into a tenser set, darker shades of petal have been surrounding him, and he’s disappearing a lot more frequently.

“Jaune? I’m going to take your hands. You can squeeze mine as hard as you need.” Ren would like Jaune to stop scratching up and down his arms, stop leaving red marks on freckled skin. He waits a moment and Jaune reaches out to him, his eyes wide and his face nearly green with what Ren recognizes as nausea.

He longs to use his Semblance, to end this right now. But would that make it worse? Would forceful calm just compound Jaune’s belief that he’s in a world where nothing makes sense?

“Jaune. Let’s breathe. You’re going to get through this. Whatever you’re seeing isn’t what’s happening right now. We just have to breathe.”

Ren sits with Jaune, their hands clasped and Jaune’s painful pulls of breath gasp, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

---

Ren is never going to respect him again. He's peeking behind the carefully perfected facade that is Jaune’s factory setting since returning. He’s watching Ren, and his brother has never looked more open in his life. His mask is nowhere in sight, and it’s clear now why Ren always relied on it because his brother is trying and failing miserably to hide his worry.

Jaune’s vision tunnels and his stomach is being hollowed out by an ice cream scoop. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Jaune, there’s nothing to be sorry for.” That’s Ren’s voice. “You just need to focus on your breathing. You’re safe, Ruby and her team are safe, and it’s going to be okay. You’re not there, Jaune, you made it out alive.”

Only because Ruby, Weiss, Blake, and Yang saved his ass. Only because a little girl died because she wanted to help him. Jaune scoffs out loud. He’s so tired and sick to his stomach. It’s been his fault all along and Ren knows, Nora knows, Oscar, team RWBY, Qrow, they all know.

He tastes blood and is tempted to spit it out. Right there on the classroom floor. He swallows it instead and gags.

It’s salty. They’re tears.

“Jaune.” Ren’s voice is urgent. He wonders why.

He’s drifting from one choked breath to the next. The Cat will kill him any minute. He can’t muster the energy to care…

But Ren is putting a hand on his chin and tugging sharply, and Jaune’s bleary gaze meets Ren’s perpetually calm eyes. And Jaune sees fear there.

He’s doing that. He’s scaring his brother.

Pure instinct of “do not hurt others, do not let others get hurt” makes him suck in a much needed breath.

Ren’s voice is saying something like “Breath, Jaune. Don’t hold it in.”

Holding it makes his chest balloon and the world goes all soft and floaty. But Ren squeezes his hand, and Jaune can feel them shaking. He can’t make his brother feel safe, his mouth stays useless and clamped shut.

“Useless,” he spits.

Ren makes a sound of disagreement. “Don’t say that, Jaune. Just listen to the sound of my voice. That’s all you have to do.”

And Ren starts talking. Stringing sentences together like it’s nothing, like there was never a time when a few words were his quota for a full day.

Jaune tunes back in at, “Nora and Emerald have been having contests of how many beetle bars they can eat in five minutes. I think Emerald’s record was 15 but Nora’s is currently sitting at 19.” And Ren chuckles, and Jaune sees a grin on his face instead of that fear, his hands still squeezing Jaune’s.

And Jaune feels something other than mind-numbing terror because that smile on his brother’s face is… novel.

“Did you know that Emerald smuggled a stray cat into the dorms?” Ren is looking at Jaune and his eyes check Jaune’s before continuing. “She found a stray tuxedo cat on patrol, starving and looking sick. We got back from a meeting and found her swaddling it in blankets from Nora’s bed. She really had to try to convince Qrow to let her keep it, something about birds and cats, but over the next few days she and Oscar brought home four more and Nora another one, so I guess she won. They live in the kitchen now.”

“What are their names?” Jaune chokes out. His breaths come slightly easier.

“Bella, Draco, Hellspawn, Rosie, Nora Jr, and Noodle.” Ren’s lips tilt upward as he replies, although the smile is wistful. “Bella is the tuxedo, she still sleeps on Emerald’s bed. Turns out she missed Blake. Noodle and Draco are a pair of orange tabbies courtesy of Oscar, he missed his older siblings. And Rosie is small and black with the biggest eyes ever. You can guess who she’s named after.”

“H- Hellspawn?” Jaune asks.

“Yes. She’s a white shorthair, originally named Princess for Weiss, but she’s the devil so that name was quickly dropped.”

A smile quirked Jaune’s lips. It hurts more than the terror does to know his family missed them all that much. But the thought of Weiss’s face when she found out what her namesake was rechristened almost makes up for it. “Nora Jr?” Jaune asked, curiosity replacing the sheer terror by a fraction.

“He yells all the time. Nora says he’s like the son she never had,” Ren says with a sigh.

“My sister… Saphron she…” Speaking tears at his throat. “She named our barn cat Zoomer.” Ren, for some inexplicable reason, looks interested in hearing about Jaune’s cat so he goes on. “I wanted a dog, but the twins are allergic.”

Ren hums. “Dogs have a lot of energy, and your house has a lot of people. Besides, you’re basically a human golden retriever already.”

Jaune feels laughter bubble in his chest and lets it out. It comes out as a wet, quiet thing, but it feels good. Anything to not feel like this again.

For today at least.

[the12thnightproject]

*runs into askbox like a hungry cat presented with a piece of fresh, beautiful salmon*

HELLO THERE!

AAAAAA 😳 This is so exciting! Okay okay okay okay okay.

Character: Masamune

Prompt: 7 (It's only a flesh wound).

Spice level: NSFW is okay

I hope you have fun with this event and thank you soo much for coming up with such a fun game!! ❤️ Thanks in advance for the piece too!

Hello, hello, and thank you so much for the ask! This ended up being borderline comedy/crack fic... I hope you enjoy it. I was happy to be able to write something for you (and of course, Masamune).

Title: A Dramatic Pawse (...part one)

Characters: Masamune, Shogetsu, with assists from Kojuro, Ieyasu, and additional 'help' from Mitsunari

Prompt: "It's only a flesh wound."

For: @mllorei @lorei-writes

Warnings: Slightly injured animal

Word count: 1500+

Grrrooowwwwl!

