Chimera Fields long intervals of horrible sanity

Silver and obsidian, turquoise and gold — Scimitar’s wayward sons crashed together in a furious maelstorm of flying fur and virulent snarls. Locked in combat against the heavier wolf, Cypress could no longer deny that it was Rannoch he fought. They knew one another’s strengths and weaknesses quite intimately and were quick to exploit them to gain any advantage. Subtle modifications to their natural fighting styles hinted at the crosses the young wolves had been made to bear: Rannoch had been shaped and molded by a life and clime far harsher than the one he’d been born into, lending him strength and endurance beyond his natural aptitude. The petulance of his childhood had been replaced with a grim stoicism, darker than his father’s, and a certain grittiness of temperament. Cypress, on the other hand, had acquired a berserker’s limitless rage. Fueled by the loneliness and fear engendered by the seemingly endless string of nights spent waiting for Scimitar, Rannoch, or Lucy to come home, he fought with frenzied desperation that stole the pain from any wounds he sustained and metabolized it into fury. He was as swift as a striking snake, managing to land a few shallow wounds — but Rannoch’s defense was impenetrable. Turning his attention toward the younger Frostfur’s turquoise eyes, Cypress lunged and was met with Rannoch’s fangs as they jaw-sparred. At last the gray bear, using weight and muscle mass to his advantage, thumped Cypress to the earth with a bulldozer-like thrust of his shoulders and hindquarters, pinning the sulphureous-eyed raven on his back with two broad paws.

Cypress turned his head, spitting blood from a wound that bisected the thin flesh at the leftmost corner of his mouth, and stared up at his littermate — but his expression was not one of defiance. In the furrow of the raven’s brow and the grim set of his jaws was an unspeakable agony and the heavy weight of exhaustion. Somewhere beyond the negativity was a dim rushlight of joy — Rannoch was alive! — but Cypress’ lantern yellow eyes were bleak and defeated.

Rannoch didn’t know.

“Noch,” the orphaned raven said quietly, his voice gravelly with disuse and weathered by the force of his earlier snarls. “Where were you? Where’s Lucy? Everyone was looking for you — I was looking for you — ” His deepening timbre grew more guttural as a hint of that agony found its way to the surface. “Noch, Mama — and Paw — ” he swallowed thickly and drew a breath so deep the great barrel of his chest shifted beneath the seawolf’s restraint. “They’re dead, Noch,” he whispered. “They died.”