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guardian-of-da-gay · 1 month ago

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Left for Dead

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For Whumptober 2024 Prompt 14: Left for Dead

tw for depression, suicidal thoughts, assault, theft, injury

Knuckles’ people had been searching for the Master Emerald for hundreds of years. Hundreds of years of war and death and suffering. War that had claimed all of his tribe until only he remained.

And he had the gall to lose hope.

Knuckles trudged through the desert sand, feeling miserable and hot and ashamed of himself for complaining. He had started this particular leg of his quest with such enthusiasm. It had seemed so promising: legends of a huge green gem hidden deep in the desert. The stories specifically said that it was ‘hidden’. When he found there was supposedly a tribe of owls living in the desert too, it seemed like he had finally found his quarry.

Knowing there would be next to nothing to forage, he’d stocked up before leaving. He acquired some pale wrappings to cover himself from the harsh sun. Gathered dry foods that would keep well and containers for water. He set out carrying enough for a week’s journey.

It took two weeks.

He learned much in those two weeks. He learned it was best to travel by night and dig burrows deep in the sand during the day. He learned if he dug deep enough he might find water. And he learned that anything edible that crossed his path, be it cactus or insect or snake, needed to be eaten… but with caution.

When he saw the stone cliffs in the distance, his only thought was that he might find a shady resting place that he wouldn’t have to dig himself. Then he entered the canyon and found what could only be the desert’s green gem. It wasn’t the Master Emerald. It was a lush oasis.

Knuckles immediately drank his fill of water. He was so happy to wash the sand from his mouth that he flung himself out into the pool. He floated on his back, staring up at the moon, until his skin began to prune. Then he trudged back onto land and carefully perused the little trees and shrubs that dotted the green patch. He ate his fill of what fruits and nuts he could vaguely identify as edible.

It was hard to be glum when his belly was finally full, but without the pressing need to survive, Knuckles’ thoughts caught up with him. Namely, what he should do next.

Knuckles sat on the shore of the oasis’ great pool and looked out into the distance where he could see towering sand dunes. In the dark, the moon didn’t quite illuminate the distant sands so they loomed like shadows against the starry night.

The next logical step was to gather supplies–more this time–and then turn around and go back the way he came. But he was so tired. This failure was the newest among many and not the first time he’d nearly perished for naught.

At least if he died, he’d be able to rejoin his people.

It was a thought he’d had many times. Every time he went into battle, was trapped, attacked, or betrayed, faced starvation or pain or hatred, he always reminded himself that if he was killed then at least he would rejoin his tribe on the great battleground in the sky. But still, he soldiered on. He was the last of his people, who would find the Master Emerald if not him? So no matter what the universe threw at him, he picked himself up and kept going.

And that’s just what he did.

He started by gathering supplies. He climbed the stubby trees and picked their seeds. The fruits he left, they wouldn’t keep long in the heat and might spoil the rest of his rations. He filled his water pouches. Unlike his rucksack, he could not overfill the pouches. He would leave the oasis with as much water as he’d started his journey with (which hadn’t been enough). He would simply have to commit himself to stretching them as long as possible and take any opportunity to hunt for more along the way.

During the day he slept. At dusk, he set out once more. He didn’t know where he might next hunt for the Master Emerald, but that didn’t matter. His goal now was simply to get out of this desert alive.

He followed his footprints back. Some of the burrows he had dug still stood and he used them as shelter during the day. On the second day the footprints became fainter. The subtle winds shifted the sands just enough to obscure his steps. On the third day, he lost his trail several times. He hiked up dunes to look at the leeward side and was able to find his tracks a few times this way, but it took longer. He hadn’t made good time by the end of the day. By the fourth day his tracks were gone entirely. He could only follow the stars and hope the desert’s edge was near.

He wasn’t taking the exact route back, this much was obvious when he saw the outcrop in the distance. The towering stones reminded him of the place where he had found the oasis and so he headed in that direction, feeling hopeful that he might at least extend his rations a few more days.

His path led him down the center of a stone canyon. The winds had carved strange shapes from the rock and the moon threw odd shadows. Knuckles had seen no people or large predators since he began his journey. The worst to fear here were snakes. As long as he kept clear of their hiding places he had nothing to fear. As he walked, he listened only for the sounds of running water. He sniffed the breeze for any trace of greenery. He found none, but pressed on. The oasis had been hidden, any other sanctuaries might be as well.