“I’ll take the pointy end, you grab the rest.” Masamune briefly looked away from the snarling beast to check in with his vassal.

The confident statement gave Kojuro the courage to edge closer to the ball of belligerence, only be greeted by a warning hiss. “It’s all pointy.” Though he wasn’t unwilling to help, he would at least like some guarantee that he could perform this task without being flayed.

Acknowledging the truth of that, Masamune slowly circled his previously (until today) friendly tiger, all the while speaking in a calm, coaxing voice. “I know you’re in pain lad, but we’re trying to help you.”

Shogetsu finally recognized his human through the haze of pain and seemed to relax somewhat. Encouraged, Masamune slowly, cautiously, reached out to Shogetsu’s paw, trying to get a look at whatever had caused the tiger to limp into the manor a short while earlier.

Seeing a potential ‘bad touch’ approaching the ‘ouchie,’ Shogetsu swiped out with his other paw and growled again. Masamune backed away. “Kojuro, see if you can find Ieyasu and convince him to come over here.”

“Of course, Lord Masamune.” Kojuro’s respectful bow in no way revealed his inner sigh. It seemed he was not going to be able to escape the pointy bits and a flaying after all...

While waiting for Ieyasu’s arrival, Masamune seated himself closer to Shogetsu and began a quiet monologue, hoping to get through to the beastie. “War wounds are a fact of life, lad. I’m certain that whatever you fought looks far worse than you right now.”

Shogetsu pulled his sore paw closer to lick the injury. As the claws extended and retracted, Masamune spotted a shard of pottery lodged between the pads of his toes. “Ah. Your opponent was one of those vases that Hideyoshi loves so much. I confess, I might have done the same.” He again reached out to comfort his furry companion, but Shogetsu eyed him balefully and let out another warning rumble.

“You’ll be alright, lad. It’s only a flesh wound, but I’ve had enough of those myself to know that though they hurt like the devil, the pain doesn’t last. They’re badges of honor. Once Ieyasu fixes you up, I’m sure you’ll have something to show off to the lady tigers.” Masamune pulled back his sleeve, revealing a map of small scars, knicks and scrapes, acquired over years of war. He pointed to a long gash below his elbow. “Like this one. This scar was inflicted by none other than Nobunaga himself, though it was simply a sparring injury.” He lifted up the edge of his hakima and showed the tiger a newly healing slash along his leg. “As for this one…”

By the time a grumbling Ieyasu was ushered into the room, Masamune’s voice had grown hoarse from recounting the tales behind his battle scars.

“Some of us do have work to do.” Ieyasu set a basket of hastily gathered medical supplies on Masamune’s writing desk. “And Hideyoshi wondered why you missed war council.” He took a step toward Shogetsu. Not recognizing the new face, the tiger’s warning growl filled the room.  Ieyasu scooted out of range. “I can’t help him if he bites my hand off.”

“Kojuro and I will hold him still.” But a tiny note of doubt had crept into Masamune’s voice and Kojuro literally turned pale. After all, it had been their inability to examine Shogetsu that had prompted Ieyasu’s house call to begin with. “It’s his front left paw – there’s a broken piece of porcelain stuck in it.”

Heaving the sigh of a man suffering a thousand daily blows, Ieyasu found a jar of herbs amongst his supplies. “This might make him sleepy – if you have some meat to hide it in.”

While Kojuro escaped in search of fresh meat, Ieyasu set out a jar of ointment and a clean bundle of bandages. Masamune made a move to help, only to receive the glare of death and an Ieyasu-sized growling noise that somewhat resembled the same sounds emanating from Shogetsu. “Do I touch your cooking tools? No. I do not.”

“Fair enough.” Masamune stepped back and quashed an urge to pace. Truthfully, he had been more worried about Shogetsu than he let on. Lately the adolescent cub had been testing his freedom, spending more and more time away from home and exploring the environs around Azuchi. Masamune knew this was the natural order of things and would never have curbed a wild creature’s desire to explore, to run, to chase butterflies (or, well, small birds). But when Shogetsu hadn’t returned the previous evening for his normal meal, he’d become concerned. At this point, he was willing to do whatever he could to help the tiger recover.

Even if that meant backing away and letting Ieyasu be Ieyasu.

Eventually, Kojuro returned with a bowl of fresh boar meat, which Ieyasu sprinkled with herbs.

“How do you know how much to give him?” From Kojuro’s vantage, it had seemed that Ieyasu had just grabbed a random amount and tossed it into the bowl.

“I don’t.”

Shogetsu let out another snarl. Ieyasu looked at the tiger, then back to the bowl of meat and added more herbs. “Nor am I at all certain that this will calm him down. It works on people. It didn’t work on a rabbit. But tigers are neither people nor rabbits.” He shoved the bowl into Masamune’s hands. “This, you may help with.”

Cautiously, Masamune approached Shogetsu and set the bowl in front of him. After a couple hesitant sniffs, the tiger licked at a sliver of meat, before gulping it all down.

“Now, we wait,” Ieyasu said.

…

…

…

When Shogetsu finally relaxed enough to allow Masamune to touch him, it was anyone’s guess as to whether it was the herbs or the full belly. But whatever the reason, Masamune was able to gently but firmly hold Shogetsu’s upper body, keeping his teeth and claws away from Ieyasu, while Kojuro was left the duty of keeping a firm grip on the other half (a.k.a ‘the lower pointy bits’ for those with little medical knowledge). Though Shogetsu once again protested this treatment, they kept him immobilized long enough to allow Ieyasu to remove the shard, slather the injury in ointment, and tightly bind the wound. “That will take care of it. The wound looked pretty clean, so he should make a full recovery.”

“Thank you,” Masamune said while Ieyasu checked the security of the bandage. The two simple words didn’t cover gratitude he felt, but he knew Ieyasu would be embarrassed by over-praise. He resolved to cook a few extra-spicey meals for the lad.

“I didn’t do it for you, I did it for the animal.” Ieyasu took a step back. And the another, in case Shogetsu decided to protest the treatment by going after the healer. “Why anyone would keep a dangerous wild animal as a pet is beyond my comprehension.”

