Nova Peak blutbefleckt

staying vague aside from the injuries he's already received

the cliffs were not a great distance from sagtannet, and yet it took mahler the better part of a day to make his return. he limped across the taiga, left hindleg stiffened from the aching slash to his flank; the great rent upon the side of his neck leaked burgundy along his shoulder.
as the peak grew larger before him, mahler swallowed. his strength was all but ebbed, and yet he viciously pushed himself across the taiga. a particularly vicious torrent of rain had torn open the wounds given by the she-wolf's ending snaps; his muzzle was smeared in it, sides heaving as he stumbled into the spruce forest that climbed over the foothills, and called hoarsely for @Wylla.
she would find him hunched against the downpour, sickened with pain, and yet there remained a wild satisfaction in mahler that he had done rightly in favor of sagtannet, claiming the emptiness of the cliffside for their safety.

Wylla looked giddily forward to the next time she might share Mahler's company alone, but when his voice summoned her down from the peak, it wasn't excitement that drove her rapid steps. That voice was all wrong, laden with pain, and it was enough to make her foolhardy and reckless as she flew down the slope.

By some stroke of fortune, she managed to plunge into the forest without slipping or twisting an ankle, only to find him with his fur caked in blood. Holy shit, she breathed as a sick knot twisted itself inside stomach. Mahler wasn't the type of man to seek conflict, so this could only mean one thing. She tried to collect her muddled thoughts into a tangible concept or a plan, but it was like grasping at the wind. All she had the capacity for was hurrying to his side.

Mahler! cried Wylla, practically slamming into him in her haste to reach him. For once, she felt neither guilt nor hesitation when she pressed against him in hopes that her slight form might be enough to hold him up. There was no shy nervousness in her tongue as she reached to bathe the nasty wound dug into the side of his neck, hoping to stem the flow even a little. Only a feeling of helplessness (she was no healer!) and a most immense, crushing fear (she would lose him, lose him, lose him) that eclipsed anything she'd ever felt besides the loss of Thade.

It all came out her in a strained snarl as she sobbed, who did this?!

the world seemed to tremble at the edges; mahler drew a long breath as a face he had not seen in many years shimmered to ghostly life before him. 
the shade seemed ready to speak, features contorted in worry. a blink, and the mirage fell to sand beneath the tortured countenance of wylla.
"oh," he groaned in a sound of relief, heedless of his blood which fell to her hackles in wide droplets of cherry-mead. "vell," mahler grit in a tone that tried to make itself light, "i vent up to the cliffs overlooking the sea, and a new neighbor vas attempting to ... establish herself."
for wylla's sake, chilled by her tone, ravaged by her uncommon tearfulness on his behalf, and thereby beset by a feeling of protection, mahler hoisted himself up and leant right shoulder against a tree. "then i had a companion, and then there vhere two more fighting us, then vone, then none, und then ein großer mann," mahler explained in a jovial slurring as his legs gave way and he plunged rockily back to his haunches.
"vylla, meine liebe, i know you are not ready for this, but you must go and get the medicine. it is kept in that hollow tree near the edge of the burned meadow." he could feel himself beginning to fade; mahler strove valiantly for the end of her voice and dropped his muzzle against her cheek, willing that he remain conscious.

The taste of his blood turned sour on her tongue. It was all she could do not to turn away and retch. That this could happen to him! She'd never been a selfless wolf, but right then, she wished it could've been her instead. Let her blood flow and paint the loam crimson and maroon, let her life waver so he might savour his. Sagtannet would turn away from her in his absence, she felt sure of that. They needed him.

She needed him.

His words crashed through her like thunder. First, fury that abruptly went from a simmer to a boil when he shared what happened. What would it take for them to find a home devoid of threat? They'd gone miles to find this mountain, ensured it stood alone, and in less than a fortnight some upstart saw fit to stake a claim on a graveyard and throw punches at a man most beloved. Cold fear plunged through the centre of it, spreading fingers of ice throughout her veins when he announced that others joined the fray. The addition of other fighters could only mean it wasn't just an individual attempting to take the cliffs, but a pack. That made things more difficult.

I'll kill them, she seethed without even knowing she was saying it. The growl that reverberated up through her chest was a monstrous sound unlike anything she'd produced, the closest perhaps being when she'd fought Raptor on the beach all those years ago. It was cut abruptly off when Mahler began slurring in his mother tongue and rocked back onto his haunches, prompting Wylla to press her shoulder against his again. Stay with me, she whispered, fighting back the tip of dread's spear that sought to bury itself in her throat.