He didn’t know how long he had wandered when the quills on the back of his neck stood up. He’d heard something on the cliffs overhead. Something big.

Knuckles held up his fists and backed away, trying to get a look at what was above him. He should have minded what was behind him.

The next thing he knew he was on the ground. Something stood on his back. Sharp claws pulled at his bag. His supplies! Panic caused his quills to flare and his attacker jumped back. For a moment, the canyon was illuminated.

Knuckles looked up only to recoil in horror. Small, curved beaks sat below huge, black eyes, resting in round, feathered faces. Owls. But… not the owl warriors he’d known. They wore no armor and they were smaller, just a little bigger than him in body, but with such long legs they towered over him.

His glow faded and the flap of wings cut the air. The light that had illuminated them had also left him seeing stars. He swung wildly and hit nothing. He drew on his power and red sparks arced across his fist. His next strike delivered a glancing blow, the owl staggered and then used those long legs to dart out of range.

Claws snatched at his rucksack. With one powerful wingbeat he was lifted off the ground. In a moment, the canyon was below him. The owl flung him and the rucksack strap snapped. Knuckles hit the canyon wall. He rolled down a few feet before he struck out with a fist and caught himself on his spurs.

The owls closed in.

Knuckles kicked off the cliff with enough stretch to shatter the stone behind him. The rubble and burst of dust sent the birds scattering. Knuckles spread his quills and glided away. The desert wind caught him and his hopes lifted as the canyon fell away behind him. But of course, he could not fly like an owl could.

He was hit from above and then from the side. The flurry of wings buffeted him and kept him airborne. Claws raked his side as they went for one of his waterskins. Knuckles struggled, trying to pull the claws away but keep the pouch. The second owl grabbed him around the middle and they both pulled. Knuckles was ripped away from his water pouch.

Knuckles struggled, flipping onto his back in midair so he could punch. But the owl merely straightened it's stupidly long legs and tucked in its wings. They began to fall. Knuckles grabbed at the claws around his middle and bucked and heaved. The claws merely tightened and he felt the talons pierce skin. He screamed.

His cry was cut short as he hit the ground. The owl’s weight drove all the air out of him and he realized with swift panic that he couldn’t inhale. Then they all descended on him.

One raked its claws over him to take his second waterskin. Knuckles feebly tried to cover it. Another owl grabbed his arm, hooking its claws into him. It pulled away so sharply he thought the flesh would be torn from bone. He lost his second waterskin. Claws cut all over him, searching for more supplies and ripping through the thin cloth he’d used to protect himself from the sun. It was no protection from owl claws! With the owl on top of him, he couldn’t even curl into a ball for defense..

Darkness began to infringe on his vision. It had nothing to do with the night though. He couldn’t breathe. He was bleeding from a dozen places. The world began to slide away.

The last thing he felt was weightlessness. The owl lifted him up only to toss away like some worthless, used-up thing. Knuckles hit the ground and rolled across the sands. He gasped for air and choked on sand. He did not see the owls depart, but he heard their wings flapping away and knew he would be hearing that sound in his nightmares for weeks to come.

***

Knuckles was almost surprised to wake up again. He tried to move and groaned in pain. Every part of him that wasn’t cut was bruised. He cracked his eyes open to see the lavender sky. The sun would rise soon. He needed to find shelter. He needed to find water. He needed to find food.

He lay there instead.

The sky grew brighter and brighter. He kept thinking that he should get up and find someplace safe and cool to rest for the day. To regroup his strength. But… What if he didn’t? What if he just lay there and let the sun scorch him into nothing? No one would notice. No one would care.

Knuckles stared up and watched the sky grow lighter and lighter. He was just so tired. And what was left for him to keep fighting for? He couldn’t survive another two weeks to get out of this place. He’d hardly survived the initial journey and he’d had supplies! Maybe it would be better to just lay here. Let the desert take him.

If he died here, at least he’d be with his tribe again.

But… If Knuckles died here then that meant his people had failed. Hundreds of years of struggle only to fall short because Knuckles wasn’t strong enough to pick himself up again! How could he face his father on the great battlefield in the sky if he gave up? His father hadn’t given up. None of them had. They had all died for the Master Emerald–what right did Knuckles have to give up?

They hadn’t left him behind just so he could choose to die.

Knuckles rolled over. He was in a fair bit of pain, but he wasn’t bleeding anymore. He could go on. He would go on. He picked himself up and kept going.

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