Dawnlark Plains no, they won't be home tonight

@Pema

Days blended into nights, nights into days. And still, Grayday did not rise. Shale had drifted in and out of fitful slumber, sometimes soothed by dreams, other times, plagued by nightmares. Every once and a while, he'd touch his nose to his brother's side and find the stiff, cool skin of before. This he didn't understand, for while the outside observer could clearly see he was dreaming, Shale's dreams were so vivid as to be real to him.

And in dreams, Grayday was alive. Very much so. So these dreams must be reality, and the blurred, barren, empty existence on the plains was a recurring nightmare. Right?

Shale had slept the warm afternoon away, heedless of the rolling clouds that swept in, heavy with rain. The sun had just descended below the horizon, the moon rising and any stars not covered beginning to peek out. It was a peaceful late spring evening, but in his dreams it had been the depths of winter--but a bright winter at that. Sameth's river was frozen over, the land blanketed with snow.

They'd romped across the open land, showers of ice flying in their wake. Day had dared Shale to catch him, an endeavor he was more than happy to undertake. He'd just about caught up to his bragging brother's tail when a distant rumble of thunder woke him, reverberating in the ground.

One eye popped open, his head resting a few feet away from Grayday's neck. His gaze rested on a crow, perched near his brother's head. It began to industriously pick at his mouth, looking for the fleshy bits.

With a snarl, Shale leapt to his feet. The bird, startled, began to fly away, but somehow--despite his grogginess--he was able to pounce and grab the back end with his forepaws, bringing it back down. He took its neck between his teeth and started to slam it against the ground, each thud punctuated with a muffled curse.

"Fuck--" Slam. "You--" Slam. "Fucking--" Slam. "Piece--" Slam. "Of--" Slam. "Shit--"

On and on he went, his rage boiling over like water too long on a stove, until the crow was virtually boneless, a bleeding heap of charcoal in his mouth. He dropped it, letting out a sobbing breath, and stumbled over to Grayday, examining where the bird had pecked. There were puncture marks, but no blood. Thankfully so.

No blood because he is dead, the rational part of his brain remarked, somewhere buried deep. But it was not the rational part of his brain that had killed the crow, nor was it the rational part of his brain that kept him by Grayday's side for days on end. Just as it had after Lucy's death, something within him had snapped. A part of him was gone--and it was unclear whether it would return soon, if at all.