Wylla's first instinct when he bid her leave him and find his medicine was to protest. I can't leave you here! her soul cried, as firm as any hammer's impact on her heart. If I leave you, I'll lose you! Some better sense took hold of her long enough for her to realize that if she didn't leave now and attempt to find his meager stores, he would certainly die. Saliva could only aid clotting so much, and the wounds he'd sustained were incredible, and he was paling by the minute if his demeanour was anything to go by. So she turned from him and ran, stumbling in the rain, until she came upon the burnt forest.

It took longer than she would've liked—she was too stupid, too fucking imbecilic to know what to look for—but eventually, she found it. A hollowed out tree, and inside, fragrant herbs. Wylla wouldn't know a healing herb from a blade of grass, so she grabbed as many of them as she could carry, once again fighting back the urge to retch at the taste of greenery on her tongue. A flat-out gallop carried her back to where Mahler was hopefully still sitting, while a mantra beat through every step: don't die don't die don't die don't die don't die don't—

as wylla turned and reluctantly tore herself from his side to speed off, mahler thrust his body against the spruce-trunk again, inwardly demanding that he be allowed remain sentient until she returned. 
the shade again; mahler blinked, but it did not disappear, and through his pallid-toned mind he found her name. marigold. komm noch, nicht her. 
had that been her voice? mahler could scarce remember it; he was ashamed to remember her face at all, not with wylla dashing about in the rainstorm for his pharmacy. and so mahler waved the thought and the spectre away, descending shakily into a denser air that seemed to press upon him.
he lay down gingerly beneath the branches, blinking at their clutches of needles and the round brown pinecones that clustered proudly in their palms. es wäre nicht so schlimm, jetzt zu sterben, his mind clucked sleepily to itself. but the amethyst stare, drained as it was, remained open, searching quietly for the small figure of wylla returning. nicht jetzt.
arrive she did; mahler managed a grateful smile, lying his heavy crown upon the wet ground to expose the grisly mangling of his neck. it would scar terribly, the man knew, simply by toting it from the cliffs back to sagtannet. "the little vhite flowers," he murmured, his usual deep baritone hushed beneath the sound of the rain, "if there are any. chew them, put them ... in the vound." eyelids drooped; he forced himself awake again. "moss, any moss, even fresh, atop the flowers ... the green leaves next, chewed into a ... paste." yarrow, for clotting. moss to pack the wound. comfrey with its sticky touch to tug the edges of the torn skin together — but mahler found his tongue had grown clumsy, and sighed into the verdant grass, relieved that if these were to be his ending moments, there was a sweetness that they would be spent with wylla.

—die.

A vice grip slammed her heart against her ribs when she spotted Mahler on the ground, even though his head remained up. The sheer weight of the brief thought of his death brought her nearly to her knees, causing her to visibly stagger between the trees. Then his eyes, frosted heliotrope and paled by a fog she didn't like to see in them, rose to hers and she scurried to his side.

Everything he instructed went against her base nature—despite his chosen profession, Wylla wasn't sure she believed that putting plants on a wound did anything. Nevertheless, she did as she was told, plucking up the white flowers and chewing them dutifully. The taste was terrible. More than once she almost spat them out, and probably would've if it was any lesser wolf lying there, but this was the only wolf she'd ever loved besides her children, and probably the only one she ever would. For him, she chewed and pushed past the bitter drops on her tongue.

It was a clumsy effort, but she managed to pack at least half of the makeshift salve into his wound, wincing with every touch from how much she bet it hurt. Next she rose and gathered moss from the seaward side of a fallen tree, worrying whether being rainsoaked would make it ineffective. She did her best, holding a clump gingerly between her teeth and giving her head a vicious shake. It would have to do. Finally, she gathered the leaves up and chewed those, too, eyes stinging as the punch of acrid flavour seared across her tongue. Fuck. How did he do this for a living?

No time for her sarcastic comments or complaints. She pressed the paste into the wound too, then swiped her tongue across his coat in an effort to rid herself of the taste. Her heart beat slow in her chest as she waited for something miraculous to happen, but Mahler only laid his head down and looked even worse than he already did. Whistling a whine through her nose, Wylla curled up beside him and pressed her nose to his cheek, his brow, swept her tongue over his eyes and prayed to all the gods she'd never believed in that they would do her just this one boon, and spare his life.

Please, Mahler, she wheezed, don't leave me.

wylla had sounded a death knell, promised to shed blood for him, but mahler was only relieved when she began to work over his wound. lavender gaze flicked to her grim expression.
don't leave me
jaws too numb to answer, to reassure her, mahler breathed a long and broken sigh, allowing at last himself to be folded between thick velveteen mists.