“You have a wild animal as a pet.” Masamune kept a calming hand on Shogetsu’s head.

“First of all, Wasabi is not a pet. Emergency food supply. How many times do I have to tell you that?” Ieyasu grimly packed up his supplies. “Nor is she dangerous.” He gave Masamune a look that dared him to argue. “You can let him go now. I want to see if he can walk on it.”

Kojuro and Masamune simultaneously let go and stepped back (technically, Masamune stepped back. Kojuro jumped).

Everyone held their breath, waiting to see whether Shogetsu would get up.

Then, suddenly realizing that he was not only free, but also no longer in pain, Shogetsu sprang up and wildly bound around the room, careening off the walls and knocking things over.

“Hm. That’s the same reaction that the rabbit had when I gave it the herbs.” Ieyasu nimbly ducked out of the way as the tiger ricocheted over him.

“That’s…” Masamune considered a few choice words then settled on, “interesting. How long until it wears off?”

“Could take the rest of the day.” Ieyasu shrugged. “Er, I’d keep him away from other animals. When the initial excitement wore off, the rabbit became somewhat … amorous. Then again, rabbits. It might be different with tigers.”

“Shogetsu.” Masamune tried to get his attention. “You’ve had a long night, and a rough morning. Wouldn’t you like to take a nice nap?”

The tiger ignored him and continued to tear around the room. Even then, this situation might have turned out ok, had it not been for the arrival of a fourth party.

“Lord Masamune, I was told that Lord Ieyasu was here.” Mitsunari’s voice floated from the closed door. “May I come in?”

At that, all three men shouted over the sound of the crazed tiger.

“No!”

“Keep the door shut!”

“Don’t come in!”

“I’m sorry.” Mitsunari slide the door open. “I could not hear what you sa—oops!”

Shogetsu zoomed past him, with Masamune and Kojuro close behind.

“Go on! Catch the tiger.” Ieyasu shooed Mitsunari away.

After a slight moment of hesitation, Mitsunari turned and ran after the others.

Once they had all disappeared, Ieyasu finished packing up his things and headed out in the other direction.

Meanwhile…

Outside Masamune’s castle, Shogetsu stopped briefly to roll in a mud puddle, apparently hoping to get the scent of medicine off him. However, before the three men could catch him, he leaped up again, blew through a pile of dead leaves (most of which stuck to his muddy, wet body) and headed toward the castle town.

None of Shogetsu’s human followers were a match for his speed. All they could do was hurry toward the sound of screams and the swathe of destruction – an overturned palanquin… a torn-up garden… a furious fabric dealer – as the tiger, now resembling some sort of primordial mud monster, ran almost blindly through streets and alleys.

Then suddenly, Masamune and Kojuro hit a dead end. One wall. No tiger. They retreated to the main thoroughfare, looking and listening for the sounds of chaos.

Kojuro tilted his head, then pointed back toward the center of Azuchi. “There’s some sort of commotion coming from there.”

Unfortunately for everyone involved… and for someone soon to be involved… the commotion noted by Kojuro was not, in fact, the tiger, but just the normal amount of feminine attention attracted by Mitsunari’s angelic beauty. The young man was surrounded by a crowd of young women, all insisting that they escort him to tea.

So… where …

Where did the tiger go?

Well, in fact, Shogetsu climbed over three walls, broke the fourth wall, and jumped into the “ask box.”

And so, his story will soon be continued…

As it happens... this particular request fit neatly in with a later request, and so in true chaotic fashion, the story will continue in a later request...

[ernmark]

any chance we could get some ot3 or arum/damien or arum/rilla cuddles? maybe physical contact isnt really a thing for monsters, or maybe bc he is a lord he never gets a chance to be casually intimate with people, or maybe he is too isolated from society for some reason. whatever the reason, i would love to see an arum who is not used to that kind of physical affection and when damien and/or rilla find out, they just give him so many cuddles and arum just loves it. ❤❤❤❤

For the record, the setup was supposed to be one sentence long. The fic itself was supposed to be, like, five hundred words, tops.

When Sir Angelo brings Damien to Rilla’s hut, she’s not sure exactly what to make of it.

“Rilla!” he practically sings, lurching toward her on unsteady feet. “My love, my forever flower, my–” He doesn’t get far before he loses his balance heads straight for the ground, and Sir Angelo has to grab him by the shoulders and physically set him in a chair.

If Rilla didn’t know better, she’d guess that Damien is drunk.

But Rilla does know better. Damien isn’t exactly the drunken revelry type.

“How long has he been like this?” she asks.

“A few hours,” Sir Angelo says. “Honestly, I thought he would be fine by now, but it seems he isn’t improving. Really, Sir Damien, this isn’t like you!”

“No, it isn’t,” she agrees, pulling the torn cloth from his shirt to reveal an amateurly administered bandage. “What’s this?”

“That? Just a flesh wound,” Sir Angelo says, clapping Damien on the back hard enough to make him topple again. “This morning the Queen sent him to investigate some kind of monstrous dog, and it tried to take a bite out of him. But no matter: the beast is slain!”

“This morning, you said?” Rilla unwinds the bandage. Sir Angelo is right– for the most part, the bite isn’t all that deep. It’s even been treated with a garlic salve to ward off infection. “Look here– two of these punctures are deeper than the others.”

“Well, that’s because of the teeth, you see,” Sir Angelo says. “Dogs have some teeth that are longer than the others–”

She tries not to roll her eyes. Priorities. “Not this much longer,” she says. “This looks more like something you’d find on a snake. And see the discoloration in the wound here? It didn’t just bite him, it injected something into him.”

“The fiend!”

“Sir Angelo, do you know what happened to the dog’s body? If I can harvest its venom sacs, then I should be able to put together an antivenom.”

Sir Angelo’s chest swells at the prospect of another quest. “Then I will retrieve it presently.”

“Hurry.” A note of worry slips into her voice. “The sooner I can treat him, the better.”

“Then there’s no time to waste! Don’t you worry, Rilla. I’ll have that scoundrel back to you before–”

He’s out the door and Rilla has officially stopped listening. She’s in her garden, activating the modified shriekweed that’s made its home there. She and Arum planted a whole network of them between her hut and the swamp; with any luck, he’ll be around to hear it. The signal is meant to be strictly for emergencies, but… well, this might be.

