Heron Lake Plateau your shadow weighs a ton

As quickly as it had happened, it was over when Screech was abruptly knocked/dragged off of her.

The damage was done, though. Her face was slashed, her muzzle bloodied. There was so much blood in her eyes she couldn't tell if she was merely blinded by blood or if her brother's teeth had ruined her vision. Her throat had been torn -- luckily, since she was still awake, it didn't appear that he had nicked anything vital. Her forelegs were bitten and cut. She'd gotten in a few good shots herself, but probably not enough to make much of an impression. She lay there, disoriented, panting, trembling, for some indeterminate amount of time. Everything hurt. Was she dying?

Had her puppies been harmed?

It was that thought that roused her. She blinked her eyes vigorously and, after they cleared somewhat, she found that she could see. By now, Quixote was tending to her wounds, but she scarcely felt it as a searing, white-hot tidal wave of rage washed through her, burning all compassion and familial love to ash in its wake. My children. A low, sinister growl began to churn in her chest as she slowly, shakily pulled herself upright. It took her a second to gather her wits, and she glared darkly toward Screech's crumpled form nearby. She pulled herself to her feet and stumbled toward him. Thin fingers of blood trickled through her sleek black fur and pattered on the ground as she moved to her baby brother's side.

She spit on him.

"You are no family to me, you piece of shit," she hissed. She stepped away from him then, putting some distance between herself and him just in case he got any more homicidal urges in his head. "I want him out of this pack. Now." Her amber eyes burned as she looked from Ceara, to Niamh, to her mate. It no longer mattered that he was an invalid, that he likely had brain damage and could potentially die on his own without the protection of a pack or the care of a medic. He had simply abused her love and kindness too much, and this...this was the final straw. Her puppies could be stillborn because of him. "Don't even bother calling yourself a Redhawk anymore, asshole. You don't deserve the name." Whether he heard her or not, she didn't know. She didn't care. She turned her back on him and staggered back to her mate. She leaned against Quixote for support then, her anger deflating somewhat as dizziness from blood loss made her sway on her feet.

Niamh's breathing was deep, but steady, and came in low pants as she stood over Screech, staring down at him with eyes so wide the whites showed. She stood on one side of him, having knocked him off Raven, and Ceara was on the other, having grabbed him by the scruff and pulled him in her direction. She didn't look at her packmate just yet- though their eyes had locked momentarily when they'd both made impact with Screech, and a silent agreement seemed to have formed between them. No matter what Screech was to both of them, Raven was their alpha, and she needed their protection. 

Quixote had arrived but Niamh continued to stare, shell-shocked, at Screech who was still on the ground, and had returned to the vague complacency he'd been in when he'd awoken from his coma. What had caused him to attack his own sister? He hadn't shown much of a reaction to anything she'd done for him or to him while he'd been living in her den...But now, all of a sudden, he'd been savage. Niamh could not think, nor could she hear anything around her for several minutes. Raven's voice was in the distance, even when she stepped forward to spit on Screech. Niamh couldn't help but wince as she did so, and finally blinked several times, closed her mouth and shrank away from Screech's side when Raven spoke.

Banishment..

Her ears flattened and she whined, tail tucking between her hind legs. In this condition, it was a death sentence for Screech- but she knew that if she protested or tried to make that point that Raven would quickly point out that he'd be killed if he stayed anyway. Her alpha's orders were clear, he was to get out of the pack- but from what Niamh could tell, Screech couldn't move. Raven was leaning against Quixote, so Niamh cast a pleading look to Ceara. She did not want to drag Screech out of the pack...But there was nothing she could do. The look Quixote had given Screech made it clear to Niamh that there was no keeping him in the pack- he'd be killed before he'd be allowed to stay. Wordlessly, she moved to Ceara's side, gave her another small, sad glance, hoping she'd know that Niamh wanted help getting Screech to the borders, as she doubted very much he could walk. 

She reached down and the closer her muzzle came to his neck, the more her hackles raised. He smelled of Raven's blood. She looked up, then, for the first time looking at her alphas. Wordlesly, she gave them a nod, and swallowed hard. She gave the back of Screech's neck a rough nudge, hoping to stir him so he could leave on his own...But if he didn't move, they would have to drag him.

Whatever had possessed, compelled him, to assault his sister had passed as soon as he hit the ground. Aside from a brief flurry of wide-eyed staring, Screech's body collided with the soil and then there was only the white noise of her reaction; the movement of bodies, and the follow-up that was Niamh thrusting her snout against him roughly in order to prompt he try to stand. It took a few sharp bludgeons before he got the idea to try — and then Screech's body staggered up and stood on shaking limbs. He was much like before: a glazed expression, an endless exhaustion that seemed to have compounded since his leap for Raven's face. Blood soaked in to the fur upon the face and forequarter of the vessel, not that the stranger took any notice.

It was not long before the escorting began; he stumbled more than he walked, and appeared to lack compunction for his behavior, nor for any words that Raven had spoken in his direction. He did pass her a brief glance with Screech's eye; it was not a lingering look, but there was a subtle refocusing, a sheen, and the thinnest look of sorrow before the stranger took hold of the machinations of the body, and was coaxed away with the insistent attention of the two girls.

Ray--  he started to try to stop her, but she was on a mission.  It wasn't like he disagreed, but it wasn't like Screech was going anywhere.  They'd be able to toss him out whenever they wanted.  Sometime when it wasn't quite so much an emergency.  You know, sometime when he wasn't veering between wanting to kill someone and just plain falling to pieces.  But whatever.  It was done, he was gone.  Could they get back to the important thing now?

Quixote's fur was still bristled along his spine, even as Screech was shepherded away.  He gave them one final glance before his attention shifted fully back to Raven with another whine as she leaned against him.  This wasn't supposed to happen.  As his concern slowly overwhelmed the rage again, his voice wavered, Come on, you don't look so hot right now.  Where do we find whatever plant that was from before?  We'll head there and you just tell me what to do and we'll get you patched up.  He swept his tongue across the wounds on her face again, pleading for her to help him care for her.

She nodded to Niamh and Ceara, appreciating the initiative they took in getting rid of that lupine piece of trash so she wouldn't have to deal with it herself. She watched Screech pull himself weakly to his feet, and felt no sympathy for him. She recognized the infinitesimally fleeting glimpse of remorse in his eye, but it meant nothing to her now. She had no more capacity for his manipulative bullshit. He had always known exactly how to play her to his advantage, it seemed, but no more. It was almost scary, the change that had taken place in her when he put her unborn pups at risk. It was as if a switch somewhere inside of her had been turned off.
Perhaps this was what it was to be a mother.

As her disowned brother disappeared, she had to resist the urge to follow them and make sure he actually left. She started to take a step and swayed dangerously on her feet. She was so dizzy. There was so much blood. How could she bleed so much and yet live? Quixote's tongue was tender on her face, but it still hurt and she whined softly. Giving in to his urging, she let him escort her back to the little copse of trees where they bedded down together at night -- she had a small assortment of medicinal plants there that she had recently gathered. She collapsed in the shade, dapples of sunshine dancing over her sable fur and illuminating the bloody streaks like so many scarlet tears. She eyed it fearfully, her gaze moving slowly from her slashed forearms back over the round curve of her belly. So much blood. She turned her glazed eyes up at her mate and gestured almost drunkenly with a movement of her head. "Over there...under those bushes. Yarrow...white flowers. And dandelions. Bring 'em." He did, and with her direction, the two of them managed to get her patched up reasonably well enough so she wouldn't bleed to death. There would be time to reflect on all that had happened later, but for now, she rested under the watchful eye of her beloved.