* * *

mahler came awake with a grunt, wincing as his head rose from the flattened grasses. dark now, with rain still filling the air, the peak seemed somehow at once both too open and too small. "vylla." he searched for her with muzzy lilac gaze, squinting through the droplets.
thirst now, thudding under the agony. but her swift work had kept the demon of infection at bay, at least for now.
mahler shifted, brought himself to lean upon his elbow. anguish stabbed through him again, but sagtannet was still new in this place. mahler could ill-afford to lose the land they had only just made their own.
what was his worth if he could not protect his own? despite the protestations of his sore limbs and lacerations, bruised muscles, exhaustion, mahler's gaze tightened. a great price indeed to exact for peace.
and what of the hunter still remaining? what of the young sea-wolf who had aided mahler? dry tongue bathed dry lips; he lapped gently at the rain and began the slow battle to regain his footing.

He didn't speak, merely succumbed to the heavy weight of unconsciousness. It did little to console Wylla, who was tempted to nudge him awake but knew that there wasn't anything else she could do for him. While he slumbered, she fretted over him, tending lesser wounds with her tongue, pacing around his body, pressing close to offer him what little warmth she could. If any approached during that time, they were sent swiftly away with a flash of her teeth.

When he stirred some time later, she was sitting rigidly to the side, staring off in the direction of the sea. Her thoughts were too difficult to corral, but already she was planning revenge in some form, honing her anger and her terror into a sharp blade aimed at those who did Sagtannet's Eisen such harm. Foolish thoughts, truly. She was fierce, to be sure, but she was small and lacked Mahler's strength. If he returned in this state, then how could she hope to return at all?

But she couldn't rest so long as danger darkened Nova Peak's borders. No matter the intentions of their new cliff-side neighbour, they'd cried for blood. She would give it to them if she could.

Wylla was pulled from her thoughts by the sound of Mahler trying to rise, the hoarse croak of her name. Thank god, she mumbled, sweeping back to his side and pressing her crown into his neck. I thought I lost you. Those long, agonizing moments had solidified a lot of thoughts and wishes in her mind, but she wasn't able to speak any of them as she felt him trying to get up. Stop, you'll make it worse, she protested, firm and tender and relieved all at once, although she didn't know for sure that he wasn't able to stand. She was assuming. I can try to get you whatever you need, just tell me.

what thoughts darted through her head? mahler felt her small but strong weight alongside him as his eyes closed, his great figure weaving a single step across the drenched sward.
be it stubborn masculinity or his own reservations, something within mahler rebelled at his need to lean upon wylla now. the man did not feel deserving of her support; he was disconsolate to be so weak, evidenced by the miserable tightness of his stoneflower stare.
"a den, first, i think," mahler grunted, remembering belatedly that he had slept outside any shelter since arriving at this peak. it would no longer do; he must bow to the needs of his wounded body and seek protection from the elements.
"then i can be more available," the gargoyle rambled, for the both of them knew his limits were grievous; he would be out of commission for a long time.
refusing to think of that now, mahler focused upon putting one broad paw before the other, breath a cringing hiss between his teeth as each movement jarred his punctured flank, pulled at the skin of his neck where the poultice had dried sticky and correctly clumped into the fur surrounding the wound.
"ve vill make a healer of you yet, vylla," mahler observed with an affectionate undertone to his pained expression, letting his beloved guide them into the territory that was newly their own.

Like Mahler, Wylla had slept under the swirling clouds and falling rain every night since arriving at Nova Peak. Even in Sagtannet, upon abandoning her whelping den, she hadn't returned to sleeping underground. She preferred the open air, the feeling of wind in her ruff, the comfort of knowing that if danger arrived, she could spring in any number of directions. Dens had always made her feel trapped and vulnerable. She valued the common sense, however, of Mahler wanting a safe and dry place to recover.

I want to stay with you, she blurted, catching herself only at the end with widening eyes. To keep watch and be available if you need anything, she blustered by way of explanation, dropping her gaze to the ground and refusing to lift it to his dark face again. She didn't sense his hesitation to let her help him, nor his frustration with his current state. She sensed only his pain pulsing in every step he took, every grit of his teeth, and her heart ached for the toll this would take on him and on Sagtannet.

It was her job to step up now. Maybe the pack as a whole didn't respect her the way they did Mahler—she believed this in her bones to be true—and maybe that stung, but personal feelings aside, she couldn't let the pack falter while he recovered. It was a disservice to them, and a greater disservice to the man who'd kept them going all this time.