Antivenom should be administered within minutes, if not seconds. Damien’s been poisoned for hours; there’s no telling what the toxin might have done to him in that time. He’s still slumped across the chair where Sir Angelo left him, mumbling out incoherent declarations of love to the empty air. It doesn’t take a genius to understand that this is affecting his brain. What other side effects is she not seeing? How deep does the damage go? How permanent is it?

She doesn’t have time to worry about those things. Right now she has to focus on stopping the toxin’s progression. She mutters to herself as her hands fly over the rows of jars.

“Sea buckthorn, tumeric, coffee senna…”

“Oh,” Damien slurs, rising from his chair. “I know where that one is…”

She turns. “Damien, wait–”

It’s too late. He grabbed the senna, all right, but it slips from his fingers and smashes on the floor. He staggers, frowning. “Oh… Oh, my Rilla, I’m so sorry…”

“Damien, no.” She pulls him away before he can stumble into the shards of broken pottery. “No, it’s alright. It’s not your fault. But I’m going to need you to sit still and let me handle this.”

To his credit, he does try. He sincerely wants to be helpful. Unfortunately, it only takes a few minutes to remember to stay still, and he gets up and tries groping around among the herbs again. Rilla is in the middle of wrestling a jar of datura out of his hands when the door opens.

“Rilla?” Arum’s voice sinks into a hiss. “What–”

“Just help me grab him!” Rilla snaps.

Arum doesn’t need to be told twice. In a movement so fast she can barely catch it, he’s across the hut. Two of his hands restrain Damien’s wrists; the other two are around his waist, trapping him against Arum’s chest while Rilla grabs the datura out of his hands.

Damien seems to have forgotten about the jar. He stares up at Arum, his face flushed and his eyes wide.

“L-Lord Arum!” He sounds scandalized. Probably for good reason, too: this is the most physical contact the two of them have shared since all those ridiculous duels.

One of Arum’s brow ridges rises quizzically. “This is new.”

“That’s what I needed your help with.” Rilla heaves a sigh and shoves the datura into a drawer where Damien probably can’t get to it. “He got bitten by some kind of dog, and now he’s like… this.”

“A dog,” Arum repeats, adjusting his grip to to free one of his hands. His claws carefully lift the bandage on Damien’s shoulder. “A boozehound.” He rattles irritably. “Of course.”

“Sir Angelo says he was bitten hours ago,” Rilla says quietly. She doesn’t put her fears into words– but with Arum, she doesn’t need to.

“It should wear off on its own within a week,” Arum says. “The venom is hardly dangerous. The victims, on the other hand, can be… difficult.”

He doesn’t need to elaborate, either. Damien’s a Knight of the Queen; he’s stronger than he looks, and if he can pull together enough coordination to actually land a hit, he’ll be dangerous. There’s no chance that he’d ever hurt Rilla– or anyone else– on purpose, but he’s almost poisoned himself once already just trying to be helpful. “Is there any way to get it out of his system faster?”

“There’s a formula that should work,” Arum says. “But you’ll need some of the boozehound���s fur.”

Of course we will.

Rilla doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead she moves on to the important matters. “Sir Angelo’s going to be back soon with its body. What else?”

Arum gives her the rest of the ingredients. Most of them she has on hand, but there are a few that will need to be gathered.

“I can retrieve them while you work,” Arum offers, but Rilla shakes her head.

“It looks like you’re having better luck keeping him under control than I was. If you can hold onto him, I can grab the last of them and be back in an hour.”

Arum agrees to it– but then, he really doesn’t have much of a choice, does he?

She won’t deny she feels a little bad for calling Arum all the way here just to babysit Damien. He doesn’t seem upset about the favor or anything, but… well, it’s him. This relationship between the three of them has been going on for a while now, but there’s still a lot of distance between the two of them and Arum. He stops by for conversation sometimes, but even that tends to happen while he’s lounging in a tree or standing at the other end of the hut. It seems he only ever really gets as close as arm’s length when he and Rilla are looking at the same specimens together, and only ever for a few minutes at a time.

Damien’s thinks that it’s because he’s a lord, and he’s still entitled to a certain degree of decorum. Rilla’s always assumed that he’s just more sensitive about his personal space. Some people just don’t like to be touched.

She appreciates that he’s willing to take a bit of discomfort over this, though. She can’t exactly take Damien with her in this condition, and there’s no telling how much trouble he’d get into before Sir Angelo gets back. She makes her way through the jungle as fast as she safely can, just so he doesn’t have to deal with it any longer than absolutely necessary.

She first spots them through the window: Arum is sitting on the floor, his back against the wall. Damien is nestled comfortably on top of him, half in his lap and half half draped across his chest. He’s got one of Arum’s hands clutched in his arms and he’s petting it like it’s a very needy house cat.

And maybe she was wrong about that personal space thing, because Arum doesn’t look put out or uncomfortable right now.  His three free arms are wrapped around Damien, not to restrain him, but to keep him close. His expression is warm, even tender, and he dips his head to nuzzle Damien’s hair.

Rilla’s pretty sure it’s the most adorable thing she’s ever seen. It’s definitely the most adorable thing she’s ever seen Arum do.

Maybe it’s a little bit distracting. Maybe more than a little bit. Because the next thing she knows, she’s stubbed a toe on the fence post of her garden.

“Shit,” she yelps, pulling her foot back from the offending block of wood.

In the window, Arum freezes like he’s been caught. Discreetly he straightens his spine and rearranges his arms around Damien so they’re less cozy and more neutral. He tries briefly to retrieve the hand in Damien’s grip, but Damien won’t let go. For a moment Arum’s expression is exasperated– then fond.

That’s an interesting reaction.

He’s still stiff and neutral when she makes her way through the door.

“I’m back,” she announces unnecessarily. “I hope he didn’t cause too much trouble?”

“I kept him away from the nightshade,” Arum says.

“Thank you. I really appreciate that– and I think he will, too, once he knows better.” She sets her basket of herbs on her worktable and tests her first hypothesis: “Should I let you put it all together?”