We don't need to make a healer of me, she retorted. We have you. You will get better. It was a command, not a hope. If he thought she was going to let him exert himself and slow his healing, he had another thing coming. He'd always admired that she was a fierce she-wolf, even when the blade was turned on him; now, if he chose stubbornness over good sense, he would see another facet of her altogether, the part of her that had proven good for motherhood, even if her personality otherwise wasn't ideal for it.

"there vas a boy," mahler muttered nonsensically as wylla directed them over the uneven, puddled terrain. "he vas vounded vhen he came to help, and vounded again vhen ... he left." the gargoyle had been given no chance to hear @Yunxu's name, but in this moment, a strangling worry clutched clawlike at his sense of guilt.
her voice was firm; it dragged him back to present, set mahler in the moment. he wanted to tell her to be realistic — i am not a young man, vylla, something about the life he had led and how she must plan to be without him.
despite the application of the medicines, the gargoyle had been a physician for many years, long enough to understand that the spectre of death could come at the moment of injury, or after. infection stealing into one's blood; fever addling the senses.
yet the musiker felt his jaw too weak to gape with his insistence that wylla prepare for the end of his life.
perhaps then, a silver lining.
mahler blinked, realizing he had been silently plodding with eyes closed; he came back to himself, glancing down toward the woman at his side. "stay vith me." repeated for the both of them, the man supposed, fighting back a grunt of pain and continuing.

Mahler began to speak of an ally on the cliffs. Wylla listened, but had nothing to say. She was thankful someone had lent him their aid, but ultimately, she didn't care about anyone else. If the boy survived, it was likely neither of them would come across him again. She filed the information away on the off chance she ever did meet a boy who'd been injured on the cliffs, but she didn't think it would happen. The rambling of a badly injured wolf airing his conscience, nothing more.

The going was slow and laborious. Wylla wanted nothing more than to spirit Mahler away to the higher slopes where he would be protected on all sides by their claim, but he couldn't make the journey in his state. She had to settle for something here in the forested foothills, closer to the border than she would've liked. But by her admission and then by his acceptance—something which made butterflies erupt inexplicably in her stomach—he would have her for a guard. He would be safe enough.

She led him, step by pained step, to the first cavern near the mountain's base that she could find. It wasn't as roomy as she'd like, but there was space enough for both of them if they squeezed in close. Most of the time it would be just Mahler, anyway, while she kept watch outdoors or patrolled the area. Will this work? she asked, ducking her head inside for a brief look. Despite the rain, the interior beyond the threshold looked dry and there was enough of a gentle slope to the land that flooding wouldn't be an issue. She hoped, anyway.

the shift of rocks beneath his paw dragged mahler out of another soft free-fall. finding the strength to lift his ears and sweep his distant gaze across the inside of the cave, the man nodded and at last his efforts failed. sinking to his belly, the gargoyle shifted himself with agonizing movements onto his side, curling into the darkness far beyond the mouth.
only then did his teeth grit finally, visibly; eyes shuttered, jaw gone to clenching as ripples of fire pulsed along his torn neck. he lay still until the torment had passed, swallowing the bile that threatened to choke him with vomit.
"vylla," he rasped from the shadows, "do not — please do not allow phaedra to see me this vay," mahler begged, heart thudding as he imagined with horror how his small lilyflower might internalize this.
he had lost thade to the wilds, and phaedra had escaped into herself — mahler could not conceive that more hurt should come to the girl around his actions.
"not now, not until i can ... explain." a breath, a weak reaching for her sunflower eyes, and then mahler drooped, at last, into a true faint.

Worry and fear punched Wylla's gut as she watched Mahler sink into the darkness, flashing his teeth in a pained grimace that sparked painful electricity along her nerves. He ground out a request that she wasn't sure she could fulfill, but she bobbed her head anyway. Phaedra was as willful as she was reserved. She'd have her paws full keeping their daughter away from this place, and she only prayed that Phaedra didn't interpret it as another bout of abandonment.

What if she begs? she asked, but by then Mahler had already slipped uneasily into unconsciousness. Wylla's heart thudded behind her breastbone, beat after beat as nervousness wormed through her. What would she do if she lost him, too? Losing Thade had been the hardest thing in her life, and knowing that Tiercel was essentially lost to her as well had torn most of her heartstrings. She counted her blessings everyday that Phaedra remained despite the pain in her young life, and that Stag continued to be there for her, and most of all that Mahler had not turned his back on her in her rage, even if he sort of had at the time.

She couldn't imagine losing him, and sought to chase those dire thoughts from her mind by heading back out into the rain to mark a heavy perimeter around his resting place.