“…No.” She doesn’t miss his hesitation. “The process isn’t a particularly sensitive one. Besides, I don’t want to give him any incentive to try being helpful again.” His arms tighten around Damien.

Rilla has half a mind to jot that down. When given the opportunity to disengage, he insists on maintaining physical contact.

Sir Angelo doesn’t come inside when he delivers the body of the dog beast, but Arum tenses at his approach. That makes sense– he doesn’t exactly get along with Angelo, after all– but she notes the way he tries to distance himself from Damien again.

Behaviors suggest he doesn’t like being observed showing physical affection. Possibly he sees it as a show of vulnerability? Results are inconclusive.

With the hair of the dog and Arum’s instructions, she finishes the antidote in good time. Normally she’d have Arum sit Damien in a chair or something to drink it, but that would waste an opportunity. 

“Can you hold him still?” she asks, and kneels at Arum’s side, close enough that her knees press against his thigh. She leans over him to get the vial into Damien’s hand and guide it to his mouth– and all the while she watches Arum from the corner of her eye. He shifts to accommodate her without reluctance. When her precarious position leaves her wobbling, he sets a hand on the small of her back to steady her.

There are no obvious signs of discomfort or aversion when I touch him, which suggests that his receptiveness to physical contact isn’t exclusive to Damien.

Maybe it’s unscientific of her, but that comes as a relief.

It only takes a few minutes for the antidote to do its work, and even less than that for Damien to realize where he’s sitting.

He finally lets go of the captured hand with a horrified yelp.

“Lord Arum– Rilla– I’m– I’m so sorry– I don’t know what came over me.” He scrambles backward off Arum’s lap, his face dark with a blush.

“It’s fine,” Arum says patiently while Rilla moves in to calm Damien down. “Think nothing of it.”

Maybe it’s just wishful thinking on her part, but he seems a little bit sad to let Damien go.

Rilla pays closer attention to Arum after that. He still stays aloof, but she starts noticing little things she missed before– the way he leans closer when one of them is nearby; the way he watches her and Damien when they’re together.

It’s more and more evidence in support of her hypothesis, but it still isn’t conclusive.

“Rilla, what if I’ve caused an international incident?” Damien cries frantically. “What if I’ve started a war?”

Okay, so maybe the Queen should have picked someone else to guard the visiting princess. But Damien’s got a reputation as the tied-for-greatest knight in the Citadel, and he’s a whole lot less likely than Angelo to put his foot in his mouth.

Rilla takes him by the shoulders. “Damien, you’re not going to start a war. You just introduced yourself. That’s perfectly fine.”

“Maybe so far, but there’s still a week left of her highness’s stay. And what if I say something wrong? What if I misspeak? What if I’m too familiar? What if I come across as too distant?”

“Damien, breathe,” Rilla commands. Behind Damien’s back, she signals for Arum to help her out.

He hesitates. This isn’t the first of Damien’s panic attacks that he’s witnessed, but it’s by far the worst one.

“You’re a knight, not a politician,” he adds after a pause. “The princess and her entourage already know to make certain allowances.”

This shouldn’t be the time for another experiment, but Rilla makes a go at it anyway. She steps to one side, making room for Arum without taking her hand off Damien. 

Whether it’s conscious or not, he takes the cue to inch closer. Gingerly he sets his hand on Damien’s shoulder, mirroring hers.

“But what if–”

He gives Damien’s shoulder a squeeze, just hard enough that Damien will be able to feel claws through his shirt. “If your Queen is as competent as you say, then there no mistakes you could make that she cannot mend.” The pressure eases and his claws lay flat on Damien’s shoulder. A second arm slides down the length of Damien’s back and up again.

Usually Rilla has to come up with some kind of distraction to keep Damien from slipping back into a panic, but this time she doesn’t need to. Sharing this much contact with Arum is rare enough that it’s a distraction all on its own.

Damien’s eyes are on Arum, and so Rilla lets hers flick to him, too. He looks intent and solid, with no sign of discomfort even when Rilla sets her free hand on his upper shoulder. If anything, he leans into the touch.

The thing about science is that there’s only a certain degree of certainty. Run enough experiments and you can be pretty confident about what you’re going to get, but there’s still a chance that you missed something important. Especially when the science you’re dealing with has less to do with things like plants and chemistry and more to do with things as complicated as feelings and boundaries.

Which is why, when she tells Damien about her experiments, he suggests the final test.

Damien has to take a moment to gather his courage before he approaches Arum. Even after months of being in this relationship, he’s still fighting the fear that he’ll be rejected– and in this case, when that fear feels especially well-founded, it takes even more will to go through with it. But he is a knight right down to the bone.

Rilla bites her lip, overwhelmed by a surge of fondness, but she keeps her mouth shut and continues making the tea.

“A-Arum?” His tongue stumbles a little; he’s still getting used to talking to Arum without formal address. “May I sit with you?”

It’s such a simple thing that Arum looks a little bit concerned. “I… don’t see why not?” he hedges.

There are plenty of places to sit in the little hut, but Damien settles right next to him, so close their legs are pressed together. Tentatively he leans his head against Arum’s shoulder. “Is… is this alright?”

For an awkward, silent moment, Arum stares at Damien in complete incomprehension. Then he glances at Rilla, who continues making the tea and pretends she hasn’t been watching all of this through the reflection in the window. Finally he comes to a decision.

“Yes,” he says at last, and drapes an arm around Damien’s shoulders.

Satisfied, Rilla takes the tea off the fire and strains it into three cups. She brings two of them to Arum and Damien before ducking back into the kitchen and returning with one of her own. “Mind if I join you?”

Arum raises a brow ridge suspiciously, but he nods. When Rilla sits on his other side, he no longer looks surprised, just very confused. He keeps glancing from one to the other, as if there’s some connection he should be making.

Just like with Damien, there’s a moment of indecision, and then another arm settles around her waist, careful not to tug on her hair.

[azvolrien]

The Lady of Kaltara - Chapter Eight

Onto the home straight now - since I didn’t post anything last night (I fell asleep), I’m putting up both this final chapter and the epilogue now.

~~~

           The bladehounds lunged in one movement. They were smaller than the great metal beast Wygar had fought during his final exam, each about the size of a large dog, but much faster; they crossed the full length of the hall in barely a second, steel claws clattering on the stone floor. On pure reflex, Wygar raised a shield that would normally have stopped a charging aurochs, but as promised the two bladehounds ripped through it like it wasn’t even there. He dodged the first swiping claw and threw himself upwards, channelling power into a levitation spell long enough to hook one arm over a rough iron chandelier. One of the bladehounds sprang after him, jaws snapping, but fell mercifully short. It and its double paced in a circle below, for all the world like a pair of dogs that had cornered a cat up a tree. He swung his other arm down, conjuring a wave of concussive force that cracked the flagstones, but it didn’t even sway the constructs.

           Kovar folded her arms and watched the tableau impassively. “How long do you think you can stay up there?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “You might have a strong grip, but I give you about two minutes until that thing comes loose from the ceiling.”

           Fayn leapt onto Kovar’s back, teeth bared in a silent snarl, and wrapped the loose chain twice around her neck. The gladius fell to the stone floor as Kovar – no longer impassive – dropped to her knees, scrabbling at the chain with both hands.

           “Don’t kill her!” blurted Antoni. “Please – she’s still my sister.”

           Fayn paused at his words, not loosening the chain but not pulling it any tighter either. Kovar seized both the moment and Fayn’s arm, stood, and flipped her over her shoulder to slam flat on her back on the floor.

           “Little trick a wanderer from the Sunrise Islands taught me, back in my arena days,” said Kovar, her voice hoarse as she freed her neck from the chain. “You’ll be feeling that impact for a while, so best just stay down and – ouch! What the hell?”

           Fayn had bitten her ankle hard enough to draw blood. At the same moment, Wygar let go of the chandelier and dropped to plant both feet on the head of one of the bladehounds, driving its chin against the floor with a ringing clang, and something hurtled into the room to charge headlong into the other construct. Whatever spells let it shrug off a concussive wave did nothing against brute non-magical force, and its small size acted against it: it was thrown right across the room and crashed into the opposite wall.

           The tiny red-furred karkadann reared up on her hind legs, pawing at the air with a battle cry. On all fours she was barely knee-high to Wygar and what would have been a deep bellow from a full-sized beast came out as more of a squeal, but the long, sturdy horn on her forehead still curved to a wicked point. As the bladehound swung back on the attack – aiming for Wygar as ordered – Una shifted form from the karkadann to an equally tiny mammoth and charged to meet it again, this time catching it on her curving tusks and wrapping her trunk around the pottery-and-metal neck. The hooked steel claws dug into her shoulders as the bladehound struggled, but she braced all four legs against the broken flagstones and did not loosen her grip, even as blood began to speckle the floor.

           Fayn let go of Kovar’s ankle and lurched for the bladehound, slamming the chain down in the middle of its back and pinning it long enough for Una to free herself and shift to the form of a wolf. Behind her, Kovar retrieved her gladius, only to drop it again when the wire-wrapped hilt glowed red-hot with a single glance from Wygar. Antoni backed up against the far wall, where Cruon still cowered in a ball by the throne. The other bladehound scrambled back on its feet and turned on Wygar again. He lifted a hand and engulfed the construct in white-hot fire, but it leapt from the flames as if they were no more than mist, not even glowing with heat.

           “Fayn!” shouted Wygar. “Get Una, stand back! I have an idea!”

           She didn’t even give him a quizzical look. Instead she snatched Una up and retreated as far as the chain – still tangled in the bladehound’s knife-like spines – would allow. Wygar raised both hands, gritting his teeth, and instead of adding heat, removed it. Both bladehounds slowed as the temperature rapidly dropped around them, their joints creaking and seizing up as frost spread across their armour. Soon they had frozen completely, unable to do more than twitch as they still tried to follow their orders.

           Still holding Una under one arm, Fayn grabbed Kovar’s cooled gladius and threw it at the nearest bladehound with all the strength she could muster. Brittle from the cold, both the sword and the construct shattered into pieces. Wygar thumped the other one in the forehead with the butt of his staff, cracking the metal skull clean in two. The fire of activation faded in its eye sockets, and it too collapsed in a useless heap.

           Kovar stared at the remains for several long seconds, then slowly looked at Wygar. He looked back and raised one eyebrow, drumming his fingers against his staff in a meaningful fashion. Kovar took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and lifted both hands in surrender. Una wriggled out of Fayn’s grasp and limped over to stand guard on their new prisoner, teeth bared and hackles up despite the blood on her fur.

           “You might want a healer, sweetheart,” said Wygar, at last allowing himself to catch his breath.

           “Cruon should be able to help,” Kovar quickly offered without lowering her hands.

           Wygar frowned. “Who?”

           Fayn pointed towards the throne. Cruon shakily uncurled and stood up. “What should I be able to help with?” he asked, his voice trembling as badly as the rest of him.

           “Healing this little one,” said Kovar, nodding down at Una. “She took on one of the bladehounds single-handed.”

           “Oh. Well. I, um. It’s been a long time. I’d need to consult my books…”

           “Why?” asked Kovar. “They look like pretty straightforward flesh wounds to me.”

           Wygar narrowed his eyes and crossed the room. He towered over Cruon by more than a head. “And you are… who, exactly? The court mage?”

           “He’s the one who’s been making all the, the blood-potions Mara gives me,” said Antoni. “I’m not sure they’ve ever really worked, but-” He fell silent when Wygar held up one hand.

           “I’m going to need you to speak very clearly, and with absolute truth,” said Wygar, fixing his eyes on Cruon’s. “You’ve been using Fayn’s blood and others’ to… make potions?”

           “Yes,” said Cruon, too terrified to mumble.

           “And do these potions work?”

           Cruon swallowed and glanced to the side. Wygar grabbed the front of his shirt in one hand and twisted the fabric into a bunch, hoisting Cruon onto his toes. “Well?”

           “No!” Cruon yelped. “No, they don’t! It’s all just superstition, but I thought-”

           “Last question,” said Wygar. “Do you, in fact, possess any magical ability at all?”

           Cruon swallowed again. “No,” he finally whimpered. “I don’t.”

           “I see.” Wygar let go of his shirt. Cruon slumped back against the wall, but before he could fall to the ground, Kovar took Wygar’s place, pinning Cruon to the wall with a forearm pressed across his throat. Fayn knelt beside Una and pulled her into a tight hug, pressing the little wolf’s brow to her chest and hiding Cruon from her sight.

           “I gave you a home,” Kovar said. “I gave you a work space. I gave you all the resources you said you needed, from glassware to blood. And you lied to me. You lied to Antoni. I thought you could help to make him better, and you were just feathering your own nest the whole time.”

           “I… I’m sorry, Lady Kovar, I just-”

           “Save it for the gods.” Before anyone could move, Kovar drew a long, concealed knife from the back of her belt, and drove it up into his heart with a savage twist. Blood oozed down over her hand and splattered from his mouth; she pulled the knife out and let both it and Cruon drop to the floor, then sat down on the throne and lowered her forehead into her clean hand. Antoni shook off his shock, looked around, bit his lip, and pulled down a wall-hanging to cover the body.

           Fayn let go of Una, breathing heavily. Wygar pulled off his coat and laid it over Una before she shifted back to human form and straightened up, wrapping the coat around herself. She moved easily; the cuts from the bladehound’s claws were not as deep as they had first looked, and the blood was already clotting.

           “I told you to stay with Rathus,” said Wygar reproachfully. “He’s smart enough to protect you now.”

           “Yeah… Well.” She shrugged. “It doesn’t hurt much.”

           Wygar chuckled despite himself, shaking his head. “There’s wound tincture in the first-aid kit,” he said. “At the very least, those will need to be properly cleaned.”

           The chain rattled as Fayn stood up. Wygar turned to face her, and they all but fell into each other’s arms. Una wrinkled her nose as Wygar buried his face in Fayn’s hair, holding her so tightly her toes almost left the floor, while Fayn closed her eyes and pressed an ear to his heart, digging her fingers into his back with a kind of desperation. It was a couple of minutes before Antoni awkwardly cleared his throat and they released each other and drew back to arm’s length.

           “They collared you!” said Wygar, gently tilting Fayn’s chin up to let him see the metal clearly. “Those runes, blocking shapeshifting and… speech?” He turned a furious glare on Kovar, but she was still looking at the floor.

           “The lock’s been fused,” said Antoni. “I… I don’t know how you can open it. Maybe a file or something?”

           Wygar frowned. “Turn your head to the side, cariad,” he said more gently. “Let me see. No, he’s right, an unlocking spell won’t help, and I don’t want to try the same trick we used on the bladehounds – the shards might cut your neck. But… this should work.” He worked the fingers of one hand in between the collar and Fayn’s neck and raised a hair’s breadth of the metal to a red heat, carefully controlling it to avoid burning either himself or Fayn. Weakened almost to the melting point, the steel broke and the collar swung open. Fayn pulled it free and dropped it to the floor with a unceremonious clank.

           “You brought Una with you!?” was the first thing she said. “Wygar!”

           “Believe me, cariad, it wasn’t my first choice – but she made a very compelling argument!”

           “I told him I’d just follow by myself if he tried to leave me behind,” said Una.

           “All right, that is compelling,” admitted Fayn. “Though I’d have preferred it if you’d gone to stay with your grandparents…”

           “That was what I told her!” said Wygar. “But – she’s very determined that way, and I thought she would at least be safer with me than trying to go across country by herself.”

           “I suppose that’s true enough.” Fayn squinted up at Wygar for a moment, and her eyes widened. “You cut your hair!” She reached up to brush her fingers through it. “Oh, my love…”

           “It was a sacrifice worth making,” said Wygar, taking her hand in his. “Besides, it’ll grow back eventually.”

           “Which… brings us to Antoni,” said Fayn.

           Wygar looked over his shoulder. “Ah.”

           Antoni gave a weak smile and a little wave. “Hello.” Kovar sat up just enough to stare incredulously at him.

           “Andari Sickness,” said Fayn quietly. “He needs a hospital, Wygar.”

           “I see.” Wygar let go of Fayn and walked to face Antoni. “I’m not a healer,” he said. “But I have studied the Andari Event – I think I even have a pretty good idea of how it happened – and naturally the Sickness comes up in the literature a lot.”

           “Can it be cured?” asked Kovar.

           “Not completely, no,” said Wygar. Antoni hung his head. “At least, not yet,” Wygar added. “But it can be managed. Some of the damage will likely stay with you for the rest of your life, but with proper treatment there’s no reason that shouldn’t be a good few decades. We can get you to the Crown Hospital in the Imperial City; I understand the healers there have the most experience of treating the Sickness, and they’re getting better at it all the time.”

           “The guards at the Wall probably should have sent you straight there when they found you,” said Fayn.

           “Never mind the guards,” sighed Kovar. “I should have sent you there. I’m sorry, Toni. I should never have even given Cruon the time of day.”

           “Am I really the person you should be apologising to?” asked Antoni.

           “I suppose not,” said Kovar. “Fayn-”

           “Don’t – even – bother,” said Fayn. “You had me kidnapped. You stole my blood. You chained me in a cell. You tried to kill my husband. You injured my daughter. You think an apology will cut it? Your brother is the only reason I haven’t torn your throat out myself.”

            “I-”

           “You want to make it up to me?” Fayn continued. “Stay here. Do your job. Look after the people of the Basin, since you’ve set yourself up as their ruler. Make their lives better. If Antoni wants to leave, let him. Just – leave us alone. I never want to see you again.” She laid one arm around Una’s shoulders and the other around Wygar’s waist. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. Antoni?”

           “Give me a few minutes to pack a bag,” he said. “I’ll be down soon.”

           They left the hall and walked down the spiral staircase to the door. On one of the landings, Steward Brennar peered cautiously out from behind a door she had barricaded, but slammed it shut again at a glare from Fayn. Una picked up her clothes from where she had left them on the stairs and ducked into a side-room, reappearing a minute later fully-dressed and with Wygar’s coat draped over her arm.

           Calm reigned in the courtyard once again. The surviving soldiers – which was most of them, surprisingly enough – had been disarmed and shut in one of the outbuildings, under heavy guard from the beast-blooded both in human and animal forms. Varr had taken some luckless guard’s cloak and wore it around his waist as a makeshift sarong, while Milo had elected to stay as a lion. Neither had so much as a scratch on them, but some of the other beast-blooded had not been so lucky; by some miracle none had been killed, but one of the otter twins had almost lost an eye and there was no shortage of spear-cuts and arrow-wounds among the rest.

           Varr combed his fingers briefly through Milo’s mane and stood up from where he lounged at the foot of the wall steps. “You must be Fayn,” he said. “Are you really Falkari?”  

           “I am.”

           “You – oh, wow. I mean – it’s an honour. You hear the stories, everyone in the beast-blooded refuges knows them, but to actually meet you, it’s-” Milo padded up and laid one paw on his side. Varr shook his head and cleared his throat. “That is, I’m glad we could help rescue you.” He looked up at the keep. “Did you kill her? Kovar, I mean.”

           “No,” said Wygar, rummaging in Rathus’s saddlebag for the first-aid kit. “Ah, here’s the wound tincture. Roll your sleeves up, sweetheart – let me clean those cuts.” He knelt beside Una and tipped a little of the dark liquid onto a soft cloth.

           “Kovar’s alive?” said Varr.

           “Only because I asked them to spare her, I think.” They looked over at Antoni as he hurried down the steps with a bag over his shoulder. “I’m, uh. Antoni Kovar. Mara’s younger brother. I think she’ll behave better now.”

           “I’ll explain later,” said Fayn when Varr looked doubtful. He sighed, shrugged, and wandered back to Milo. “Who was that?” Fayn whispered to Wygar.

           “A new friend,” said Wygar. “His name is Varr. He’s… sort of been acting as the spokesman for the beast-blooded we allied with.” He screwed the cap back onto the bottle of wound tincture and handed it to the nearest of the beast-blooded, a middle-aged woman who had charged into the fray as a powerful hyena. “Here, dab some of this on people’s wounds,” he instructed. “It kills infection and speeds healing. It’ll help a lot until people can get to a proper healer.” The woman nodded and walked off to attend to the first of the injured.

           “So these people – they’re all shapeshifters?” asked Fayn.

           Wygar nodded. “I’m sure you’ll get more of an explanation once we get back to their village. Maybe not from me, I can only give you the most basic parts, but Varr or Nira – sort of the village elder – will be happy to give you more of their story.” He glanced down at Una, who was looking up at the keep with an unreadable expression on her face. “Varr?”

           “Yes?”

           “Can you start organising the beast-blooded? I think we all need to get out of this place.”

           Varr nodded. “Yeah, will do. I was toying with the idea of just taking over the fort ourselves… but honestly, this place gives me the creeps. Will that ice hold long enough for us to get back to shore?”

           “I give it about an hour until it melts,” said Wygar. “I don’t think I have it in me to freeze it again.”

           “Right. C’mon, Milo – might need your help with this.”

           Only a handful of the wounded were too badly injured to walk, and there were plenty of volunteers willing to carry those few back to land. Some seized the opportunity to break the boats at the fort’s jetties free and abscond with them, sliding them across the ice and into open water; once the ice melted, Kovar and her soldiers would have to wait for help to come from Vosta before any of them could leave the fort. Soon only the soldiers remained within the walls, still shut in their makeshift prison. Antoni trekked off across the ice, walking alongside Varr – leopard-formed again, though still with the cloak wrapped around his middle – and Milo, while Wygar, Fayn and Una brought up the rear on Rathus.

           Wygar climbed down from the saddle once they were halfway across the ice bridge.

           “What are you doing?” asked Fayn.

           “This.” Wygar took up a steady stance on the ice and raised both hands, palms facing each other a few inches apart. Immediately, the air began to twist and shimmer between his hands, faster and faster until a faint hum of power could be heard and he threw both hands out to face the keep. The bolt surged from his hands and struck the gatehouse with force that put a siege catapult utterly to shame; wood, stone, metal and glass alike shattered under the impact and both the stone archway and the gatehouse above it collapsed into the water below, taking several feet of the walls to either side with them.

           “What was that for?” asked Fayn, not quite able to keep the smile from her face.

           Wygar shrugged and climbed back up in front of her. “I reason she might be a little keener to do as you told her and start paying more attention to her people if she doesn’t have her walls to hide behind,” he said as he nudged Rathus back into a walk. He paused for a moment, gazing pensively into the distance. “Also, she kidnapped you and I wasn’t going to let that go with a slap on the wrist.”    

           “She didn’t do the actual kidnapping,” Fayn pointed out in the spirit of fairness.

           “Maybe not,” said Una, scowling, “but it was still her fault. Those two – Vil and Edri – wouldn’t have done anything if she hadn’t kicked them out and told them to bring her a gwyndri.”

           “You met them?” asked Fayn.

           “He threatened them into giving us a lift to the edge of town,” said Una, her scowl swiftly changing to a grin.

           Fayn looked at Wygar, raising her eyebrows.

           “They’re waiting for us at one of the islands outside Vosta,” he said, a little sheepishly. “But we can arrange other transport if you never want to see them again either.”

           Fayn sighed. “They didn’t seem all that bad in themselves,” she admitted. “It’s fine.”

           Most of the beast-blooded melted back into the marshes to make their own ways back to their homes, but Varr, Milo and the otter twins – one with a bandage wrapped securely over her eye – followed them out to where Vil and Edri waited with Vidra. Edri reeled in the fishing line she trailed in the water when she saw them coming.

           “They got you out all right, then,” said Vil with careful politeness as everyone climbed one-by-one into the boat.

           “Yes, they did,” said Fayn.

           “Right. Well… I’m sorry. Sorry about everything. I just – wait, is that Kovar’s brother?”

           “Yes, I’m coming too,” said Antoni.

           Vil stared for a few seconds while he processed this. “…All right,” he finally said with a shrug. “So. Back to Pike Hollow, then?”

~~~